This post is going to be about more stuff that annoys me. I almost made this a disclaimer before I realized that I’ve included the word “whiny” right there in the name of this blog, so I’m really just living up to expectations by filling this space with nit picky complaints.
I thought I was done raging about my blood lab statement yesterday, but I should have known that one vaguely worded paragraph would not be enough for me. So, here we are again, discussing the bill that punched me in the face twenty four hours ago. Why am I not over this, you might wonder. I am not over this because I feel like I have learned pretty much everything about being an adult through trial and error. It almost makes me wish I’d gone to law school (not really) just for the life skills law classes force you to learn. I have come to understand taxes by totally screwing them up when I was an “independent contractor” in grad school. I have come to understand car insurance by getting into an accident that scattered parts of my adorable car all over the freeway. And, now I have come to understand health insurance by completing effing it up.
I am particularly bothered by this because, exercising some self-awareness I very rarely have, I did a bunch of research before getting the tests run in July. I put them off for months and months before I finally bit the bullet and got my blood drawn and my reluctance was only partially because I am terrified of needles. As it turns out, I’m even more terrified of having to pay astronomical fees for medical services. Thus, I was super proud of myself for being a responsible adult and calling my insurance company armed with all the test codes and making damn sure that all the tests were “fully covered.” This total confidence in my insurance representative and my ability to be an adult about things even led me to agree to some extra tests my doctor thought were important. I got negative results and was a confirmed normal woman and all was well.
Until yesterday, when I got that statement in the mail from a lab for $840. Woot. I had a lovely time fighting with my insurance company about it today. In all honesty, I should just totally shut up, because the grand total for running the Ashkenazi Jewish genetic disease panel and testing for spinal muscular atrophy was over $6,000 (because I guess they had to send the vials of blood into outer space to do the testing).
My dad is a lawyer (as a prosecutor working for the city, he is “the good kind of lawyer,” a distinction that is more important to people than I usually realize), and he has always diagnosed every problem I’ve ever had as a failure to “Get it in writing,” which has never really been anything other than pretty infuriating. Now it sounds like excellent advice.
Especially because I have to switch insurance providers, as I’m now a gainfully employed productive member of society, as opposed to a terrified, impoverished grad student. I’ve spent the last two days poring over plans and I’m no closer to deciding which to chose than I was before I stayed up until 1:30 am last night wishing it was 2014 already so that all insurance plans had to cover pregnancy and women’s preventive care. My judgment may be a little clouded by the fact that Fertile Myrtle, the patron saint of incredibly easy pregnancy, paid a total of $250 for her daughter, from start to finish. Is that normal? Or is she the outlier? I will not get out of pregnancy/childbirth with under $1,800 in fees (with copays and deductibles and hospital coverage, etc.) regardless of which of the six plans I choose, and I have no concept of whether or not that is average.
Perhaps I should turn to my therapist, Google.
Oh, finally, I started my period this afternoon. It very graciously waited until I had made it all the way home from work, which was nice because even though I had just taken a prescription medication to bring it on this week and could very well have predicted it would come today or tomorrow, I was absolutely not prepared outside my house (or in it either. Definitely made a CVS run). I’ll call my doctor tomorrow and ask to have the Clomid prescription forwarded to my pharmacy, because I’ll have to start taking it on Friday, if I’m going to stick to that really complicated and hugely intimidating schedule the office sent me in the mail which requires I begin Clomid on the third day of my cycle. However, after that blood test fiasco and my inability to chose a new insurance plan, I’m now petrified that I’m not ready to be a mother (or to even entertain the thought).
How can I have a baby if I can’t even handle myself?