So this week I received a letter from Medicare stating I owe them $14.4k because they forked over the money to pay for my hospitalization after my partial hysterectomy surgery. Oh, they paid for the surgery - but the fact that I didn't just get up and walk away from it that night and had the audacity to stay 48 hours to make sure I was not, you know, bleeding internally WAS JUST OUTRAGEOUSLY GREEDY.
Never mind they already paid it and it's been two and a half fucking years; I have to back pay them. SO I now have to rally both my GYN and cardiology team to submit ample documentation to support the justification for that stay.
I am too stressed out to make any witty jokes. I just want to live a fucking normal life where having a chronic illness that needs constant upkeep isn't a punishable offense.
EDIT EDIT:
Upon further inspection, the bill is actually for the provider - not the beneficiary (i.e. ME). I just received a copy to keep me aware of what is going on. So, apparently, UCLA did not bother to submit the claim until Nov 18th - and by that time I'd had my surgery, was discharged 48 hours later and re-admitted with an infection. I don't know if that was some diabolical strategy on someone's part to make sure I had my surgery anyway, or just some really lazy jackass, but wow. Now, I'm not out of the woods quite yet - I fully expect UCLA to be petty assholes and come after me for those charges, even though Medicare made it very clear that they deemed me unaware of the situation (which I was) and not at fault or responsible.
This could potentially get ugly.
Showing posts with label I will cut you. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I will cut you. Show all posts
Friday, May 16, 2014
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Care Overkill and Super Meltdown
Yesterday, on my mother's birthday no less, I blew a gasget. I'd reached my Medical Bullshit Threshold. Let me back pedal.
So, I was hospitalized in April. Thought it was a GI issue, so I went to Santa Monica UCLA where Dr. GI is located. Turned out to be a ruptured cyst with internal bleeding due to blood thinners, so I was transfered to Westwood UCLA. Spent a total of 5 days there.
Had a bit of excess grossness with my GI area, so I went back to my GI. He prescribed some medicine which I am still on, recommended a buddy of his we'll call Dr. 2nd Opinion. I really had no interest in switching doctors, but I thought it was pretty nifty Dr. GI could be humble enough to say, 'This guy is AWESOME-SAUCE in the area you're having issues with, go see him. He's better than me.' So I switched out my follow-up with him to an appointment with Dr. 2nd Opinion, which was this Tuesday.
First. Sigh.
OK, as well-meaning as residents are, 99% of them are dumb as bricks when it comes to doctor-patient relations. Like, they never take the five seconds it would cost them to apply a brain-to-mouth filter on the words flying out of their mouths and how said words might affect the patient. They're so fucking eager to come off as REAL doctors that they think they're being impressive by shooting off their mouths before they have the facts.
Here's my case in point:
Eager Resident to Dr. 2nd Opinion is a nice girl - oh, they're all nice 'cause if they're assholes, I can at least tell them off - but she started asking me about liver transplants and used scary words like cirrhosis and congestive failure.
I told her my liver does NOT have cirrhosis, despite what others assume, because I had a biopsy not one year ago that showed no signs of massive scarring or cirrhosis. She left to confer with Dr. 2nd Opinion and brought back my notes from the biopsy I referenced. Guess what? Cirrhosis-free. So then she told me - get this - that techs will see fluid in tests and just assume it's cirrhosis and write that down in their notes. Which is why I have a mega shit ton of references to cirrhosis in my notes.
Assume.
They assume.
ASSUME?
What. a fucking. liberty.
My brain nearly oozed out of my ears and onto the floor with that revelation, but oops, it was finally time for my actual appointment with the actual doctor - an hour behind, thank you very much. So he comes in - along with this Mystery Hottie Whitecoat who doesn't bother to introduce himself, just hangs back. So I am getting examined by the Dr., Eager Resident and then Mystery Hottie Whitecoat suddenly jumps in - and I stick out my hand and say, "AND YOU ARE?"
Dude. Seriously. What. The. Fuck. I'm a fucking person. Don't put your goddamn hands on me without my consent.
