Shall we talk about Medicare?

When President Lyndon B. Johnson signed Medicare into law on July 30, 1965, did my five-year-old self truly comprehend the personal milestone that I would someday reach?

Nah. My five-year-old self couldn’t comprehend that Christmas 1965 would ever arrive, let alone that I would someday have my own brand spanking new Medicare card.

It’s right here in my wallet. I really should have it laminated. The same probably goes for my rotator cuff and prostate.

It’s sobering to think of all the people who didn’t live long enough to receive Medicare coverage, including Elvis, Michael Jackson and my beloved Granny Tyree.

Likewise, pause to realize that every single person who was in the initial batch of Medicare enrollees is now deceased. Before Medicare, 40 percent of seniors had no health insurance. And now you can’t interview any of them about how life-changing Medicare was. (Although, if you have a top-notch Ouija board, they just might reveal who they voted for in the last primary.)

Speaking of Medicare’s launch, the program’s first recipients were former president Harry S Truman and his wife Bess. In honor of the plain-spoken chief executive from Missouri, I now tell my wife, “If you can’t stand the heat…don’t crank up the AC, because the money has to go for Medicare premiums!”

Sure, some Americans are dismissive of Medicare’s value. This includes the codgers whose daily routine includes smoking four cartons of unfiltered, deep-fried Lucky Strike cigarettes and doing 100 one-handed push-ups until the day that they die peacefully in their sleep. Too bad the peace doesn’t always last. (“Is that as fast as you can make this hearse go? Let me get out and push.”)

Some people fuss about the deductibles and co-pays, but it’s good to have some skin in the game (even if that skin is flopping in the breeze and dotted with age spots).

I know I derived peace of mind from years of simply filing away my late mother’s explanation of benefits (EOB) paperwork. Between Medicare and a medi-gap supplement, her mastectomy, hip surgeries and other expenses were pretty well paid for.

On the negative side, I felt like an eavesdropper as I read between the lines of what the cost-conscious Medicare program was telling healthcare providers through the EOBs. (“You knave! You scoundrel! You want how much for gauze pads? What are they made of –fabric? I say thee nay! Take this pittance and be happy with it. How can you live with yourself? How can you sleep at night? Uh, how can you walk away from a fun job like this? Wait, don’t go!”)

I am not entering the world of Medicare with any particular wish list, but some folks with inadequate/nonexistent medical coverage do save up problems for when they qualify. (“Congratulations. We removed that sack of marbles that has been in your nasal cavity since Stinky McGuire’s birthday party. Did you know Stinky’s great-granddaughter works in our billing office?”)

I pray that various tweaks and innovations can keep Medicare solvent. Some seniors are getting freaked out over dire forecasts, fearing that any cuts may be retroactive. (“Please don’t send the repo man for my knee replacement! You’ll get it when you pry it from my cold, lifeless fingers. What? The fingers are being repossessed, too? Noooo…don’t reinstall the cataracts!”)

I’d love to say more, but…the column stops here. Thanks, Harry.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at tyreetyrades@aol.com and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”