Being Amber Rhea

Yesterday I went to see a psychiatrist, recommended by the therapist (a licensed clinical social worker) I’ve been seeing. The last time I saw a psychiatrist was when I was in college, and he’s the one who originally prescribed Wellbutrin for me. I don’t remember who prescribed it for me when I lived in Texas. When I moved to Atlanta, my primary care doctor started prescribing it for me, and admonishing me to see a therapist, since I wasn’t going to one at the time. A couple years ago that doctor stopped working after she had a baby, and the doctor’s office assigned me to another primary care doctor for insurance purposes, but I’ve never actually met the guy. Nevertheless, the office keeps refilling my prescription every time I call for refills.

All of this is to say, I’ve been on Wellbutrin now for about 5-6 years, and it’s been working great the whole time. But I knew that sooner or later I would have to see a real live doctor for med maintenance, as it’s called.

And more importantly, for the past several months - okay, going on a year now - there have been times when I’ve felt as if I might be sliding into depression. I can spot the warning signs, and I want to do everything possible to make sure I don’t end up there again; it’s not fun (obvious statement of the year). After talking with my therapist though, we both think it’s more anxiety than depression.

Oh, I should back up: a few months ago I started seeing a therapist again. She’s up in Dunwoody, and it takes two hours out of a workday for me to go see her (her office hours are exactly the same as mine). The office doesn’t file insurance, which pisses me off, because I have to file it myself, and so far I haven’t gotten any refund checks (the first time I mailed in my claims, and later called to see if they’d been received, and was told they had “no record” of the claims… no surprise there). Anyway, I really like this therapist, and I’ve been seeing her every other week; but I don’t know how long I’ll keep it up, with the travel time and the insurance pain in the ass.

There are a few psychiatrists at the office too, and she recommended I see one for a medication evaluation. So that’s what I did yesterday. The doctor decided to keep my current dosage of Wellbutrin and also add a small dosage of Lexapro, which is anti-anxiety medication. I’ll be getting that prescription filled this week, and within a few weeks to a month I should start to see results… hopefully good ones. She said Lexapro can cause nausea; I hope I don’t have that problem.

And can I just say, I am really irritated with therapists’ offices (or any doctors’ offices, but I’ve never known any other than psychologist/psychiatrist offices that act this way) that don’t file insurance for you. My therapist said, “There are just too many different types of insurance.” Well excuse me, that’s why there’s an office staff! My therapist in Texas (whom I loved; seriously, when I moved back to Georgia I wished I could take her with me) worked at an office a lot like this one, and they filed insurance with no problem. I think it’s presumptuous and lazy for them to expect patients to do it. I don’t know if I’ll ever see the refund checks for the appointments I’ve paid for so far, especially the $300 appointment yesterday. It just pisses me off, because I’m paying for insurance but of course they give you the run-around. (Again, why can’t everywhere be nice and responsive like USAA? Sad that service like that is a minority…)

Anyway, that’s that. I know I got off on a tangent, so this is partially an insurance rant and partially an update on my mental health situation. I’m publishing it now… without proofreading!

Sassywho’s post about her two ectopic pregnancies - and how she was treated like day-old shit by the ER staff - has me feeling all shaken up. Not because I’m shocked at the cruelty and mistreatment she endured; but because I’m not shocked, since I know that this kind of thing is all too common, and if anything, it’s the rule rather than the exception.

And I’m angry. And I feel powerless. I hate that feeling, anger coupled with powerlessness. It’s one of the worst, and it usually sends me spiraling down one of those “what the fuck do we do and why are we here?” tunnels - and I don’t like when my train of thought heads in that direction. I don’t like the powerlessness, because it ultimately means the anger usually ends up getting turned inward and is damaging to me, so I usually have to find some other way to deal - such as distraction by focusing on good things. Some may call it sticking my head in the sand, but I call it fucking survival. What the fuck else am I going to do? Sit here and be miserable? Like it or not, I - one person - can’t change the sorry state of healthcare in this country. That doesn’t mean I’ll stop voting for the right people, and donating to the right organizations; it just means, simply, that I don’t have the magic wand I wish I had.

But, that last paragraph was a tangent. The other thing about Sassywho’s post is that it’s quite timely. Because today when we were at the hospital, I was feeling very nervous. Obviously, I was nervous simply because I wanted Rusty to be okay, and it’s hard not to be nervous when the love of your life is having surgery. But I was also nervous for another, more insidious reason: I don’t trust hospitals. I don’t trust the medical establishment in this country, in general.