The only person on this planet who gets to touch me without proper introductions is Ben Whishaw, and since I'm about 98% certain he's as gay as the day is long, that ain't gonna happen anytime soon.
Then Dr. 2nd Opinion springs a SURPRISE! in-clinic mini ultrasound test on me. OK. Was not prepared for that. Oh, but he wants a proper ultrasound on my liver, spleen and doppler done. The kind where I have to fast for 8 hours, make a real appointment at my medical facility of choice - oh, and don't forget the follow up appointment I need to make with him to discuss the results.
I made these appointments, but come on. Come on. What the fuck? I've had these tests done. They've been done. They're done. Just. Accept it all, dudebro. Confer with notes (which are clearly never read). I questioned him and the necessity of this test, but he said something something lesion on liver something something just make sure. Like, what about picking up a phone and conferring with the rest of TEAM RACHAEL! to make sure the lesion isn't there? Well. Whatever. So I got some blood drawn, made the follow-up appointment and faxed the order for the ultrasound. MORE days to come out to the West side. Jooooooy.
Then. Yesterday happened.
So, in light of the cyst debacle, I'd been taken off my blood thinner. It was comical that the idiots in the Coumadin Clinic at UCLA rang me up to harass me for getting my INR check when it happened the first time around. It was a simple explanation on my part, a grumble at improper notes by the lady who called, and a laugh we shared. Good times.
Then yesterday I get another call. From an irate bitch at the Coumadin Clinic. Telling me my INR was low. Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me. I explained to her what had happened - and this woman had the audacity to INTERROGATE me about the authenticity of my story.
It went something like this:
Me: I'm not on coumadin anymore. I had a cyst rupture, I was bleeding internally and I was hospitalized for like five days.
Her: When?
Me: This was last month, April. Over a month ago.
Her: Well, which physcian took you off?!
Me: To be honest, all of them, but Dr. A sanctioned it.
Her: Well, which hospital did you go to?
Me: UCLA. I started at Santa Monica, but I was there for 24 hours before being transferred to Westwood.
Her: *huffing and puffing, running out of steam* Well why didn't they put it in the notes!
Me: I was called by the clinic about three weeks ago and we had this exact conversation, so I don't know why it isn't there. It should be.
Her: *fussing and grumbling AT ME* Blah blah bitch bitch....(pause) (mumbles) Oh, there it is. Stopped coumadin April 12th.
Me: Justified.
What the HELL is with people not bothering to read the mother fucking notes? Did these people just coast through school on memory alone? It's like their professors said, "Hey, class, since I am SO awesome, I am going to give you an open book and open notes test!"
And these people just kick back, all cocky like and say, "Nope. Don't need 'em."
And FAIL.
After that I tried unsuccessfully to schedule my ultrasound on a day when I'd be down in the area anyway so I wouldn't have to waste another day there. I looked at my calendar and realized I would be down at UCLA 3 times over a 7 day period. Nope, nope, nope. I hit my threshold and lost my shit.
I got authorization to cancel one appointment (a follow up with the Lady Doctor) but I put TEAM RACHAEL! on the case of this test, asked them to dig around in notes and tell me if this shit is necessary or just some doctor feeding his own ego.
People wonder why I can't have a life. This.
This is why I can't have a life.
So, I was hospitalized in April. Thought it was a GI issue, so I went to Santa Monica UCLA where Dr. GI is located. Turned out to be a ruptured cyst with internal bleeding due to blood thinners, so I was transfered to Westwood UCLA. Spent a total of 5 days there.
Had a bit of excess grossness with my GI area, so I went back to my GI. He prescribed some medicine which I am still on, recommended a buddy of his we'll call Dr. 2nd Opinion. I really had no interest in switching doctors, but I thought it was pretty nifty Dr. GI could be humble enough to say, 'This guy is AWESOME-SAUCE in the area you're having issues with, go see him. He's better than me.' So I switched out my follow-up with him to an appointment with Dr. 2nd Opinion, which was this Tuesday.
