The bills from all my hospital stays came in this week. It wasn’t as horrible as it could have been but it still got a pretty strong reaction from me that looked an awful lot like this:
(He is SO my kid, y’all.)
As many of you know, my insurance company deemed my pregnancy a pre-existing condition and so my prenatal care and hospital stay will not be covered. We had to cough up two grand before they would let us check out.
While all this sucks big, hairy donkey balls, there is some good news in all this as they ARE covering the baby’s stay, his care for a month and my physical therapy from the back suck the labor caused me.
Also, we have a couple of policies with Aflac and it will give us money to cover part of my hospital stay. (I now totally want to make out with that little Aflac duck, my friends.) To get the check, I had to get copies of my medical records of all four hospitalizations I’ve had during my pregnancy.
Have you ever tried to get a copy of your medical records? WHAT A PAIN IN THE ASS IT IS. I called to request a copy and got more questions than I ever dreamed possible.
“How do you spell your last name?”
“What is your middle name?”
“When is your birthday?”
“What are the last four digits of your Social Security Number?”
“What is your address?”
“What is your zip code?”
“What is your phone number?”
“Who is your primary care physician?”
“What were your last hospitalization dates?”
“What were you seen for on the first day of your last visit?”
“What treatments did you receive during your hospitalizations?”
“How long are your toenails?”
“What is your bra size?”
“Have you ever engaged in any sexual activity with farm animals that reside in or around the British Isles?” **
(Ok, I may be exaggerating a wee bit on a couple of these, but STILL! Holy information requirements, Bat Man!)
When I call to make changes to my bank account I’m asked, like, three questions, but to access my medical information I have to turn over every detail of my life before obtaining them. That just seems wrong, somehow.
I’m also not really sure what someone would do with my medical records other than read that I had a hell of a lot of gastrointestinal distress during my labor and that I screamed my freaking head off.
LOUDLY. And for HOURS.
Still, I guess I will choose to be glad that my medical records have a big freaking chastity belt firmly tethered around them and that some ne’er-do-weller will have an easier time screwing around with Mother Teresa than with my medical information. (And since she was a nun AND she’s deceased it should be a fairly good indicator just how secure they are.)
I’m just chuckling that after all that crap I went through on the phone they almost let me walk off with them without asking me for picture identification when I went to pick them up this afternoon.
They were WEIRD to read. I admit to being a little annoyed with some of the lingo used as it made me come off like a bit of an uncaring, irresponsible asshole. “Patient was unfortunately non-compliant with her heparin injections despite high risk” just sounds horrible. I kind of want to take a marker and cross that out and write something like, “Patient tried for months to be heparin compliant and suffered totally icky anxiety attacks that felt like drowning and heart failure and passed out twice while trying for hours to administer self-injections due to BIG FREAKING NEEDLE PHOBIA SHE CAN’T SEEM TO FIX NO MATTER WHAT THE HELL SHE TRIES.”
The latter just sounds a bit more compassionate, ya know?
I’m just glad that I have them and hope that the rest of this process is simple and a non-pain in the ass. It would be nice to have something in this area be easy and uncomplicated for once.
P.S. **I’ve never slept with nor been attracted to any animal here OR in the British Isles. Just so we’re clear.
P.P.S. And, NO. Despite being an animal AND having a British accent,My hot crush on the fox in the Disney version of Robin Hood DOESN’T count because I was young and he’s an animated character. It never would have worked out. (Although I could have TOTALLY rocked his world.)
P.P.P.S. Crap. I DID cop to wanting to make out with the Aflac duck in this post didn’t I? Given the situation, I feel this is totally understandable and should be overlooked. It totally doesn’t count.
P.P.P.P.S. I guess I should also admit that I found the shaggy cows on the Isle of Skye very impressive. Still, they really weren’t my type and appeared to have suspect hygiene. So, I don’t think that counts either.
P.P.P.P.P.S. Really, coupling with animals just isn’t a good idea.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Besides, you would have so much to worry about, like contracting animal STD-esque diseases like the swine flu and mad cow disease. Who needs that?
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Meaning, you would worry IF you were, ya know, attracted to animal kind.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Which I’m not.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I mean, really, I have enough off-putting baggage that comes with me without adding bestiality to the equation.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I guess what I’m trying to emphasize is that animals just don’t turn me on in any pervy way, period. For reals. Pinky swear.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. God, I’m weird.