No one that has suffered a serious disease, accident or bad medical dilemma will ever look at money and medicine the same way.
Before BC, there came the Recalcitrant Uterine Crisis of 2009.
My first doc (let’s call her
Doctor Slingcrap) drugs me with birth control pills in some clinical trial that
gives her kickbacks. It does nothing for me unless you consider the worst cerebral
migraine ever progress. It feels like an elephant is standing on the base of my
skull. Very scary.
My uterus has mocked
every single effort to reign it in. Organic diet, a 40 pound weight loss, fasting,
acupuncture, meditation, exercise, castor oil packs, prayer, Chinese herbs. But
the birth control pills really piss
it off. It ramps up, blasting maniacal explosions of flesh and blood, with
no discernible pattern, except One. Whole. Helluva. Lot. And no pad or tampon can contain these
Tsunami-like deluges. Hysterical laughter overcomes me when placing the biggest
size made pads on – they resemble quilted Kleenex boxes.
Doctor Slingcrap becomes cranky when I complain of the brain-crushing headache. Well,
she sniffs, for a headache like that you need an MRI. Well, I sniff right back,
if you bothered to read my file, and as we have discussed dozens of times, my
history of migraines goes back decades. Oh, and Doc, my research says that BC
pills can exacerbate migraines. Oh! And
Doc? I’m not carrying around an extra 3500
bucks for unnecessary imaging.
Doctor Slingcrap is done with me.
She becomes combative, dismissive and arrogant. Pissy at losing those kickbacks,
I guess.
I find a new doctor, let’s call
him Dr. GQ, who is model handsome and a highly-skilled
surgeon. GQ properly diagnoses me and finds that in addition to the legion of fibroids,
there’s also a fun thing called Adenomyosis. Options
are discussed, surgery is completed, and recovery goes
well.
Fast forward to today, as we dig out from the financial storm endured from fun in Cancerland.
Seems
my shitty insurance was particularly shitty, and I was not exactly on top of
things back then. The comely Dr. GQ. is owed $311.00, from way back in 2014,
right after my diagnosis. Lost my health, job and savings. Perhaps
his bill got past me, lost in the dozens I stopped looking at when they
reached $850,000.00.
Dr. GQ resides with his likewise
GQ Radiologist wife in a 7-bathroom mansion, so he really clearly NEEDS money and that $311 is the only thing standing between himself and homelessness.
Still, maybe he could have been kind and just written it off. Perhaps for my mental health, as a courtesy to a long-time patient.
Still, maybe he could have been kind and just written it off. Perhaps for my mental health, as a courtesy to a long-time patient.
You know the answer already, don’t
you?
