Doesn't it seem ironic that you go to the doctor so you can find out what's wrong with you and feel better, and you walk out even more confused and feel so much worse?
I was prepared. I really was. I'd looked up the doctor's office on the insurance website (I hate insurance) and saw that my favorite doc's office was covered. I was certain of this because each doc in the practice was listed separately along with a notation of whether they were taking new patients.
So I made my call and went through all the repetitive questions they ask when you call the doc's office, including whether this would be self-pay or insurance (I hate insurance). I told them I was insured, and that was the end of that.
I cleared my day; luckily for me, that just meant arranging to have all of my five children occupied and asking my father to be home between 2:00 and 4:00 to do damage control, which is a joke because there's more damage done while he's here than if I'd have left the kids alone with a wild orangutan and a gallon of Hershey's syrup. Still, I think it's wise to have someone here to at least represent an adult, since Bard was off for the weekend with her friend at a campout.
I've only gone to see my favorite doc a few times, and it's always been for my kids. He became my favorite doc when his son and Monet were on the same baseball team. Through talking to his wife, I discovered that she'd used extended breastfeeding with her twins. He became my very favorite doc when he rushed over to check The Baby after she'd been hit by a foul ball and didn't charge us. He didn't even turn it in to our insurance company (I hate insurance).
The down side of seeing this particular doc is that I have to go to his far-away-from-me office because his close-to-me office is too full and they wouldn't possibly be able to take another paying customer there, so I drive to the next town, which cuts down my waiting time, but now that gas prices are so high, the drive costs more than my co-pay (I hate insurance).
But I made the drive, because, frankly, I'm tired of being afraid that I'm going to die in my sleep of a heart attack or that I have some watermelon-sized tumor in my head that prevents me from completing sentences and speaking plain English to my children, who currently look at me as if I'm a wild orangutan when I tell them to take out the trash or pick up their underwear.
I proudly handed the receptionist my insurance card (I hate insurance). She obviously had no idea what an amazing feat it was for me to actually know where it was and be able to present it in one piece. I don't exaggerate at all when I tell you that I have dropped very important documents only to find them later between the black lab's teeth or floating in the toilet. So I was slightly taken aback when she handed me the card without copying it and shook her head.
"We don't take this insurance."
Have you ever wanted to murder someone?
"What does that mean?" Do you see why I'm worried about that watermelon-sized brain tumor?
"We don't take this insurance," she repeated. She didn't even say it more slowly.
I must have looked a bit dumbfounded, though I can't for the life of me imagine why.
"I checked the insurance company's website. Your office is listed there. Actually, each of your doctors is listed there. I'm sure you take this insurance. Can you check again?"
"We don't take that insurance," she repeated. But at least this time she was kind enough to add, "Other people have made that mistake, too."
"No. Nonononono. This is a mistake," I assured her. "Do you have web access? I'll show you where I saw it. I can show you the exact page that lists every single doctor in this office." She shook her head reluctantly.
"Do you have a fax machine? I'll have my husband fax you the page." She looked kind of afraid. I knew I was on the right track.
"Will you step outside with me into the dark alley behind the office?" She agreed to call the insurance liason (I hate insurance).
I sat in the tiny empty waiting room on one of the ten chairs and waited. I hadn't brought a book and there were no magazines with Johnny Depp on the cover, so I just sat there. In a desperate attempt to be proactive, I did call my husband and asked him to fax that page to this insurance-forsaken office.
Turns out that the problem wasn't that my insurance company didn't cover my favorite doctor. The problem was the my insurance company didn't cover the doctor I would be seeing that day--the only doctor in the office, the "new guy." A quick call to my hubby and a determination that I needed this appointment, and I was off to the unpleasantries of getting weighed and sitting in the examining room.
My blood pressure's not low, which is what I suspected, and it's not high. It's completely normal. This is both good news and bad news. It's good news because I don't have to worry about my blood pressure at this stage of my life. It's bad news because now I have no idea what's wrong with me. The doc says it's tension, wants to put me on antidepressants. I'm not thrilled with the potential side-effects, so I haven't yet picked up my prescription. Anyway, I think he's wrong.
So now it's more tests--blood tests, EKGs, CAT scans and all that fun stuff.
But here's the miraculous thing; after waiting in the waiting room for another fifteen minutes so they could get one of the other out-of-office docs to write a prescription for bloodwork, I approached the receptionist to pay my bill. Had my heart had reason to fail, then would have been the time.
It was stamped, "NO CHARGE."
How's that for stress-relief?
So, thank you for all of the prayers and notes of concern. I'm fine, though very curious what could be causing me such discomfort. Time, and a few involuntary blood donations, will tell.
By the way, I just want to mention one little thing. I hate insurance.
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