Lately I’ve been spending some time on planes. Here’s a recap: delays, weather, then a not-to-be-described incident on the runway that has led me to always choose tea instead of coffee before getting to the gate. Whenever I start to get nervous or frustrated about my journeys, I always tell myself, “at least I’m getting some miles on this journey.” I recently joined a miles program and have taken to it with the zeal that I wish I could apply to an exercise regimen or housekeeping plan. I don’t even travel that much, but every time I hear that I will need to fly somewhere for work or for fun, I immediately try to calculate the miles. I check on my miles, I’m truly embarrassed to say, every week. So far I’ve taken 9 trips and I have no idea what that translates to.
What do the miles mean? I know what they do not mean. A few months ago I tried to call the airline to see if I could use my status as a miles collector, someone committed to flying their god-awful airline whenever possible, to change my scheduled flight out of a delightful Midwestern city. Apparently, as a miles collector, I could change my itinerary by a total of 8 hours for a total of $748. Shunned despite my devoted mile-collecting which so far has had no tangible perks. In aforementioned Midwestern city when I checked in for my flight at the kiosk--using my miles number of course because record locators are for losers--an upgrade option flashed on the screen! Was I getting special treatment because of my slow but promising miles accrual? I touch-screened the option to get more details. Upgrade to first class for a mere $90. Frustrated with the tease, I chose to proceed without the upgrade.
What’s the point of miles? I don’t have a miles credit card because I don’t need any other tools to dig myself into a hole. Like the rest of my fellow generation-mates who went to boutique colleges and are trying to make it in the workplace without selling out, I’m already terrified by mounting credit card debt, the inability to get ahead, the impossibility of ever owning a residence in a place I would like to reside, the impending crisis of Social Security and the current breakdown of our health care system. I don’t even travel that much for work. I will never be a miles maven. But I love checking on the miles and trying to think up inflated estimates of the benefits of my having joined a miles program. It’s even better than my 401k plan because that’s actual money, and the options of my plan overwhelm me and make me feel stupid. This is why I try to ignore the emails I get from my miles dealer about buying more miles. The concept of buying miles ruins the joy I get in just checking on my miles. They’re something I completely don’t understand—tokens with hazy conversion rates that, in the best scenario, might help me go somewhere I probably would have gone anyway. Maybe I should start fantasy football.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Look Left, Look Right
I spazzed out a little bit this year and decided to wholly forgo Turkey-day. It wasn’t a political decision, although there were at least 3 people who assumed as much, and I didn’t do anything to tell them otherwise. I went to two hippie schools where a required activity was engaging in liberal guilt with a lot of other white-ish people, and I can’t deal with more progressively-minded martyrdom. Not this year. This year I didn’t take a summer vacation, which was a mistake because come October 1st I was fantasizing about running away with the circus or inflicting serious bodily harm on almost all of my colleagues. I kept shouting during meetings because my fantasies would dull my ability to control the volume of my voice. I had fallen into a cycle of work, sleep, tears, followed by work and lots of celebrity tabloid gazing with mouth agape and brain a-fried. So I chucked the whole idea of Thanksgiving and jumped, literally skipped, onto a plane headed for London. England.
My trip was great. Here are the highlights: lots of cheese and coffee; a pork belly that was in my top five pig meals of all time which is a big deal because I’ve eaten lots of pig; many laughs with both adults and children; and an almost five mile stroll through town and across the river Thames. Lowlights, of which there is only one: 11 days ago I got hit by a car when it accelerated from a standstill into my body while turning out onto a street. It was certainly uncomfortable—most notably the mirror took out my hip and took no prisoners from my whole side flank. The car came out of an ally, smacked into me and then drove away. Hit and run is really too dramatic a term, but it was unsettling that my body wasn’t even able to stop the car long enough for a chat.
Everyone who hears I got hit by a car in London asks if I looked the wrong way. Strangely enough, I was with a pack of locals and looked the right way. I’ve always had an irrational fear of walking into London traffic. The people in charge of London must know that many foreigners feel this way because they’ve painted helpful little reminders to signal which way oncoming traffic will be coming from. I conquered the pain with massive amounts of arnica cream and hot baths. Only five days after the smack I went to the woods and used a saw to cut wayward branches off fallen trees for firewood.