First. Sigh.
OK, as well-meaning as residents are, 99% of them are dumb as bricks when it comes to doctor-patient relations. Like, they never take the five seconds it would cost them to apply a brain-to-mouth filter on the words flying out of their mouths and how said words might affect the patient. They're so fucking eager to come off as REAL doctors that they think they're being impressive by shooting off their mouths before they have the facts.
Here's my case in point:
Eager Resident to Dr. 2nd Opinion is a nice girl - oh, they're all nice 'cause if they're assholes, I can at least tell them off - but she started asking me about liver transplants and used scary words like cirrhosis and congestive failure.
I told her my liver does NOT have cirrhosis, despite what others assume, because I had a biopsy not one year ago that showed no signs of massive scarring or cirrhosis. She left to confer with Dr. 2nd Opinion and brought back my notes from the biopsy I referenced. Guess what? Cirrhosis-free. So then she told me - get this - that techs will see fluid in tests and just assume it's cirrhosis and write that down in their notes. Which is why I have a mega shit ton of references to cirrhosis in my notes.
Assume.
They assume.
ASSUME?
What. a fucking. liberty.
My brain nearly oozed out of my ears and onto the floor with that revelation, but oops, it was finally time for my actual appointment with the actual doctor - an hour behind, thank you very much. So he comes in - along with this Mystery Hottie Whitecoat who doesn't bother to introduce himself, just hangs back. So I am getting examined by the Dr., Eager Resident and then Mystery Hottie Whitecoat suddenly jumps in - and I stick out my hand and say, "AND YOU ARE?"
Dude. Seriously. What. The. Fuck. I'm a fucking person. Don't put your goddamn hands on me without my consent.
The only person on this planet who gets to touch me without proper introductions is Ben Whishaw, and since I'm about 98% certain he's as gay as the day is long, that ain't gonna happen anytime soon.
Then Dr. 2nd Opinion springs a SURPRISE! in-clinic mini ultrasound test on me. OK. Was not prepared for that. Oh, but he wants a proper ultrasound on my liver, spleen and doppler done. The kind where I have to fast for 8 hours, make a real appointment at my medical facility of choice - oh, and don't forget the follow up appointment I need to make with him to discuss the results.
I made these appointments, but come on. Come on. What the fuck? I've had these tests done. They've been done. They're done. Just. Accept it all, dudebro. Confer with notes (which are clearly never read). I questioned him and the necessity of this test, but he said something something lesion on liver something something just make sure. Like, what about picking up a phone and conferring with the rest of TEAM RACHAEL! to make sure the lesion isn't there? Well. Whatever. So I got some blood drawn, made the follow-up appointment and faxed the order for the ultrasound. MORE days to come out to the West side. Jooooooy.
Then. Yesterday happened.
So, in light of the cyst debacle, I'd been taken off my blood thinner. It was comical that the idiots in the Coumadin Clinic at UCLA rang me up to harass me for getting my INR check when it happened the first time around. It was a simple explanation on my part, a grumble at improper notes by the lady who called, and a laugh we shared. Good times.
Then yesterday I get another call. From an irate bitch at the Coumadin Clinic. Telling me my INR was low. Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me. I explained to her what had happened - and this woman had the audacity to INTERROGATE me about the authenticity of my story.
It went something like this:
Me: I'm not on coumadin anymore. I had a cyst rupture, I was bleeding internally and I was hospitalized for like five days.
Her: When?
Me: This was last month, April. Over a month ago.
Her: Well, which physcian took you off?!
Me: To be honest, all of them, but Dr. A sanctioned it.
Her: Well, which hospital did you go to?
Me: UCLA. I started at Santa Monica, but I was there for 24 hours before being transferred to Westwood.
Her: *huffing and puffing, running out of steam* Well why didn't they put it in the notes!
Me: I was called by the clinic about three weeks ago and we had this exact conversation, so I don't know why it isn't there. It should be.
