Laproscope Luau

Figuring out ones medical problems is like constructing a complex military strategy. When I finally had health insurance, time, and was too sick to deny the need; my investigation began. It's been a year now. There were some false starts over the years, before this final push. Those terminated quite quickly. Now, the perfect storm came together and unleashed this inquiry. It's a good thing.

In the course of a year, I've discovered Psoriatic Arthritis, Hashimoto's Thyroiditis, vitamin deficiencies, a Rathkye's cyst, hip effusion, bursitis, two mesenteric lesions, a lesion on my femur, an ovarian cyst, ascitic fluid in my abdomen, colon polyps, Hiatal Hernia, Gastritis and Acid Reflux. No wonder I have been so sick. My body is a downright mess. I'd say it couldn't be any worse; but let me suspend that. I know it can be more scary because I've seen it.

While watching this incredibly silly and disingenuous health care debate taking place in America, I realize that I'm a walking poster for why health care should be available to everyone. Without it, you are slowly destroyed. Those small and unattended complaints escalate into complete defeat and disability. When anyone talks about the cost of health care; it's hard to imagine how they can overlook the cost of so many people being on disability. There must be an algorithm to compare those two manifestations of cost and dependence. If anyone cared to look.

I digress into the very emotional area of my fellow citizens lobbying to ensure my suffering, further disability and death, should my current health insurance suspend. I'm a liability, not worthy of support. It's tough. But, I really wanted to blog today about my latest medical procedure. After all, that's what this blog is about.

All those pesky fluids and growths in my abdomen will get a look now. Two lovely young surgeons will scrub in for what I've affectionately named a laproscope luau. All of us there, me sleeping; investigating my abdomen. Pushing my small bowel around, searching for blood flow between the lesions and my cecum or some other important structure. The gynecological oncologist will get a peek. She is nice and will no doubt say please. She will look at my complex cyst. Then, my ovaries. Trying to determine if there is a link between what's growing and those used up parts from my past.

There is no doubt that something will be coming out of me that day. A sample at first. Then, any parts infringing on the space of others or not looking pleasant will likely get a slice too. Maybe a bowel resection, fluid biopsy or perhaps an hysterectomy. I can't predict what will happen at the luau. What I know now is that my role is the pig, buried under the leaves, waiting to be carved.

It's a process I am actually embracing. It's due time for relief and further answers. Lymphoma, lipoma, ovarian cancer? It is definitely time to know. There is insanity in not knowing, especially with a mind such as mine. It never rests. So, off I go back to the land of surgery for the third time this year. Seven, if you count sedation procedures like my biopsies, colonoscopy and endoscopy. A record, even for me.

400 Days to Salvation

In my most desperate time of need--when my body has proven incompetent and my mind infiltrated with energy-erasing, sleep-interfering and cognitively-catastrophic drugs--I rest assured that salvation is only 400 days away. Maybe. The United States of America, land of my birth and the place where I've worked, volunteered and been a good citizens; may save me then -- in 400 days or so. I've already waited about 300 days; so what's another 400?

If I should find myself on the street, says my attorney, he can make an appeal for my social security benefits to be considered more quickly. Although, the two year waiting period for a disabled person to receive Medicare still applies. So, let's add it up--300 days plus 400 days is 700 days. That's a grand total of two years.

Two years may seem like a short time for a working, healthy person. But, for me, it's forever. I could be dead in two years. Who knows? Two years of financial distress is what this means. Two years of not having my much-needed massages paid for because that's apparently a luxury. A second year of having to pay that $5000 deductible. Another year of being terrified that I'm one pink slip away from excruciating pain and complete debilitation if I lose my access to medical care. More time thinking about the financial stress my disability is causing my family.

If I lived in the third world, this news may not be shocking. But, I live in the US. I've worked in the US. I've employed people in the US. I've paid business taxes in the US. Who would ever care. As a prisoner, my human rights would be recognized and the medical bills would be paid. As someone on the outside, I'm toast.

Thanks to my husband, I'm not currently on the street. Without him, I might be. It's a ridiculous paradox that one of the richest countries in the world will only help its citizens who are prisoners or, maybe, homeless. Although those are not mutually exclusive today, as I believe homelessness is a crime in my city. I'll have to check into that? Homeless=criminal=health care?