Once I got on the plane home, the pain came right back. I don’t know whether it was the realization that my getaway was coming to an end or because sitting in a chair packed with other people for 7 hours undid all the tip-top work of the arnica and baths. Either way, I’ve been looking all ways now. I perform a jerky four-pointed check at most streets—left and right for oncoming traffic, both vehicular and pedestrian, and up and down for a general poop check from bird or dog.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Health Care is Heinous, Part Deux...or why I had a hard time with my eye and somehow connected it to the larger problems with the health care system
We last saw my eyelid bump causing a minor nuisance to my face and a large nuisance in my pocket. Those who have used steroidal eye drops know what I’m talking about when I say that the steroids part is no joke. Not like my eyes popped out of my head or I had a bulging problem for seven days. But I definitely felt like my eyes were shaking a little bit and my eyelashes got clumped up and seemed to be working overtime. And the bump stayed large and in charge.
The first time I went to the doctor’s office, there was this terribly sad, but in a strange way adorable, elderly couple with pink eye. They kept clucking to each other in that elderly couple-speak that is either entirely too low or way too loud...probably because they can't hear that well. I was touched by their constant clucking about what to do about their shared pink eye, until I became highly irritated and remembered how contagious they were. During my second trip there was no pink eye in the waiting room. This gave me time to think about what was going to happen during my appointment. I am a control freak, so I like to spend lots of time pointlessly mapping out what I expect to happen in any and every situation I’m about to face. In this instance I was expecting another prescription for real Tour de France steroidal eye drops—the kind that would get me kicked out of competitive eye sports.
When the doctor took a look with her tiny eyelid spatulas that don’t seem tiny because of their task—spreading your eyelids far apart from each other—she was disappointed. I always feel bad when doctors are disappointed in my body’s performance, and this was no exception. She sighed and said that unfortunately the bump, instead of completely healing, had left a sizable amount of scar tissue behind. In my eyelid, mind you. I could try an injection of the steroids straight into the bump. I guess when I had wished for Tour de France steroids, I hadn’t thought an injection would the way that eye steroids are taken to the next level. This is part of why my constant mapping out/control issues are a waste of time. Who can prepare for eyelid injections? My second option would be a referral to a plastic surgeon. I laughed and said that I couldn’t go to a plastic surgeon. I mean, the bump wasn’t that bad, right? I could live with the bump. The doctor got a little tetchy and said, “well, of course you don’t have to do anything—I assumed since you came here today you were frustrated with its persistence.” I agree, the bumps “persistence” was bothersome, but after all, today was my follow-up appointment. I always keep those. If I didn't, I would lose my “responsible” patient status.
I knew I was already dropping thirty bones on the visit, so I opted for the injection of Tour de France steroids in the eyelid. Possible side effects: eye turns black and blue (great, it was the day before Halloween!), almost definite possibility that a small area around the injection site will turn extremely pale (could I be any more pale than I already am? I dare you, steroids, to try to get my eyelid lighter than it already is). I always look away from needles. Not an option during eye injections. But I didn’t move at all, mainly because I managed to stop breathing. The doctor thought I did great—so still! She obviously doesn’t do much yoga.
I should have stopped going to the doctor for this non-issue of an eyelid bump. By the way, there’s a follow-up to the follow-up scheduled for next week. And this story obviously seems totally lame in comparison to the stories you hear all the time that really highlight why the system is truly so heinous. Folks with pre-existing conditions who can’t get health care, or my friends who are self-employed and can’t afford health insurance, or the stories that make the paper where lack of health care has resulted in serious bodily harm or even death. Or the stories I hear from doctors and other providers who are face down in the heinous system with their hands tied behind their backs. But I can be shallow here if I want to be. I’m not going to the plastic surgeon—shouldn’t I get points for that? I spend so much time worrying about how to make the system better that I always hope that when I have to use the system for such a tiny problem, I’ll be pleasantly surprised. Instead I always write to my friend C, who is just about as full of rage about health care as I am (note comment to previous post). Or I get all meta with my friend E, and we talk about wellness and disease models or the ways we're taught to relate to our bodies.