Her: *fussing and grumbling AT ME* Blah blah bitch bitch....(pause) (mumbles) Oh, there it is. Stopped coumadin April 12th.
Me: Justified.
What the HELL is with people not bothering to read the mother fucking notes? Did these people just coast through school on memory alone? It's like their professors said, "Hey, class, since I am SO awesome, I am going to give you an open book and open notes test!"
And these people just kick back, all cocky like and say, "Nope. Don't need 'em."
And FAIL.
After that I tried unsuccessfully to schedule my ultrasound on a day when I'd be down in the area anyway so I wouldn't have to waste another day there. I looked at my calendar and realized I would be down at UCLA 3 times over a 7 day period. Nope, nope, nope. I hit my threshold and lost my shit.
I got authorization to cancel one appointment (a follow up with the Lady Doctor) but I put TEAM RACHAEL! on the case of this test, asked them to dig around in notes and tell me if this shit is necessary or just some doctor feeding his own ego.
People wonder why I can't have a life. This.
This is why I can't have a life.
Monday, February 4, 2013
You Are Full of the Disappoint!
So I have big plans for this year. Big plans. Enormous plans. Plans that will theoretically take me out of the country for months at a time. However, I need to get my pacemaker battery switched out. As of December, its life expectancy is "3-18 months" which is a fucking joke of a range considering how much can happen in that amount of time.
What people seem to fail to realize - from both the Professional Patient and the Totally Ignorant People - is that my life has to come to complete halt when shit like this pops up. But putting my life on hold for "3 to 18 months" just doesn't fly with me. I have plans. I want to make good on those plans. But I don't want to be caught in another country when my pacemaker decides to say "fuck it, I'm out." I want this to not be a concern of mine. I want to be able to get on a plane and just go.
Why didn't my electro-physiologist just advise me to get this done straightaway? I would have had this shit scheduled the first week of January and dollars to donuts I wouldn't be sitting here at 10:00pm on a Monday angrier than I've been in a long time. No. He just shrugs and tells me something like "I'd take the gamble." I listen because
1) I respect the man's opinion
2) Let's be real; I am not happy about going through another goddamn surgery
I think #2 is just the reason why a casual attitude has been put on up until now, though. Everybody is terrified of what my body is going to do once it gets knifed up again. After discussing the matter with a friend, though, I realized what a damn moron I am being and I need to schedule this event right away and just get it the hell over with. But I needed to plan a trip for March or February. So that shaves another 10 days off of my ever ticking calendar and by the time the ball gets rolling the frothing harpy who guards the scheduling book is just unrelenting in every way imaginable. The earliest date to get this show on the road? February 25th.
The date I need to get on a plane? March 14th.
I'm livid. I'm livid at everyone involved, myself included of course.
I am just at a total loss of where to go and what to do. Do I cancel my first trip? Do I postpone the surgery until late March, giving me just barely over a month to recover before the big trip? Do I risk postponing it until I have a few months between traveling?
I don't know. I just don't know.
See, the issue is recovery and how long it is going to take my body to do so. Everyone, myself above all else, is biting their nails about this relatively simple procedure because of the nature of my history and anatomy. My pacemaker is located in my left abdomen, in a pocket under muscle, and the procedure will require the surgeon to reopen the latter part of my open heart scar - which is not something I desire. I'd rather have a brand new lateral scar, to be honest, but I told him go with whatever is easiest. Given my history with fluid retention at the slightest provocation, everyone is anticipating that I am going to run into a similar issue that I found myself dealing with shortly after the last procedure in 11/2011. Now, I wasn't on the mega high dose of diuretics last time as I am now. So this may very well tip the scales in the favor of a speedier recovery.
Who knows. (The Shadow knows!) It's a gamble. It did not help that I thought the consultation I went to on Friday was going to be super casual and the surgeon ended up triggering me (unintentionally, of course) into some heavy PTSD feels. I was really one step away from breathing into a paper bag. He didn't intend to, obviously, but he didn't want to give me any illusions as to what to expect, worst case scenario. He didn't want to sugarcoat it as a simple Duracell battery switch out - which is, to be honest, what I thought it was going to be.
