Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Word choice could be far, far better here, especially in the context of wellness, but the postmortem of my brush with healthcare has been decidedly grim. You see, I’ve been experiencing sharp pangs of regret, compounded by severe relapses of invoicing. In retrospect, I should’ve gone with my gut on Christmas Eve, debilitated as it was, doubled down on my self-diagnosis, bought $20 worth of Gatorade, slept, and saved $350 in the process.

That’s the last thing any doctor wants to hear. I get it. The fear is a real need for professional care will arise one day, and I will stubbornly neglect to pursue it, simply on the merit of past experience. But god damn is healthcare getting more expensive by the year, for reasons entirely out of my grasp. All I can tell you is there was a time when I could flash my insurance card, pay whatever co-pays were needed, and then move on with my life, free and clear.

As it stands, my card is more like a frequent shopper card these days, where maybe the 15th blood test is free, after I mail in my receipt and 14 proofs of purchase. I’m certain I chose the priciest health plan, but perhaps it’s just that much shittier? It’s been two months since I went to Urgent Care and the hospital, and I’m still getting bills from both establishments for so and so service that wasn’t covered. Perhaps I should consider bringing my own cup for future lab work. A rare editorial correction to my January post, then: I was wrong. Leechcraft is alive and well.