I'm thinking that I'm going to just let the eyelid scar tissue be. The Tour de France steroids did nothing--they didn't even make my eyelid a whiter shade of pale. So I'll end this episode of health care system ranting until the next time I have a pointless problem, like a corn or a common cold.
The first time I went to the doctor’s office, there was this terribly sad, but in a strange way adorable, elderly couple with pink eye. They kept clucking to each other in that elderly couple-speak that is either entirely too low or way too loud...probably because they can't hear that well. I was touched by their constant clucking about what to do about their shared pink eye, until I became highly irritated and remembered how contagious they were. During my second trip there was no pink eye in the waiting room. This gave me time to think about what was going to happen during my appointment. I am a control freak, so I like to spend lots of time pointlessly mapping out what I expect to happen in any and every situation I’m about to face. In this instance I was expecting another prescription for real Tour de France steroidal eye drops—the kind that would get me kicked out of competitive eye sports.
When the doctor took a look with her tiny eyelid spatulas that don’t seem tiny because of their task—spreading your eyelids far apart from each other—she was disappointed. I always feel bad when doctors are disappointed in my body’s performance, and this was no exception. She sighed and said that unfortunately the bump, instead of completely healing, had left a sizable amount of scar tissue behind. In my eyelid, mind you. I could try an injection of the steroids straight into the bump. I guess when I had wished for Tour de France steroids, I hadn’t thought an injection would the way that eye steroids are taken to the next level. This is part of why my constant mapping out/control issues are a waste of time. Who can prepare for eyelid injections? My second option would be a referral to a plastic surgeon. I laughed and said that I couldn’t go to a plastic surgeon. I mean, the bump wasn’t that bad, right? I could live with the bump. The doctor got a little tetchy and said, “well, of course you don’t have to do anything—I assumed since you came here today you were frustrated with its persistence.” I agree, the bumps “persistence” was bothersome, but after all, today was my follow-up appointment. I always keep those. If I didn't, I would lose my “responsible” patient status.
I knew I was already dropping thirty bones on the visit, so I opted for the injection of Tour de France steroids in the eyelid. Possible side effects: eye turns black and blue (great, it was the day before Halloween!), almost definite possibility that a small area around the injection site will turn extremely pale (could I be any more pale than I already am? I dare you, steroids, to try to get my eyelid lighter than it already is). I always look away from needles. Not an option during eye injections. But I didn’t move at all, mainly because I managed to stop breathing. The doctor thought I did great—so still! She obviously doesn’t do much yoga.
I should have stopped going to the doctor for this non-issue of an eyelid bump. By the way, there’s a follow-up to the follow-up scheduled for next week. And this story obviously seems totally lame in comparison to the stories you hear all the time that really highlight why the system is truly so heinous. Folks with pre-existing conditions who can’t get health care, or my friends who are self-employed and can’t afford health insurance, or the stories that make the paper where lack of health care has resulted in serious bodily harm or even death. Or the stories I hear from doctors and other providers who are face down in the heinous system with their hands tied behind their backs. But I can be shallow here if I want to be. I’m not going to the plastic surgeon—shouldn’t I get points for that? I spend so much time worrying about how to make the system better that I always hope that when I have to use the system for such a tiny problem, I’ll be pleasantly surprised. Instead I always write to my friend C, who is just about as full of rage about health care as I am (note comment to previous post). Or I get all meta with my friend E, and we talk about wellness and disease models or the ways we're taught to relate to our bodies.
I'm thinking that I'm going to just let the eyelid scar tissue be. The Tour de France steroids did nothing--they didn't even make my eyelid a whiter shade of pale. So I'll end this episode of health care system ranting until the next time I have a pointless problem, like a corn or a common cold.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Our Health Care System is Heinous, Part I
Let me start off by admitting to something that makes me feel “less than” on a fairly regular basis. I don't really understand when healthcare is one word or two (health care). Is it healthcare provider? And health care system? Is it always two words and I'm just being crazy by thinking that sometimes you're supposed to combine it into one word? I have to write about "healthcare/health care" about 643 times per day, so the fact that I go through this brain pretzel every time is embarrassing. Whatever, I've fessed up. I'm going to break it up into two words for now because that pleases the eye, and now that I’ve told you about this out loud on paper, I realize that it isn’t ever really one word.
