Ther-rape-me

For therapy I go to a place that serves low income people, called Comprehensive Care. I do this because, surprise-surprise, we have a low income-mainly from all of my doctor visits and various medical problems.  At this place they base your co-pay on your income.

I had been seeing a lady, Joyce, for therapy, but I tend not to do well with lady therapists. Not that they do anything wrong, I just do better with guys.

I had been out of therapy for about a year because I had been doing fairly well, but June 26th, 2008 marked the one year anniversary of my Fathers death from a sudden massive heart attack and I was starting to slip.

I asked my psychiatrist (Dr. OK), of eleven years, to recommend a guy for me to see. She did and I went to see him on July 1st, 2008. I also asked for a prescription for an anti-psychotic to calm down my thinking and she did that as well.

I begin taking the medications and she goes on vacation.

I start having horrible side-effects; massive restless legs, grimacing in my face, tongue moving without my permission, can’t sleep…I had to take four sleeping pills and two Benadryls before I could.

But I figure I’ll will be able to get something different when I go see this new therapist. He will be able to call another doctor and they will be able to help me.

July 1st, 2008, I’m at work and when 3:30 rolls around I go hop in my rusty-trusty Volvo and head out for the appointment. Keep in mind that this fellow is located in a different section than my last therapist or my doctor. Here is the conversation that I had with the receptionist for his office, Kathleen:

me: [insert name] here for for the four o’ clock appointment with Dr. C.

her: okay, your co-pay is 40 dollars.

me: No, it is five dollars.

her: No, it is 40 dollars. The five dollar co-pay was just supposed to be until you and your husband got married and you were covered on his insurance, then it was supposed to revert to the 40 co-pay.

Keep in mind that my husband and I have been married one year and eight months at this point.

me: I thought this place based your co-pay on your income?!

her: It does, if you do not have insurance. But if you have insurance we have to charge the co-pay. We can’t write that off, if we did that would be insurance fraud.

me: So your telling me that if I did not have insurance I could pay five dollars, but since I have insurance I have to pay 40 dollars?! This makes no sense!

her: Well, I have to pay 30 dollars to see a doctor, and I think that is a lot of money. I wish I didn’t have to pay that much!

me: Let’s be honest, sweetheart, you make a lot more money than I do!

her: Well, you could just pay whatever you can every week.

Yeah, that just what I want to do. Pay this place for the REST OF MY LIFE.

me: I can’t pay that…just cancel the appointment.

I then went upstairsto the area where my previous therapist and my doctor reside and told them what had happened. they said I would need to talk to Dr. C who happened to be there helping a client. He had me come back downstairs with him where he talked to the same lady and this is what I overheard:

Dr.C: Can you tell me what happened?

her: [she went over the same story then added] She has basically gotten away with 840 dollars!

WHAT THE FUCK?! I’VE GOTTEN AWAY WITH?!

me: I don’t think that is a very fair statement! To say that I”VE gotten away with 840 dollars, I didn’t get away with anything! I didn’t do anything, this is your all’s doing!

her: No, of course not…that wasn’t what I meant.

The conversation continued like this, a pharmacy employee walked in and added his two cents then realized whatever he needed to do could wait. I had, of course, started crying and then to top it off I got a nosebleed just standing there. She said “Oh, my…let me get you a tissue!” and I whispered “Just leave me alone!” as a walked out of the room.

I then went to the bathroom and proceeded to have a 30 minute nosebleed, both nostrils and mouth. Blood was all down the sleeve of my new shirt and all over my face.

NOBODY CAME AND CHECKED ON ME.

After the bleeding stopped, I tried to wash out my shirt and then left without saying a word. I still had to go back to work, but I needed a new shirt and a stiff drink (kidding, I just had Kool-Aid). When I got home I told my hubby all that had occurred and he called and “expressed his concern” over what happened. He got an apology from her, but I am still waiting.

After work that night I was still feeling like poo and knew I needed to get back on a medication-something different than what I had been taking. But where was I supposed to go? If I couldn’t go to the “low income” treatment place, where do you go? I gave Joyce a call and gave her a run down on what had happened and asked if she could find a doctor willing to call something in for me. She said that she would do just that, but didn’t know if they would be willing to because I was not asking for a refill.

She called the next day and told me that the doctor in question was not available. So, I called my primary care physician and a former psychiatrist and asked them to do the prescribing. Eventually I got the medication albiet five times the dose I needed. Joyce called me again later in the day to tell me that another lady, Carla, would be calling me to inform me that CO-PAYS ARE BASED ON INCOME REGARDLESS OF HAVING INSURANCE.

Sooooooo, I called and made a new appointment. I had to make it with the don’t-bother-to-check-on-someone-having-a-nosebleed Kathleen. I stayed cordial throughout the conversation, even when her tone dropped noticeably after I said my name.

