Category: Wellbeing

Frustration, insurance style.

Posted on

What is your favorite part about seeing doctors. Some would say that they don’t like to be poked and prodded. I suppose I don’t like it anymore than the next guy, but I’ll survive. Some people are aggravated by the long waits in the lobby. I guess I’m more patient than average; either that or I’ve long since been beaten into submission by countless lines and waiting. Growing up within driving distance of Disney World builds up your tolerance for that kind of thing. Here’s what gets my gourd: showing up for an appointment not knowing if your referral (otherwise known as “pre-authorization for care”) has been completed by your “PCP” (Primary Care Physician ) and health insurance provider. It sometimes feels like I’d have better odds getting a straight answer from a politician.

What could possibly have brought this issue up? It wouldn’t be because I’m sitting in a doctor’s office now, could it?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m mostly happy with my health care – even my health insurance provider. I usually get what I want out of it, it just takes a little effort. It’s just times like these that I wonder if the private sector can really do everything better. My experience suggests the notion is nothing but a pipe dream – and someone definitely inhaled.

And Exhale.

Posted on

Almost any day spent at home by myself is a peaceful day. Today was no exception. “What, you’re home by yourself on a Wednesday? Don’t you have to work?” Well yes, normally I would be at work today. Earlier this week I mentioned an illness that Cheryl insisted I could not talk about in this space. Well it’s deja vu all over again. If you toss out those bouts of (CENSORED) the day has been pretty cool. I almost feel bad about not working. Oh, oh – here comes another (CENSORED).

Lure of stimulants.

Posted on

Recent events have led to less than optimal sleep. In these last few, sleep deprived days, my office has had all the stimulating effect of a sharp blow to the head. In the beginning, I turned to a sugar and caffeine cocktail for relief. This magical potion can be purchased over the counter as Mountain Dew. I turned to this sugary solution only because I can’t stand the caffeinated heavy hitters: coffee and tea. These caffeinated wonders might taste good if I were a cow, accustomed to the simple culinary pleasures of the pasture, but they do nothing for my taste buds. However, since two Mountain Dews could satisfy my caloric needs for the entire day, I figured I needed something a little lighter. Diet alternatives were out. Artificial sweeteners have never quite hit the mark for me.

And then it hit me.

What does any self respecting, red blooded American do when the going gets tough? Why, the answer had been waiting for me all this time – just down the shelf at the pharmacy. At my disposal was pure, pharmaceutical grade caffeine. I didn’t even need a prescription! I could just take a pill and my sleep deprivation would be a thing of the past!

And then it hit me.

My first day on pharmaceutical caffeine was a blur, riding high on a wave of jittery energy.

And then I hit the wall.

The effects wore off and my energy level walked off a cliff. I fell hard. So what does someone do under these circumstances? Naturally, I stayed up late again last night. Why get enough sleep when you can just take a pill? Sure, the crash is something fearsome, but timed right it won’t come until after I return home. Then again, I could just try and go to bed earlier.

Tasting the pain.

Posted on

5:45 a.m. I wake up only because I am woken.
6:47 a.m. I leave for the work later than I wanted to and earlier than I wanted to, all at the same time.
7:10 a.m. I arrive at work.
8:00 a.m. I notice that my nose is running.
10 a.m. I notice that my face hurts.
12:10 p.m. I sense the same nasal stuff running in the back of my throat and mouth.
1:30 p.m. – 3:25 p.m. (at five minute intervals) I think about going home.
3:30 p.m. I leave work for my allergist’s office.
4:15 p.m. I am given an allergy shot.
4:25 p.m. I type this entry, sitting in my allergist’s office, dreaming of a more horizontal position.

Moving at the speed of Sudafed.

Posted on

I’ve said this before, but that hasn’t stopped me before. Sudafed is better than coffee. This morning I was in pain and dragging as I came into work. Around 11 a.m. I took a hit of Sudafed and I’ve been flying ever since. Yee haw.

The smell of comfort.

Posted on

For a long time I had convinced myself that scented candles were an enemy to my allergies. Cheryl would light up and my snot came down. Now I’m thinking that it may have been the kind of candles we bought. I’m sitting here, the lights are dimmed, and a subtle scent of cinnamon drifts in the air. More importantly, none of my mucous membranes are misting into the air with it. It is very relaxing. This is a quality that sometimes is in short supply in our house. Wouldn’t it be nice if a little more relaxation could be had for only $2.99?