I don't know. Right now I can't make any hard core decisions until I talk to TEAM RACHAEL! and hear what they say. I'm a grown-ass woman, I make my own mind up obviously, but their input is valued above all else.
I just really wish people had been upfront and honest with me from the very get-go of what this procedure entails. It would have saved me a lot of time and grief and I'd have made sure to set aside the necessary time to heal properly. I cannot continuously put my life on hold for bullshit caused by miscommunication and people in my life who flat out refuse to communicate honestly and effectively with me.
What people seem to fail to realize - from both the Professional Patient and the Totally Ignorant People - is that my life has to come to complete halt when shit like this pops up. But putting my life on hold for "3 to 18 months" just doesn't fly with me. I have plans. I want to make good on those plans. But I don't want to be caught in another country when my pacemaker decides to say "fuck it, I'm out." I want this to not be a concern of mine. I want to be able to get on a plane and just go.
Why didn't my electro-physiologist just advise me to get this done straightaway? I would have had this shit scheduled the first week of January and dollars to donuts I wouldn't be sitting here at 10:00pm on a Monday angrier than I've been in a long time. No. He just shrugs and tells me something like "I'd take the gamble." I listen because
1) I respect the man's opinion
2) Let's be real; I am not happy about going through another goddamn surgery
I think #2 is just the reason why a casual attitude has been put on up until now, though. Everybody is terrified of what my body is going to do once it gets knifed up again. After discussing the matter with a friend, though, I realized what a damn moron I am being and I need to schedule this event right away and just get it the hell over with. But I needed to plan a trip for March or February. So that shaves another 10 days off of my ever ticking calendar and by the time the ball gets rolling the frothing harpy who guards the scheduling book is just unrelenting in every way imaginable. The earliest date to get this show on the road? February 25th.
The date I need to get on a plane? March 14th.
I'm livid. I'm livid at everyone involved, myself included of course.
I am just at a total loss of where to go and what to do. Do I cancel my first trip? Do I postpone the surgery until late March, giving me just barely over a month to recover before the big trip? Do I risk postponing it until I have a few months between traveling?
I don't know. I just don't know.
See, the issue is recovery and how long it is going to take my body to do so. Everyone, myself above all else, is biting their nails about this relatively simple procedure because of the nature of my history and anatomy. My pacemaker is located in my left abdomen, in a pocket under muscle, and the procedure will require the surgeon to reopen the latter part of my open heart scar - which is not something I desire. I'd rather have a brand new lateral scar, to be honest, but I told him go with whatever is easiest. Given my history with fluid retention at the slightest provocation, everyone is anticipating that I am going to run into a similar issue that I found myself dealing with shortly after the last procedure in 11/2011. Now, I wasn't on the mega high dose of diuretics last time as I am now. So this may very well tip the scales in the favor of a speedier recovery.
Who knows. (The Shadow knows!) It's a gamble. It did not help that I thought the consultation I went to on Friday was going to be super casual and the surgeon ended up triggering me (unintentionally, of course) into some heavy PTSD feels. I was really one step away from breathing into a paper bag. He didn't intend to, obviously, but he didn't want to give me any illusions as to what to expect, worst case scenario. He didn't want to sugarcoat it as a simple Duracell battery switch out - which is, to be honest, what I thought it was going to be.
I don't know. Right now I can't make any hard core decisions until I talk to TEAM RACHAEL! and hear what they say. I'm a grown-ass woman, I make my own mind up obviously, but their input is valued above all else.
I just really wish people had been upfront and honest with me from the very get-go of what this procedure entails. It would have saved me a lot of time and grief and I'd have made sure to set aside the necessary time to heal properly. I cannot continuously put my life on hold for bullshit caused by miscommunication and people in my life who flat out refuse to communicate honestly and effectively with me.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Dirty Thirty and Why You Need to Shut Up About Getting Old
In less than a week I will be celebrating my 30th birthday. You all have no idea how damn excited I am over this birthday. However, without a doubt - without a doubt - my birthday glee is always stopped stone-cold by one of my top pet-peeves: when people whine to me about how much they hate getting old.