I was pretty surprised at how friendly and helpful everyone we encountered was, for the most part. Then I was irritated because something that should be the expected default came as a surprise. And, when there was that one nurse in the recovery area who behaved as if we were inconveniencing her with our presence, and seemed to be trying to shoo us out of the place as quickly as possible even though Rusty was barely lucid and in quite a bit of pain - well, I thought, “Yeah, the truth comes out.” That’s how I expect it and remember it, and have experienced it. It goes without saying that the fact that I expect rudeness and dismissiveness is fucked up.

Then I started to wonder, too, if all the other staff members we dealt with - nurses, surgeon, anesthesiologist - would have been just as nice if Rusty weren’t insured. I tried to stop myself from having that thought, because I recognized how unfair it was. And I did get the feeling that many of the people we dealt with, especially the nurses, were genuinely nice, caring people. (They might not even know about patients’ insurance status or financial situation. I don’t know how that works.)

But my mind kept going back to how my dad was treated when he was in the hospital after his stroke last year: like a second class citizen, to put it bluntly. Uninsured and without a stable source of income, they treated him as an inconvenience and a liability. They were trying to get him out of there as soon as possible, and they barely made any effort to pretend otherwise. He stayed in the hospital for a way shorter period of time than he should have. Instead of physical therapy, they photocopied some pages of exercises intended for orthopedic patients and told my mom, “Have him do these.”

My mom has never liked to admit that we’re not the middle-class suburban folks I think she thinks we’re supposed to be. She does that extra-vengeful classism thing that I guess comes out of embarrassment, or guilt, or god knows what. When we were staying at the hospital with my dad, she recounted a conversation with the hospital social worker; she had made sure to stress that while he didn’t have insurance, it wasn’t because he was “lazy” or “a bum.” You know, like those people. The other people who don’t have insurance.

Eh, another tangent there. Point being… well, I don’t know what my point is, really. Just that I distrust the medical establishment in general. This is already long enough, so I won’t even get into the time I was hospitalized for depression in 2001 as a broke, just-married college student. I hope to [insert deity here] that I never have to go to the ER for something as serious as what Sassywho went through, where I literally might die because the people working there are “jaded” and “burnt out.” Excuse the fuck out of me for not giving a good goddamn.

I don’t want to end this on such a pissed off, powerless note, because like I said earlier, I don’t like that feeling, and I don’t want to be passing it along to y’all. So I’ll go stick my head in the sand now, and you do the same if you’re so inclined. Keep voting, writing letters, and donating whatever time or money you can; beyond that? Well, life’s too short to feel powerless all the time. So find the good where you can, and enjoy every nanosecond of it.

Blue Cross Blue Shield may have canceled my insurance. I cannot yet be sure. If they did, heads will roll. But it remains to be seen.

I am not getting worked up about this, because what’s the point. And I certainly don’t need any negative energy going into my pole dancing graduation! (!!!!)

Yesterday Rusty and I were hanging out with some friends and the topic of health insurance came up. One of our friends mentioned the exorbitant amount he and his wife pay every month for coverage (they’re self-employed). In response to the mouth-agape, “holy shit that’s more than some people’s yearly salaries” look on my face, he said, “Well, it’s expensive, but all it takes is one major health crisis for it to pay for itself.” But, nobody should have to take that kind of gamble!! Another friend mentioned not being able to have her baby at the hospital really close to their house because it didn’t accept their insurance. And Monday morning I am going to have to resume jumping through hoops to try to talk to an actual person at my insurance company, to try to find out whether the therapist I have an appointment with Thursday (you know, so I can do something to help myself) is covered.

And what about my dad? He and my mom have been self-employed for almost 20 years. From the time I was about 7 years old onward, we didn’t have health insurance. My mom finally was able to buy it for herself about 5-6 years ago (after having to pay out of pocket for a critical GI surgery in 1997, until the hospital finally just stopped sending a bill). A year or so ago my parets finally got financially stable enough so that my dad could try to buy insurance too. Oh, except when he tried, he got turned down left and right because of pre-existing conditions. So, the health insurance companies basically said, “You’re not in perfect health and therefore you’re too much of a ‘risk,’ so fuck you, even though we are purportedly in the health business and are supposed to be here to help you.” (Which we all know is patently false, of course.) “P.S. Hope you don’t have a stroke!” And then, of course, he did, and from there you know the rest of the story.

As I said yesterday… this is one hell of a country.

And save your bullshit comments about supporting a “free market.” I am so sick of reading that same tripe over and over.