Fringeville #180: A Smidge of Randomness…then A Double Shot

…A tiny lil’ bit of randomness…(I may be fibbing)

***

My cochlear implant processors are both on the verge of biting the dust. They turn on and off by themselves and change programs on a whim.

The implants themselves are fine. It’s the external hardware that is on death’s door. The hardware is proprietary, expensive and out of warranty. I have to schlepp along praying that one or heaven forbid both processors don’t go belly-up.

I wrangled with the insurance company for replacements, but no go. They function (with frequent intermittent issues), and they are reparable, so the insurance company won’t budge (yes, appeals were filed).

The insurance company was terrific regarding my prostate cancer recurrence. Last year’s summer of radiation was covered and I get the dreaded cancer-fighting manboob pill at no cost.

What I have noticed more than ever as I age, however, is the phrase: “Waiting for insurance approval.”

They are increasingly picky about what gets a thumbs-up, and those decisions can take a while.

Insurance didn’t approve a sleep study recently because there’s no evidence I have sleep apnea. One f*cking phone call to my wife would clear that up. I am repeatedly threatened by my honey with suffocation by pillow after subjecting her to particularly rambunctious snoring and funky breathing sessions. I waited weeks for their decision. Denied.

(I am going on record here to plead with D.A. Salavantis to take mercy on my wife if I drive her to commit snoricide. One night with me and any jury would let her walk.)

While waiting for the sleep study decision, my insurance promptly approved a stress echocardiogram after “something” showed up on an ECG in the doctor’s office during my last regular visit. The same visit that led to the order for a sleep study. The one I need before my wife murders me for driving her insane.

During the test, more than one person present asked if I’d been checked for sleep apnea. I referred them to my wife. More troubling to me was the repeated questions about pain in my chest. I told them it was, on a scale of 1-to-10, a 1. Before the test, I mentioned I had reflux and took prescription meds for it. The reflux pain recently got worse, and my dosage was increased. I didn't have reflux pain before the test. I had reflux pain the entire time I was on the treadmill, and it gradually faded afterwards. I think I knew at that point reflux wasn’t my problem.

Three hours after the stress test my doctor called personally and said he was referring me to a cardiologist for a cardiac catheterization.  I was told to expect a call from the cardiologist’s office. Which never came.  After a week and multiple attempts to reach a live human being at either doctor’s office, I finally got through to my regular doctor’s secretary. I told her I was still waiting to hear from the cardiologist’s office.

“You’re kidding! I’ll call them and get back to you back personally!” she exclaimed.

She did, and she always has. Once I can finally reach this wonderful young lady she solves problems quickly. I love her. I just hate their phone system.

Here’s what she told me when she called: “The cardiologist was waiting for (*drum roll please*) insurance approval. They just got it today and will call you shortly.”

Long and short, I’m getting a cardiac catheterization on Friday. I won’t meet the cardiologist until afterwards, which means I have little to research ahead of time other than the procedure itself. I won’t know what the hell is going on until after the procedure. Is it nothing, or reflux after all? Is it a valve? A blockage (perhaps that 12^th chicken wing from that order last year I thought I got shorted on)?

There’s really no point researching further because I have no specifics, other than I had a pair of abnormal tests.

Waiting for insurance approval.

How many people die waiting for that?  I might have a chicken wing lodged in a coronary artery! This could be a smidge serious.

Or not, because an abnormal stress echo isn’t a perfect prognosticator for chicken-wing-stuffed-arteries. My minimal layman’s research tells me there is a fair likelihood nothing will be found. There is a chance they may find a significant blockage, pop in a stent and keep me overnight. There is about a 1% chance they’ll put me in the hands of a surgeon. This is based on general research, nothing I’ve been told. Because I don’t know a damned thing yet, other than my results are “abnormal.” You probably can’t tell I hate being in the dark.

I feel like crap, and I haven’t been particularly lucky the past few years, so my money is on the stent.

When archaeologists find my bones 10,000 years from now, they will uncover a slew of medical hardware: cochlear and eye implants, mesh, staples, pins and god knows what else. Maybe even a dime I swallowed when I was four. (We went to visit someone in the Maryland countryside the day after I swallowed it, and they had an outhouse. This was 1961/62 and it wasn’t the first one I’d seen or used at that tender age. I extracted a promise from our hosts that they would look for my dime and mail it to me. I waited for days for a stinky envelope to arrive with my life’s fortune within. It never came. Maybe because it is still with me. Maybe in a ventricle or plugging a major vessel. Maybe.)

Anyway, the experts will call me Ridgewood Man, the missing link between homo sapiens and homo bionicum.

 

One final note on the subject: Waiting for insurance approval.

It has occurred to me that no matter how you cut it, our health care is destined to be rationed, either by the government or by the insurance companies. In either case, it’s not our best interests they’re looking out for, kids. It’s all about the beans they count. The older you get, the fewer beans you have coming your way. Ditto for many other scenarios. Someone other than your doctor will make the call on whether or not beans get thrown your way. Against rationing healthcare? Too late. That ship has sailed.

(Footnote: to this day I despise dimes and never put money in my mouth. Except the occasional crisp dollar bill when I’m short of floss.)

***

I flew to Chicago in April. Coming home, I went to wait at the gate for the flight back to the Wyoming Valley. Something unusual happened. There were three women waiting for the flight, and we all were seated at a table charging our various electronics. And we had a blast. There was lively conversation, popcorn shared liberally, and a splendid time was had by all.

If you have been to huge airports like O’Hare, you must have noticed that thousands of people are packed in close proximity at their gates, and no one talks. People keep to themselves. Yes, there is moment or two of polite conversation here and there, but it is extremely superficial stuff.

By O’Hare standards, we were having a frat party.

I pointed this out to my new friends. A continent of quiet, miserable people surrounded us, the strange, happy band of traveling Valley people.

I don’t fly often, but I am willing to bet this will never happen to me again.

***

I have aged significantly in the last year. My face is weathered and wrinkling. It’s hard to move around. Sleep is fitful. I am cantankerous, cussing at everyone running the stop sign down the street. Almost nothing brings me joy save for the family and my grandkids. And the occasional double shot. This time out, it’s Linda Ronstadt. Parkinson’s disease has robbed her of her singing voice, but she has an impressive body of work. Here’s a couple of my favorites.

...and on a lighter note (but still celebrating that incredible voice):

***

Be good to each other.

***