It doesn't matter how you spell it, it's still freaking heinous. I spend most of my awake-time trying to address some of the reasons it blows to have a human body in the United States of America —mainly why it blows to be a female-bodied person of reproductive age. That’s an offensive term, I know, but “childbearing years” isn’t any better. Now I know that many of these complaints are relative—in comparison to other places we have it way good, and I am thankful that I enjoy much of the bounty. But the fact that we're so rich and yet treat people so poorly is too depressing. Over the past few months there have been three things in particular that made me want to gauge my eyes out, but one of the things has to do with my eyes, so I definitely couldn't inflict any more harm to my eyes out of mere frustration.
As a matter of extreme disclaimer: I am a particularly lucky U.S. citizen because I have health insurance that I don't have to pay for at all—it's provided to me by my full-time employer without any match from me, their employee. Amazing and lucky. I happen to be someone whose work aspirations include full-time office work—people who are part-time workers and free lancers are in a much trickier situation. Just a tiny part of why health care is heinous. I am lucky and the following story didn't completely screw up my life, but it made me extremely angry. Here we go:
My health insurance doesn't include vision. There is a flex spending program that I could join so that I could use pre-tax dollars to pay for my glasses and contacts, but I decided to use the small portion of money from my paycheck that doesn't go to rent and food and put it in the retirement plan instead. Don't get me started on how people who are just getting started are supposed to get anything started nowadays. There are plenty of studious and attractive women in their 20s writing books about this. And I’m not a joiner.
Last month I noticed a strange bump on the inside of my eyelid. So I stopped wearing contacts and started to try to conquer it with hot compresses; I'm a big believer in hot compresses. But really, thanks to my friend, Friend, for looking on the internet and reaffirming my belief in hot compresses—I was sort of planning on ignoring the bump and hoping that it would go away. This summer I already spent close to $300 on my eyes—they're worse than they were before, and I had to get contacts as well as stronger lenses for my glasses. I decided to go to the doctor for my eyelid because the hot compresses weren't doing the trick; plus, 20 minute scalding compresses 4 times/day doesn't really work when you're at a desk in an office at least 25 paces away from the sinks—by the time I got back to my seat the compress was a pathetic lukewarm. So I went to the doctor, who was fabulous—she was one of the best doctors I've seen in a long time, and I'm hypercritical of the whole heinous system, including providers. During this first visit she confirmed that it was kind of gross and potentially problematic; that delightful diagnosis cost $30. She commended me for the compresses—gave me a cool trick to help with the diminishing scalding-ness that kept happening. She also told me that I should start getting used to washing my eyelashes with baby shampoo every night. I winced. She laughed and also wrote me a prescription for some drops to make the bump “go down.” Then I had to go get steroidal eye drops for my eye which none of the local pharmacies had in stock. I live in New York City, where there is a pharmacy to accompany the Starbucks on every other corner, alternating between the east and west side of the street. Had to wait a few days for the drops--bump is getting larger. Went to pick up the drops—they cost $75. So now I've spent $105 on my eyelid bump already, and with all this work (compresses AND baby shampoo directly on my eyelid) and cash, I still might have to get a procedure to remove it. The doctor kept saying that I was so responsible for coming in to see her before the bump got enormous, that many people wait until it obstructs their vision/starts to scare people on the street. But the way our heinous health care system is set up, people have to drop $105 for "responsible" care—and this is for people who have insurance. I also have a credit card, which I had to use for some of those copays. No wonder people wait until their health is a total no-go…there are a lot of people who can't afford to be "responsible." It’s not this exceptional lady-doctor (her sex, not her specialty)’s fault either. I consider it irresponsible government not to provide citizens with the tools necessary to go to the health care provider when they need to and pay for whatever medications that are recommended that they actually want to take.
