I ventured from the house a few days ago. Took the kid to Walmart, and decided to wander in with her, despite being dressed in my finest Valley trash finest, pink spotted pajama bottoms, baggy sweatshirt, old carhart jacket and a floppy hat (I hadn't intended to go inside).
I had just gotten in the door when my phone rang. It was Kathy from my insurance company. "I'm just calling to tell you that we aren't going to be paying for your chemotherapy." According to her, the program I am on is not approved for the type of cancer I have. I can't say that I handled my end of the conversation well, but neither did she. When I asked what my was the approved protocol she simply said that she wasn't a doctor and couldn't tell me. When I asked what my options were she said I had to talk to my doctor. So, I asked if I was just supposed to crawl into a corner and die, she said I needed to talk to my doctor about that. So, I asked if I could speak to her supervisor, and she said that I needed to talk to my doctor. So. I hung up.
I called Lorrie in a frazzle, and she called my boss who called me back and said not to worry. Lorrie then called Dr. Stewart's office and spoke with the billing lady who said "this is going to be fun. Not even God questions Dr. Stewart, I'll take care of this."
It took about a week for things to get straightened out, but WTF next? I have sores in my mouth, I'm puking my guts out, my bones hurt like hell, I'm balder than my dad and I get a call from some dingbat telling me that my doctor, the best oncologist in the State of Alaska doesn't know how to prescribe chemo.
The lady at the drive through at the bank did tell me that I was pretty and didn't need to put my scarf back on though.
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