I came in an hour early for my appointment and went directly UPSTAIRS and handed in my tax return. They figured out that I would owe 15 bucks, NOT 40. I also said that I did not want to pay downstairs. Carla, the young lady who figured out my correct co-pay agreed with me and said she didn’t want me having any dealings with Kathleen either.

I went back downstairs and signed in for my appointment. I saw her looking for the co-payment sheet. She stuck her head out the window and siad with a rude tone “do you want to make any payments today?”. To which I replied “I have already paid upstairs, feel free to call Carly if you have any questions”. Another rude response of “You mean Car-LA”. I just said “yes”, and when I saw her reach for the phone I left the waiting room and went outside for a smoke until it was time for my appointment.

The appointment itself went great, I really like this new guy. I have another appointment in about two weeks, and I am looking forward to talking to him again.  

I did write a “apology” letter basically saying “I’m sorry all this happened, but in the future I do wish to have any discussion with you regarding co-pay”. Still waiting to hear back.

Nothing

I stepped outside onto the four buy four square of concrete that is our back porch to ease my nicotine addiction. *click* What is that? *click* I peer into the bleak darkness. *click* Is someone trying to light their grill, at one in the morning? *click* Clipping their too long hedges? *click* My eyes adjust to the lack of light. *click* It is coming from the far back right corner of our yard. *click* I stare directly at the unknown in hopes that my directness will fend off the huge beast with a Bic trying to set my four foot weeds on fire. *click* Suddenly a crashing sound through the weeds stops my heart, I flip around pull open the screen door, jump inside, slam it behind me, send the door crashing into place, and throw the deadbolt cigarette still in hand. I stand at the back door listening intently for the low growl of a rabid stray dog angry that his midnight snack escaped, or the boom of the mad mans shotgun as he fired point blank through the colorful punch buggy curtain covering the single paned glass. My body convulsed with fear, my foot slipping out of my blue flip flop, I took a drag off the half finished cigarette. I tried to calm myself and finding none i retrieved my voice from the floor and called for my husband who was busy killing innocent pedestrians in Grand Theft Auto IV. “Bubbie?” I said my voice relying my shakiness “could you come here a sec?” He paused his rampaging, set the controller down, and came to my assistance. “There is something out there”, he went back, grabbed a flashlight, and bravely shined it’s beam through the kitchen window at the menacing nothing that scared the bajeebus out of me. That’s right, there was nothing there, no rabid dog, no mad man, no raving raccoon, not even a bunny.

Nothing.

And it was scarier than any horror movie I have ever seen.

I plan on smoking from the safety of the inside of my kitchen for the remainder of my smoking days.

Overheard:

While sitting in the ground floor waiting room looking out at the street as the cars pass by, counting the minutes until they call my name and I get to have needles shoved into various appendages, a young lady approaches the Information Desk.

Young Lady: (said with certainty) Uh, is this considered the seventh floor?

Lady at Information Desk: (trying to figure out if this is a joke) Uh, er, uh no. The elevators are down the hall.

wow, impressive.

Having said nothing, I have nothing more to say.

Paralyzed

It is a beautiful sunny day, I am driving along with “Consider Yourself” from the Musical Oliver blaring over my radio, singing with all my heart. I pull up to a stoplight and continue my heartfelt bleating’s when out of nowhere,  another car pulls up along side of me and sits and waits for the light. My singing immediately stops, my heart starts racing, I try inching up a bit so that our windows are no longer lined up. He (or possibly she-I won’t look) does the same. I try acting cool-”no biggie, I am just sitting at a light like another other normal person…nothing to see folks, move along”. My palms begin to sweat, I cannot blink, I cannot move, I am paralyzed. All I can do is stare at the light and hope it turns soon-”please for the love of God turn soon”. The light turns green and we both go, the fear melts away as if it was never there in the first place, and I join back in with the chorus of Oliver-”Be Back Soon”.

This experience wouldn’t be so bad if it happen just once, or even once in a while. But it happens every time I stop at a light or a stop sign and have cars on either side of me. Heaven forbid if there should be a car on both sides, everything becomes doubled then. I try my best to not allow the windows to line up, that seems to help ease the tension.  But even then my movements are greatly restricted and any signing along is strictly forbidden.

Now if someone is traveling in the car with me, which is rarely, or if I am the passenger I do not have this problem at all. In fact if someone is traveling with me I become the exact opposite and am very grandiose when I come to a stop sign/light.

I guess another trip to the shrink is in order, huh?

Having said nothing, I have nothing more to say.

Fiberglass Casts

There is a website called Post Secret were people can send in their secrets on a postcard they decorate and possibly have them posted on this website, or in one of the Post Secret books, or even used in one of the Post Secret events. Every Sunday Frank, the creator and “owner” of Post Secret, posts new secrets for everyone to see. They range from happy to sad, from funny to down right depressing, but each one is a fabulous read. I have, since I discovered the site last year, had a deep longing to send in some of my secrets but I never have. I will, however, take an oppurtunity to tell you one of my secrets-if all goes well I may share more.

