Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
“Don’t move!” Michael’s tone was friendly but firm. “We don’t know what is going to happen with your medication. So far, it’s looking crazy expensive. Your place is great. We can keep working on it; just don’t move right now.”
It’s not that I LOVE to move. I mean it’s a hassle, of course. The packing and sorting and heaving and hoeing. It’s a lot to deal with. I am just pre-disposed to not mind it as much as say … EVERYONE else I have ever met. Moving is a major stressor for most folks; it is said to be one of the biggest we encounter in our lives. I don’t mind it. I must actually enjoy it on some level, because I have done it literally dozens of times. Back in the good old/ bad old / just plain old days, we all carried address books and had a Rolodex on our desk. My friends’ rule of thumb was to enter my information in pencil as it was sure to change within a short amount of time.
Over a period of 20 years or so, I moved from the Fairfax district to Hancock Park, to Hollywood proper, and then up to the Hills. Then I tried out life in Venice, which was cool, but too far out, so I high-tailed it back to the Hills. From there I headed to West Hollywood and then to Hollywood proper again, then over to Beachwood, then further east to Los Feliz before ending up back west in Culver City.
There are so many ways to live in Los Angeles, so many neighborhoods, each with its own unique offerings. I loved trying them out, taking fresh routes to see old pals, exploring new markets and local joints. Loved studying the architecture prevalent in my new locale and finding the parks and hidden stairways and secret gardens.
It was over ten years ago when I took a place in Austin, Texas. I wanted to experience life outside of Los Angeles and New York City, the only two places I had lived as an adult. I lasted two years in the first neighborhood and then dwelt for an all-time personal-best record of seven years in the house I owned there before returning to Los Angeles. Texas was fine. I met a lot of great folks and enjoyed the ease of travel from the middle of the country. It just wasn’t home. Not that I would know exactly what that feels like, but L.A. is closer to the bone for me.
I have been back a total of three years and have moved twice already. Lately my trigger finger has been poised over the Zillow app, itching to do it again. My current place is big and beautiful inside, but shabby on the outside and lacking a few things that I thought I would be fine without, but I am now pretty sure that I NEED, or okay maybe just want, but whenever I want something, I am accustomed to getting it, and that is how it always starts.
I have never had an attachment to a place. People mean a lot to me; houses and apartments not so much. I can be happy anywhere; make any environment livable. This made me a great candidate for a profession that required constant travel. Once I unpack, pick up cheese and grapes, and put some flowers in a vase, I am good to go. Travel is easy for me. Being “home” is not.
I am living back in Beachwood, which is my favorite neighborhood in Los Angeles, and as noted above, I have lived in most of them. I love it here; love the artsy weirdo vibe of the place, and the proximity to the magnificent Griffith Park is a big, huge selling point. I have heard that there is a spectacular park in Glendale with the best hiking trails in the region. I might throw the pup in the car and go give that a spin, but as much as I love an adventure, I draw the line at living in Glendale. That is a big no; that is a bridge too far, even for me.
The sign read ”3 bed 3 bath.” I had walked by it countless times, but that day I dialed the number. A lady named Linda got back to me right away.
“Hi. Yeah, I am interested in the apartment for rent on Beachwood Drive. I live just up the street.”
“Who is it for?” Linda asked imperiously.
“Um, well–me. It’s for me.”
“You and who?” she demanded to know.
“Me. Just me.”
There was a long pause. Then she spoke to me as if I were an errant child.
“YOU? Just you??? Do you have good credit?” She was clearly disappointed that I am a solo female. She did not like the sound of that one bit.
“I think it’s 832 or 835.”
“Oh.”
“Do you want to show me the place or not?” I asked. I was becoming impatient with her.
“Well, there is a couple that wants to see it, so maybe you could come after them.”
“Wow, what a bitch!” I thought but did not say.
“Okay, Linda,” I said with no small amount of derision. “You let me know when the COUPLE wants to see it and I will come down if I can.”
It took dear Linda three days to lock down a prospective tenant worthy of her time. She invited me to come down when they were done looking. I was really annoyed by her prejudice against my single-female-dom, but it’s not the first time I have encountered that, so whatever. I went.
HMMMM. It had possibilities.
“Michael, I looked at a place; it’s just down the street. It’s not perfect ... but…”
“How much more?” Michael asked.
“Over $1,000 more, plus moving costs.”
“That’s a lot.”
I went on to describe the new place in detail. Three bedrooms plus three full baths. Huzzah! Kitchen: mediocre, but bright, dining room: basically non-existent. In-unit washer and dryer. Yahoo!!!! Living room: super-small and weird, angles in such a way as to offer almost no wall space … deal breaker?
FREEZE THE MOVE.
“It has so much of what I want, but it’s just not good enough, right?” I knew the answer.
“Not to justify a move, no honey, because then you will have to move again. The living room definitely sounds like a deal breaker and this is not a good time. We don’t know how we are going to resolve your medication situation.”
“You are right.”
I felt relieved, if a tad disappointed, as the thrill of the new gave way to the reality of the present.
The Screen Actors Guild has finally succeeded in forcing me off of their medical plan. They have changed the rules repeatedly in recent years, determined to get rid of anyone over 65. First, they abolished the “age and service” category, which would have qualified me for life. Then by excluding residuals from the earnings requirements for members my age or older, they finally backed me into a corner and cut me off. They won’t even allow me to buy in with COBRA. I was told that I could spend $1,200 per month to do so, but they would only pay in second position.
“Because you are a senior,” the young woman explained.
I wanted to say a lot of things. “Don’t call me ‘senior’! I am furious right now and sick of y’all calling me ‘senior.’ I am not running around calling younger folks ‘junior,’ so you can buzz off with that crap!” That was what I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I took a deep breath and thanked her for her time.
So, I filed for MEDICARE, thinking to myself ‘it can’t be that bad.’ Turns out that it can be. It’s bad. Really, really, crazy bad.
Firstly, the folks from the Social Security Administration are threatening to charge me $575 per month just for Plan B. This is punishment for having had a good earnings year in 2024. SAG is punishing me for having a less good year in 2025 by dropping me entirely. An ffing “senior” gal can’t win in this America joint.
The long and short of it is that as of now, after adding PLAN G, PLAN D, and a supplemental for dental vision and hearing, I will be paying close to $1,000 per month and the medication I need is not covered by any of it. My doctors warned me of this, but I thought there must be some way around it. No. None. I can try to qualify for transfusions, but that’s all they’ve got. Michael found a source in Canada, where the shots I take will be $1,400 per month. So, in order to keep walking, which, according to our government, is a non-essential medical goal, my insurance/medication nut will be $2,400 per month.
I will manage it, not happily, but I will figure it out. The worst thing about it is that I will be okay, but what about the others? 9% of the population carries the gene markers for Psoriatic Arthritis, which is in the Lupus family. A large percentage of them will be hit by it. What happens to those folks? They will be given steroids and pain pills and a cane or walker and be sent on their way; that’s what will happen. The richest country in the world is throwing a large percentage of “SENIORS” under the bus and charging some of them up the wazoo for the privilege.
So, the future I have dreaded is here. All right, I will make the best of it. You can be damned sure that I will find a way to make it work. A few things will have to change, of course, changing being first among them. My penchant for moving, for pursuing an environment that is better or at least newer, will need to be curbed. My place is lovely, after all … it’s fine. I am telling myself that I can always re-decorate. I am restless by nature; will have to find some way to keep it interesting.
Ironically, in order to keep my arms and legs in working order, to keep my body moving, my new mantra will have to be:
“Don’t Move!”
I do love me some irony … most of the time.
On we go …
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