What you have is enough.

Posted on

I am not overly prone to wishing I had more than I do. There are times however when I fall into a funk. There have been a couple of days since I last wrote that would qualify for “funk” status. I was sitting at work coasting along on automatic pilot, thinking about just about everything but work, when I decided to take a short break. I turned to my laptop sitting on the edge of my desk and pulled up my web site. I looked at some of the pictures I took of Beth on her birthday. I saw the one where she is playing with her Buzz Light Year voice changer. There was a look of mischievous joy on her face. I remember the day like it was yesterday, and it put a smile on my face. Just like that I was out of the funk.

Nailing myself to the roof.

Posted on

Well, the medical adventures of John continue. On Saturday (the one before Christmas) I learned an important lesson, I am not puncture proof. Cheryl and I have come to the conclusion that Beth has too many toys in our family room. With Christmas on the way, and the inevitable inflow of new toys, we decided to introduce a negative toy flow to the family room. The victim of this decision, other than Beth, was the Little Tykes work bench. It was taking up a large corner of our family room, about the same area that we expect Beth’s new Barbie Dream House to occupy.

On Saturday morning I set about disassembling the work bench so it could be stowed in the attic. The task was slow going, and Beth didn’t help much. She was horrified that I was taking away a toy – and she hadn’t even been bad. I explained to her that we couldn’t keep everything we got, that after a while some things have to be either stored or thrown out. I reassured her that we weren’t throwing it away, just storing it in the attic for a while (until we decide to give it away). Then I explained that even I have had to store things that I used to like to play with. I showed her my two computers, disassembled and stored away. “Daddy, you put away your computers!?!” Clearly, Beth knows her father, but she got the message. I told Cheryl those computers might come in handy some time. Finally convinced, Beth offered to help take it apart. Of course, it probably took three times as long with her help, but at least she was at peace with the whole thing.

Finally it was taken apart and packed into two lawn and leaf garbage bags. I got out the ladder and climbed up to the attic access door. It turned out that the bags containing the work bench were just small enough to fit through the access door, but it took up much of the room just inside the attic. This left me little room to maneuver up in the attic. However, I climbed up into the attic and attempted to crawl around the bag. This involved simultaneously stepping over the bag and one diagonal rafter while stretching my leg to the next available horizontal rafter (about two feet beyond the diagonal rafter I was stepping over). It was tricky, but I would have made it if I hadn’t impaled myself on the two inch nail sticking out of the plywood sheathing right above me. At the moment of impact I did what any other adult would do, I let out a string of profanity that would make Eddie Murphy blush. We try not to swear the house, so as not to be a poor influence on Beth. However, Beth knows what the swear words are, and she knows that they usually mean trouble. So I’m in the attic clutching my lower back and carrying on like a cat that just got it’s tail caught in a fan, and Beth suddenly appears at the foot of the ladder and says, “Daddy, do you want me to come up and help you?” “Nooooo! Please don’t try to come up here Beth!” I climb down the ladder, secure the access door and go to the bathroom to survey the damage. I grab the Q-tips and a bottle of peroxide. I discovered that it is not easy to clean a wound in the middle of your back. I also discovered that Beth does not like the sight of someone else’s blood any more than her own. I set up a complicated network of mirrors and was able to contort myself sufficiently to get at the wound. When it looked like half of the Q-tip head disappeared in the new hole I made, one thought came to mind: “oh crap, they’re going to want to give me a Tetanus shot for this.” A phone call to the “nurse on call” service with my insurance company, and three hours later, and I was walking out of the Walk in Clinic with two new Band Aids and a shoulder that was more sore than my back (if you recall, the nail got me in the back – the nurse got me in the shoulder, with something a lot smaller than the nail – go figure).

You should have seen the reaction I got out of the doctor. He was reading the nurse’s notes describing my condition: nail puncture wound. So he asks me where it happened. I turn around, look over my shoulder, and pull up my shirt. He looks at my back and gives me this look that says, “how the hell did you do that?” What can I say, I’m gifted in that way.

Here’s to not needing any more emergency medical attention this holiday season.
Cheers.