Thursday, March 9, 2017

There will be Blood...and money

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. Actually, it begins years earlier, but becomes unbearable around 09.  

My first doc (let’s call her Doctor Slingshit) drugs me with birth control pills in some clinical trial that gives her kickbacks. It does zippo for me, unless you consider the worst cerebral migraine ever progress. It feels like an elephant is standing on the base of my skull and scares the shit out of me, it’s so debilitating.

For the record, 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 its maniacal explosions of flesh and blood, with no discernible pattern, except One. Whole. Helluva. Lot. It’s very painful and messy, and incredibly embarrassing. No amount of feminine products can contain these Tsunami-like deluges. Hysterical laughter overcomes me when placing the biggest size made pads on – they resemble quilted Kleenex boxes. The very largest ones I can find last for about 1 hour before soaking through and requiring replacement.

Doctor Slingshit becomes visibly annoyed when I refuse more pills and 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 history, 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 Slingshit 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. He’s extremely handsome with a gentle, laid-back manner.  More importantly, he is a highly-skilled surgeon and very sought-after. He properly diagnoses me for the first time. In addition to the legion of massive fibroids, there’s also a fun thing called Adenomyosis. It’s very nasty and widespread. Options are discussed, the lesser evil of partial hysterectomy selected. Recovery goes well and it’s a welcome change to years of suffering.

Fast forward to today. Still digging out from the financial shit-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. Hmmmm, good times. Lost my health, job and savings. Perhaps his bill got past me, lost in the others that I stopped looking at when they reached $850,000.00.

Dr. GQ resides with his likewise GQ Radiologist wife in a 7-bathroom mansion. I know. My husband has been there, unbeknownst to Dr. GQ, to fix things some of the many pesky, expensive and totally useless things that rich people break.

I’m tempted to call Dr. GQ. It’s just so damned curious that $311 is so vital. That he finds it necessary to send a by fucking God cancer patient to collections, instead of just...writing it off. Perhaps for my mental health, as a courtesy to a long-time patient.

You know the answer already, don’t you?