"Oh my god, don't remind me! My birthday is (whenever) and I'm turning (who gives a damn age) and OH MY GOD I AM SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLD! Ugh! I hate getting older!"
Seriously - you hate getting older? So, you hate your birthday? You hate that you managed to make it through another year of your life? Out of all of the possible ways to die, out of the innumerable ways to wind up not alive anymore, you - yes, you! - managed to go around the game board once more and have another turn at it? Well goodness gracious me, I cannot imagine the impossible chore it must be to please you, my little angel cake.
If I had I nickle every time someone said this to me I'd have traveled around the world, bought a slingshot and pelted every single last one of yous with a horse manure cupcake.
Permit me to dissect why this familiar yet nonetheless irritating complaint vexes me so.
One. Ingratitude. To vocalize you do not want to live to be a ripe old age implies you wish to die young. What sort of attitude is that to carry around on your shoulders? You have enough to worry about to freak out over piddly nonsense that (a) you cannot change and (b) happens to everyone. Additionally, the ingratitude is a slap in the face to individuals who never had the privilege to grow old or who struggle tooth and claw to get to each birthday. It's insulting to complain about about your inability to cope with achieving another year simply by existing.
Two. Piggy-backing off that, aging happens to everyone. Unless the Fountain of Youth/vampires or some other mystical immortal being is discovered, everyone on this planet - every living thing from humans to animals to the jar of raspberry preserves that's been sitting at the back of your fridge since last Christmas - is getting older. I hate to break it to you my gentle little snowflake, but you are not special. No one parted the clouds, shined a light onto your precious head and singled you out to be the lone living creature to go through the aging process.
Three. Fear of Death. There is a particular ignorance/lack of honesty when it comes to people who 'hate getting old'. Like, what about getting old is specifically hateful? When you strip away the inanity of the age whining it really does boil down to a basic fear of death. Totally understandable, by the way. You should fear death to a certain level; it's a fairly healthy fear to have in small doses as it keeps you from doing stupid moves like drilling a hole in your head. However, be honest about your fear; get to the bottom of why "getting old" freaks you out enough to burden others and damper their mood. Trust me, I have no so small fear of death, but I'd personally rather have age speeding me to the grave rather than complications of health.
Three.A Vanity. I think it plays a large role as well and perhaps folks just don't want to admit it. People judge others based on the outward shell and -gasp- oh noes you may one day have wrinkles and gray hair, whatever will you do? Lord, people may actually have to get to know you before deciding they like you! I simply do not know how you will go on...Seriously, like the fear of death, if it's just a fear of losing your looks just say it. It's a little silly but I know I would appreciate the honesty.
Four. Regrets. I don't care if you have the words "No Regrets" tattooed on the inside of your eyelids as a reminder of its inspiration to your soul; everyone has a regret or two (or three hundred). When we age it is a not-so-gentle reminder that time is a-tickin' away (see: Death) and that Bucket List ain't getting any shorter. You have places to travel, adventures to be had, goals to achieve, unattainable people to sleep with, THINGS TO DO! and another year that flies by without having ticked off something on that Life's To Do List just irritates the ever-loving crap out of you, doesn't it? Fine. I think it's safe to say the vast majority of us have these moments (Jeebus knows I do), but again, no reason to blanket the frustration of lack of accomplishment by denying yourself (and others) the joy of a birthday.
Five. Surprisingly enough, this kind of careless commentary is more often than not said when I mention my own birthday. My birthday, which has nothing whatsoever to do with any other individual (parents aside), and inevitably some careless human being will turn it around on themselves and bring their little rain cloud of ageism to flood out my birthday jubilation. When it's your birthday, bitch all you want; it won't stop me from thinking your're ungrateful and a bit callous but hey, at least I won't say it to your face. My birthday gift to you.
