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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.  

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.

You know the answer already, don’t you?