Stay tuned for Health Care is Heinous, Part II where Anemone goes back to the doctor and the bump is not getting any better.
It doesn't matter how you spell it, it's still freaking heinous. I spend most of my awake-time trying to address some of the reasons it blows to have a human body in the United States of America —mainly why it blows to be a female-bodied person of reproductive age. That’s an offensive term, I know, but “childbearing years” isn’t any better. Now I know that many of these complaints are relative—in comparison to other places we have it way good, and I am thankful that I enjoy much of the bounty. But the fact that we're so rich and yet treat people so poorly is too depressing. Over the past few months there have been three things in particular that made me want to gauge my eyes out, but one of the things has to do with my eyes, so I definitely couldn't inflict any more harm to my eyes out of mere frustration.
As a matter of extreme disclaimer: I am a particularly lucky U.S. citizen because I have health insurance that I don't have to pay for at all—it's provided to me by my full-time employer without any match from me, their employee. Amazing and lucky. I happen to be someone whose work aspirations include full-time office work—people who are part-time workers and free lancers are in a much trickier situation. Just a tiny part of why health care is heinous. I am lucky and the following story didn't completely screw up my life, but it made me extremely angry. Here we go:
My health insurance doesn't include vision. There is a flex spending program that I could join so that I could use pre-tax dollars to pay for my glasses and contacts, but I decided to use the small portion of money from my paycheck that doesn't go to rent and food and put it in the retirement plan instead. Don't get me started on how people who are just getting started are supposed to get anything started nowadays. There are plenty of studious and attractive women in their 20s writing books about this. And I’m not a joiner.
Last month I noticed a strange bump on the inside of my eyelid. So I stopped wearing contacts and started to try to conquer it with hot compresses; I'm a big believer in hot compresses. But really, thanks to my friend, Friend, for looking on the internet and reaffirming my belief in hot compresses—I was sort of planning on ignoring the bump and hoping that it would go away. This summer I already spent close to $300 on my eyes—they're worse than they were before, and I had to get contacts as well as stronger lenses for my glasses. I decided to go to the doctor for my eyelid because the hot compresses weren't doing the trick; plus, 20 minute scalding compresses 4 times/day doesn't really work when you're at a desk in an office at least 25 paces away from the sinks—by the time I got back to my seat the compress was a pathetic lukewarm. So I went to the doctor, who was fabulous—she was one of the best doctors I've seen in a long time, and I'm hypercritical of the whole heinous system, including providers. During this first visit she confirmed that it was kind of gross and potentially problematic; that delightful diagnosis cost $30. She commended me for the compresses—gave me a cool trick to help with the diminishing scalding-ness that kept happening. She also told me that I should start getting used to washing my eyelashes with baby shampoo every night. I winced. She laughed and also wrote me a prescription for some drops to make the bump “go down.” Then I had to go get steroidal eye drops for my eye which none of the local pharmacies had in stock. I live in New York City, where there is a pharmacy to accompany the Starbucks on every other corner, alternating between the east and west side of the street. Had to wait a few days for the drops--bump is getting larger. Went to pick up the drops—they cost $75. So now I've spent $105 on my eyelid bump already, and with all this work (compresses AND baby shampoo directly on my eyelid) and cash, I still might have to get a procedure to remove it. The doctor kept saying that I was so responsible for coming in to see her before the bump got enormous, that many people wait until it obstructs their vision/starts to scare people on the street. But the way our heinous health care system is set up, people have to drop $105 for "responsible" care—and this is for people who have insurance. I also have a credit card, which I had to use for some of those copays. No wonder people wait until their health is a total no-go…there are a lot of people who can't afford to be "responsible." It’s not this exceptional lady-doctor (her sex, not her specialty)’s fault either. I consider it irresponsible government not to provide citizens with the tools necessary to go to the health care provider when they need to and pay for whatever medications that are recommended that they actually want to take.
Stay tuned for Health Care is Heinous, Part II where Anemone goes back to the doctor and the bump is not getting any better.
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