Rage Update and Other Stuff

Imagine my surprise when my phone rang and I checked the Caller ID to find it was my insurance company. Maybe they reviewed the phone calls and thought my rants about chemically induced hard-ons being more important than my children's ability to breathe was cancellation worthy. With no small amount of dread, I answered, mentally planning how to tell my husband that we no longer had health benefits because I'm utterly incapable of keeping my mouth shut.

I am shocked (and pleased) to announce that our health care coverage was not canceled. The very nice woman I spoke with told me that I was given "misinformation" by the call center employee because of an outdated website. So the upshot is that is my kids (and my) inhalers covered and they're giving them to us at the generic price rather than the brand price. Then she told me that she listened to my phone calls and wanted to let me know that she thinks I'm hilarious. I'm glad to know that my unmitigated rage is good for something.

In other news, I got a phone call from my stepmom the other day. It went like this.

Stepmom: Hi honey, I need to talk to you about something really important.

Me: horrified silence (The last three times she started conversations like this were to tell me that she had breast cancer and my dad had had a heart attack and my grandmother had died.)

Stepmom: It's okay. Nobody's sick or dying.

Me: You might have wanted to start the conversation that way.

Stepmom: I should start conversations with 'Nobody's sick or dying'?"

Me: Yep. That way, I'll know everything is cool. Besides, it beats 'I need to talk to you about something really important.' That never ends well.

Stepmom: Okay, I'll keep that in mind for next time. (I'm positive she was totally rolling her eyes)

Me: So what's up?

Stepmom: Well, your dad and I had living trusts drawn up.

Me: See! I knew this was going somewhere bad.

Stepmom: No it's not. This is important, now hush up, and let me tell you.

Me: sigh Okay. Bring it.

Stepmom: Like I said, we had living trusts drawn up and we named you to be our medical advocate.

Me: Meaning?

Stepmom: Meaning that if we're in a vegetative state and there's no hope that you'll make sure everyone respects our wishes for no heroic measures...you know...that kind of stuff.

Me: deep shaky breath O-okay.

Stepmom: I'm sending you a form. You'll need to sign it and get it notarized.

Me: O-okay.

Stepmom: Now, we're naming Roger (my stepbrother) executor of the state, because, honestly honey, you're really bad at math.

Me: That's cool.

Stepmom: It should be coming in the mail in a few days.

Me: I'll keep an eye out for it.

Stepmom: Okay, good. And thank you. I know you'll do what's best.

Me: I'll try...

Dad (hollering in the background) If you hook me up to life support or give me a feeding tube, I swear I'll haunt yer ass when I finally go.

Yep. That's the one I've got. Thanks for keeping it real, dad.

EDIT: I walked out onto my front porch to get my mail today, and I noticed a bright, screaming pink envelope. I knew the minute I saw it that it had to be from my stepmom. I was right. I called my dad to tell him that I got the papers.

Me: So I noticed the bright pink envelope. I'm guessing mom was worried that I'd misplace it.

Dad: Yeah. She thought that color was a good idea for you...you know, because you lose shit.

Me: Right.

Dad: So are you going to be able to do it?

Me: Lose it? No, I'll take care of it.

Dad: No - pull the plug.

Me: Yeah. I can do it. I mean, I'm not going to dance around and sing Tra-la-la, but I can do it. I wouldn't want anyone to leave me in that condition, so I wouldn't do it to someone else - not if they didn't want it.

Dad: Okay. Good. Now don't go pulling the plug just for fun.

Me: I think we established that with the fact that I'm not going to dance around and sing Tra-la-la.

Dad: Just checking.

Dad, dad, dad...you make me laugh.

How is any of this even remotely okay?

I have the rage. (Yes, again.)

Every year, my husband's workplace signs us up for a new insurance company. We call it insurance company roulette. I spent several hours on the phone yesterday signing up for the new mail order pharmacy and trying to figure out what the cot of meds would be per quarter. (84o.00, if you're wondering. Yes, that's with insurance. Bastards.) Believe it or not, that's not the cause of this rant.

Here's why I'm pissed. In spending quality time with said insurance company, I discovered that my kids' rescue inhalers are not on the list of "approved medications." Thinking that surely there must be some sort of miscommunication, I must have asked the question five different ways. Same answer every time. I pointed out that I had a prescription from my doctor. Didn't that mean that it had to be provided? Apparently not.

So I started asking questions. How about birth control - is that on the list of approved meds? Nope. It's not. But wait! There's more! Wanna know what is on the approved list? Viagra. Yeah. My insurance company feels that hard-ons are more important than breathing.

In other utter rage inducing news, there's this. And also this. Here's the upshot. If you're in a gay relationship in this country, prepare to have your will, your power of attorney privileges and your medical directives ignored. Prepare to be separated from your partner when one of you is gravely ill and/or dying. Prepare to be relegated to the status of roommate or acquaintance by the medical and legal communities and denied all access to your partner.

Land of the free? Not so much.

(There's a link to an important petition at the end of the first article. I urge you to sign it.)