I don't speak on behalf of everyone with a congenital heart defect/chronic illness but I do know a number of my companions share the same sentiment I do when I say:
Shut the feck up you whiny little eejit and be grateful you have been given another day on this glorious Earth, in this lovely life.
"Oh my god, don't remind me! My birthday is (whenever) and I'm turning (who gives a damn age) and OH MY GOD I AM SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLD! Ugh! I hate getting older!"
Seriously - you hate getting older? So, you hate your birthday? You hate that you managed to make it through another year of your life? Out of all of the possible ways to die, out of the innumerable ways to wind up not alive anymore, you - yes, you! - managed to go around the game board once more and have another turn at it? Well goodness gracious me, I cannot imagine the impossible chore it must be to please you, my little angel cake.
If I had I nickle every time someone said this to me I'd have traveled around the world, bought a slingshot and pelted every single last one of yous with a horse manure cupcake.
Permit me to dissect why this familiar yet nonetheless irritating complaint vexes me so.
One. Ingratitude. To vocalize you do not want to live to be a ripe old age implies you wish to die young. What sort of attitude is that to carry around on your shoulders? You have enough to worry about to freak out over piddly nonsense that (a) you cannot change and (b) happens to everyone. Additionally, the ingratitude is a slap in the face to individuals who never had the privilege to grow old or who struggle tooth and claw to get to each birthday. It's insulting to complain about about your inability to cope with achieving another year simply by existing.
Two. Piggy-backing off that, aging happens to everyone. Unless the Fountain of Youth/vampires or some other mystical immortal being is discovered, everyone on this planet - every living thing from humans to animals to the jar of raspberry preserves that's been sitting at the back of your fridge since last Christmas - is getting older. I hate to break it to you my gentle little snowflake, but you are not special. No one parted the clouds, shined a light onto your precious head and singled you out to be the lone living creature to go through the aging process.
Three. Fear of Death. There is a particular ignorance/lack of honesty when it comes to people who 'hate getting old'. Like, what about getting old is specifically hateful? When you strip away the inanity of the age whining it really does boil down to a basic fear of death. Totally understandable, by the way. You should fear death to a certain level; it's a fairly healthy fear to have in small doses as it keeps you from doing stupid moves like drilling a hole in your head. However, be honest about your fear; get to the bottom of why "getting old" freaks you out enough to burden others and damper their mood. Trust me, I have no so small fear of death, but I'd personally rather have age speeding me to the grave rather than complications of health.
Three.A Vanity. I think it plays a large role as well and perhaps folks just don't want to admit it. People judge others based on the outward shell and -gasp- oh noes you may one day have wrinkles and gray hair, whatever will you do? Lord, people may actually have to get to know you before deciding they like you! I simply do not know how you will go on...Seriously, like the fear of death, if it's just a fear of losing your looks just say it. It's a little silly but I know I would appreciate the honesty.
Four. Regrets. I don't care if you have the words "No Regrets" tattooed on the inside of your eyelids as a reminder of its inspiration to your soul; everyone has a regret or two (or three hundred). When we age it is a not-so-gentle reminder that time is a-tickin' away (see: Death) and that Bucket List ain't getting any shorter. You have places to travel, adventures to be had, goals to achieve, unattainable people to sleep with, THINGS TO DO! and another year that flies by without having ticked off something on that Life's To Do List just irritates the ever-loving crap out of you, doesn't it? Fine. I think it's safe to say the vast majority of us have these moments (Jeebus knows I do), but again, no reason to blanket the frustration of lack of accomplishment by denying yourself (and others) the joy of a birthday.
Five. Surprisingly enough, this kind of careless commentary is more often than not said when I mention my own birthday. My birthday, which has nothing whatsoever to do with any other individual (parents aside), and inevitably some careless human being will turn it around on themselves and bring their little rain cloud of ageism to flood out my birthday jubilation. When it's your birthday, bitch all you want; it won't stop me from thinking your're ungrateful and a bit callous but hey, at least I won't say it to your face. My birthday gift to you.