I have, for as long as I can remember, had a deep desire to have a fiberglass cast on any one of my appendages. On two would be even more desirable, perhaps a leg and an arm. I cannot say were this urge comes from, but it is almost overwhelming. I have, in my life, had numerous sprained and strained ankles and wrists, three severely jammed fingers, one fractured forearm, and one compressed vertebral fracture of L1 (basically a broken back). Not one of them resulted in an actual fiberglass cast.

I am currently suffering from a diseased tendon in my right ankle (probably from all those sprains and strains) and will soon be undergoing a procedure called Gravitational Platelet Separation. This is were they will take some of my blood, spin it, thereby causing the platelets to separate (hence the name), and then place these platelets directly into the diseased tendon, hopefully causing the tendon to heal itself. After the procedure I am supposed to be on crutches for two weeks with one of those craptastic black boots followed by four to six more weeks with the craptastic boot and no crutches. And I am trying my darndest to have my foot placed into a beautiful pink or purple fiberglass cast instead of the craptastic black boot. Again, I cannot explain this need to have a portion of my body firmly confined for weeks at a time I just know that it holds some unknown appeal for me.

Well, it is now three in the morning and I have to work tomorrow so I shall leave this as is, but I may add more later. Perhaps a good therapy session could help explain some things. Anybody have any suggestions?

Having said nothing, I have nothing more to say.

Crocs, with Crocslight Material

You know the extremely comfortable, squishy, slip resistance, brightly festooned with various small critters  and jewels  that  EVERYONE  is wearing, shoes?  You, can’t put cigarettes out with those things-burns right through them. Just thought I’d let you know.

Having said nothing, I have nothing more to say.

How do they get the “Nitro” out?

As I was using my newly purchased, strawberry scented, bar of glycerin soap a question crossed my mind. Isn’t nitro-glycerin a highly explosive substance? And, this being so, how do they get the nitro out? How does my sweet smelling soap go from “weapon of mass destruction” to “gentle cleanser”? Did a white coat wearing scientist in some far off Russian laboratory doing underground experiments start noticing that his hands were squeaky clean and oh so soft? Or was it the other way around and some poor Italian soap maker meet an untimely end when his fresh batch of peach, pastries, and pa-chew-lee soap came into contact with his nitro burning Dodge Ram hemi?

Having said nothing, I have nothing more to say.

Chewable, low-dose, orange-flavored aspirin.

There are few things I remember about my childhood, I have the blissful ability to block out huge chunks of my life, but one thing I do remember is the taste of certain things, medications specifically. The antibiotic nearly every child in the industrialized nations has received at some point in their lives, that lovely pink liquid that your Mother keep stored in the door of the refrigerator, amoxicillin. Tasted like bubblegum, had a consistency of a thin milkshake, and when shook-up made a fabulous “flurggle-flurggle” noise. *sigh* Now, in adulthood, the antibiotic comes in sterile blister packs of assorted sizes with the flavor of a dirty penny. Not that I sit around licking antibiotics or pennies for that matter (that was just one time, just to see if that whole “penny under the tounge will beat a breathalyser test” thing really worked) it’s just occasionally you’ll get one to catch in the back of your throat and that delightful bitterness is yours to enjoy for the rest of the day. Same with the rest of the medications I have to take for various mental and health problems-dirty pennies-all of them. But I see my local pharmacy now offers a program to “make the medicine go down” (cue music) for the little ones in your life. For a mere five bucks a pop they will add a “spoonful of sugar” in such delightful flavors as watermelon, grape, bubblegum, cherry, so on, so forth to your little ones medications. Problem solved, right? Wrong, this fabulous concept is for liquid medications, our yucky grown-up pills do not qualify. *double sigh* I thought my days of good tasting medicine were far in the past until I was told to start an aspirin therapy regime and there among the dirty pennies of aspirin-dom shone two shining lights, a cherry flavored, and an orange flavored, chewable, low dose, flavorful, delightful options. I chose the orange flavored and upon arriving home set the small container on the bathroom sink and tried to occupy my time until bed when I would finally get to test the newcomer to my medication line up. When the time came I started with the old grown-up dirty pennies then sat my glass of water down and fought the childproof cap of the orange goodness and retrieved my first sample. The sweetness from the bottle hit my nostrils with an intoxicating aroma of orange familiarity and when I placed the tablet on my tounge I smiled and was greeted by images of my mothers bedroom at the old house where I spent my time with chickenpox when I was five. I let it melt in my mouth-no need to actually chew. When it had fully dissolved I ran and got my coloring book, crayons, and the latest Jonathon Keller novel and spent the next two hours under the covers with a flashlight coloring outside of the lines.

Having said nothing, I have nothing more to say.

I has a blog…

Well here it is world, another blog. So excited are you, you devilish little world you, awaiting with baited breath what wondrous words I may dispel upon you. And dispel I may… just as soon as I figure out what dispel means.

Having said nothing, I have nothing more to say.