Insurance beating me down left and right

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.

Venting about my Pharmecuticals

Believe it or not, I've had a lot to talk about these last 6 or 7 months but just chose not to.
Something happened tonight, however, that is preventing me from a decent night's sleep and where two hours ago I was excited for what is one of the best events I'm fortunate enough to get invited to, I am now dreading the morning.

So, somewhere in the ballpark of 4-5 months ago, I had a huge argument with my pharmacy about what prescriptions I take precisely. I take two different doses of the same medicine each day: 160 mg in the AM, 120 mg in the PM. I can't even tell you how long my dose has been like this; somewhere between 12-15 years. So it's not like I'd forget something like it.

My pharmacy had enrolled me in "auto-refill" which was giving me an abundant number of pills - so much so that I eventually put a stop to it and weaned off the stockpile I had so none expired and went to waste, and then when I went to manually fill it in, they had a HUGE shit storm and instead of actually calling my goddamn cardiologist office to confirm the prescription, they just decided to ignore the issue for four fucking days until I came storming in demanding my fucking medicine. They kept insisting I don't even take those pills and I was like YOU ARE FUCKING INSANE I take these goddamn pills every single mother fucking night. I won't lie - I looked like a crazy woman because I was near tears and my tone could cut a bitch in half. Long story short, it was resolved and the prescription renewed and you bet your bottom dollar TEAM RACHAEL! reamed them the fuck out for not contacting them.

Then I started noticing something weird - so, as stated, I take 160 mg in the morning. Usually, I'm given 60 pills of 80 mg - i.e. I take two of these in the AM to equate to the full 160 dose. Still with me?

Well, shortly after the debacle, I began to receive 160 mg pills straight up. OK. No big deal, so long as I get it. Then, within the last cycle of refills, I received 80 mg again. All right. Whatever. The last pick-up, though, gave me with 160 and someone was telling me, "Oh. Sorry for the wait - we had to get it passed the insurance." The fuck--? 

Now, I should have said something, I'll admit because clearly someone is confusing my 160 vs. 120 again because...

When I go to refill (via telephone) my 120 mg tonight, the automated message tells me "your prescription is invalid."

ARE. YOU. FUCKING. SHITTING. ME.

The prescription clearly says on the label "refill 10 times until (blah blah date, 2014)"

I'm so livid I can't even see straight - I left a message on their machine but probably fucked up my phone number because I was THAT mad. I am that mad. So first thing in the morning, instead of doing my hair and make-up for this awesome event, I have to march down there and give them what for. Again.

I don't know who is fucking this up - there are a number of incompetent people in that pharmacy; brainless yahoos who don't know how to organize themselves or figure out the difference between 160 and 120 mg of the same goddamn pill. 

This is my third goddamn pharmacy in 10 years and I'm just...so horrified by the complete ineptitude of these melon farmers. 

I really don't want to get TEAM RACHAEL! involved, but dollars to donuts my mom is probably not going to let me go down there in the morning because I'm so pissed off. The problem is it's me or her - and while I can be pretty scary, my mother is downright terrifying. Tiger Mom is the last team fighter you tag with Street Fighter turbo, you know what I mean? 

Anyway. I just had to rage this out so I can get some sleep. 

TO BE CONTINUED

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.

Exterminate! Exterminate! Exterminate!

You know what the BEST part about surgery is? When you get knocked the fuck out and you can get a little peace and quiet! Unfortunately, I am still just over two months away from that blissful moment and am dealing with all of the primitive screwheads that are supposed to get me from point A to point B but wind up giving me worse directions than Mapquest in 1999.

I tried calling the main office for the GYN since they appeared to have their shit together and asked if they had the Doctor's October schedule.
I try to explain the situation - that I see the Doc at the Poor People Medical Building but nobody over there knows any scheduling and I need to get my calendar in order.

So she interrupts, "What insurance do you have?"

ISN'T IT SAD AND DEPRESSING WHEN THIS IS ALWAYS THE FIRST THING THEY ASK YOU HERE IN THE USA? NO MATTER WHAT THE CONTEXT - I COULD BE BLEEDING FROM MY NIPPLES AND THEY'D ASK ME, "WHAT INSURANCE DO YOU HAVE?"

With a frustrated sigh, "Medi-Medi."

It was like I hit the fire alarm button.

"UH UH YOU NEED TO CALL THE POOR PEOPLE BUILDING TO GET HIS SCHEDULE! I CAN'T TALK TO YOU, THE POOR MIGHT RUB OFF ON ME!"

I tried to explain again but she kept interrupting me so I hung up on her before I wound up calling her cunt.

So I am back to square one, at the mercy of the mystical schedule that apparently NOBODY CREATES. Except that somebody knew - somebody called me well over a month ago and told me the doctor would be there October 10, 11th and 13th (dates I am actually trying to avoid scheduling, which is why I want the rest of the month)

Where is this woman, this magical, scheduling fairy-godmother? I do believe in fairies, I do, I do! Now, if I close my eyes, click my heels three times, will I be able to make appointments and schedule the rest of my freaking life?