I don't speak on behalf of everyone with a congenital heart defect/chronic illness but I do know a number of my companions share the same sentiment I do when I say:
Shut the feck up you whiny little eejit and be grateful you have been given another day on this glorious Earth, in this lovely life.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
RRRRRRRRRRRRAAGE!
I have recently discovered the glory of Hulu and while catching up on a show I regularly watch, Hulu suggested - of all things - the episode of How to Look Good Naked featuring Heather McGee, who has a congenital heart defect. It was the end of season 2 finale, I believe, and I really didn't need to watch it because I was actually there at her surprise fashion show party. I was too overweight at the time to model a dress but the producers let me kick back all day and hang out with my friends and join the party later on. It was a very fun evening and I am pleased to report Carson is a big fucking sweetheart who really does give a shit.
OK, so I usually give exactly zero fucks when it comes to comments left on Hulu videos but I got curious to see what people thought of the episode and much to my chagrin I read this:
I wish he'd do a girl who actually has some body issues. A scar or two really isnt that hard to get over. But then again who knows. *shrug*
Bitch, I will fucking cut you.
Are you fucking serious with this ignorant ass comment? Who the fuck are you to play judge and jury on the way someone views themselves? How dare you fucking undermine and invalidate Heather's worthiness of being on this show. This isn't even about Heather as an individual - it's about the fact that she, like many of us, have "a scar or two" and how that equates to being unworthy of being featured on How to Look Good Naked.
I wonder what percentage of a CHDer's body needs to be covered in scars in order to be deemed worthy enough for this concerned viewer?
I consider myself one of the fortunate people who did not have scar-related body image issues (I have other issues that give me body image woes but that's neither here nor there) but I volunteer with kids - LITTLE KIDS AND TEENS - living with congenital heart defects and every year I always get a kid or two who opens up and shares their body image insecurities with me. Because they trusted me enough to share their scars - not just the physical scars, but the emotional and psychological scars.
Hell, Camp del Corazon was FOUNDED on the observation of a cardiac kid having body image issues.
So don't you fucking tell me that Heather, these kids, or anyone else living with CHD is unworthy of a little love and attention from a Queer Eye Guy whose only crime is wanting women to see how fabulous they are in the skin they're in.
So, "who knows" YOU KNOW WHAT? I FUCKING KNOW.
Now get the fuck off my lawn.
OK, so I usually give exactly zero fucks when it comes to comments left on Hulu videos but I got curious to see what people thought of the episode and much to my chagrin I read this:
I wish he'd do a girl who actually has some body issues. A scar or two really isnt that hard to get over. But then again who knows. *shrug*
Bitch, I will fucking cut you.
Are you fucking serious with this ignorant ass comment? Who the fuck are you to play judge and jury on the way someone views themselves? How dare you fucking undermine and invalidate Heather's worthiness of being on this show. This isn't even about Heather as an individual - it's about the fact that she, like many of us, have "a scar or two" and how that equates to being unworthy of being featured on How to Look Good Naked.
I wonder what percentage of a CHDer's body needs to be covered in scars in order to be deemed worthy enough for this concerned viewer?
I consider myself one of the fortunate people who did not have scar-related body image issues (I have other issues that give me body image woes but that's neither here nor there) but I volunteer with kids - LITTLE KIDS AND TEENS - living with congenital heart defects and every year I always get a kid or two who opens up and shares their body image insecurities with me. Because they trusted me enough to share their scars - not just the physical scars, but the emotional and psychological scars.
Hell, Camp del Corazon was FOUNDED on the observation of a cardiac kid having body image issues.
So don't you fucking tell me that Heather, these kids, or anyone else living with CHD is unworthy of a little love and attention from a Queer Eye Guy whose only crime is wanting women to see how fabulous they are in the skin they're in.
So, "who knows" YOU KNOW WHAT? I FUCKING KNOW.
Now get the fuck off my lawn.
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