Last year, I changed health insurance plans. I’ve been happy with my decision–my copays are lower, as is my out of pocket maximum.

In fact, I met my out of pocket maximum last June.

It took a while to figure out what to do about that–I got conflicting information when I messaged my insurance company. When I finally called them, though, they were able to start an audit to confirm that I had, in fact, met the obligation.

They did so in October. They sent a letter to my pharmacy and UCD health.

That’s what they say, anyway.

In the meantime, I was still being billed every time I showed up at a doctor’s appointment, and for every prescription I picked up.

I called again. And again.

The pharmacy finally acknowledged what happened in late December, after a bunch of calls, though I haven’t gotten any of the extra money I paid back.

UCD refuses to acknowledge anything.

January saw me calling HealthNet again, so they could contact UCD again.

I waited a month, giving UCD time to respond to the letter that had been resent again.

That didn’t happen, so I called HealthNet Monday. The agent called UCD, which claimed they’d never ever heard from HealthNet (HealthNet says they say that a lot). The letter was sent. Again.

But today, I found myself spending more time I didn’t have on the phone with a collection agency. UCD is apparently desperate for $9.66 they say I owe from an appointment last August. The collection agency said HealthNet had to fax them, so I stayed on hold while HealthNet called them and then faxed them.

I’m inclined to believe, for once, my insurance company. They give me reference numbers and actual help when I call. They were able to resolve this same issue with my physical therapist right away. UCD, on the other hand, is curt in their answers and, of course, sent me to a bill collector.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter which one of them is lying.

Either way, UCD will probably be able to keep some of the extra money I paid them. (And the interest.) Either way, I’m being squeezed. Either way, I’m lucky that I have language skills, the ability to read contracts, the self-confidence to advocate for myself, and the ability to make long calls during regular work hours. This is a major hassle for me that could end up hurting my credit score, though I’m not at fault.

Imagine someone who doesn’t know this system, or who isn’t good with this language, or who can’t make calls during working hours trying to navigate all of this.

Our system is irretrievably broken.

December was a long month, at the end of a long year. My plan today was to finish getting everything ready for my first two weeks of classes. That way, I could take two whole days off from school work before Winter term.

Things were going well. I got my classes prepped, answered some emails, wrote my first postcard of 2021, and sent off a letter of rec.

Then, I headed upstairs to put my bedding in the laundry, so I could start my weekend with fresh sheets. I was going to come back downstairs to do my yoga, take a walk, try to clean off the pile of post its on my desk, and get ready for dinner and to put tomorrow’s lunch in the crock pot.

Except before I could come back downstairs, I felt a twinge in my mid-back. And then a big twinge–one that made me cry out. The muscles all around the bra strap area are seizing. It’s better than when my low back is out–I can bend at the waist at least. But it hurts the band of muscles when I breathe deeply.

So here I am, on New Year’s Day, unhappily drugged, with a still-messy desk and an unmade bed.

Trying to stay positive, though. I have kittens, a son who can feed me, a beautiful Christmas tree beside me, and a relatively comfortable couch.

As Americans die in increasing numbers, my anxiety is ramping back up to late March and April levels.

I can’t sleep.

I miss seeing people. I miss eating out. I miss in-person classes. I miss sex. I miss touching people and animals that don’t live with me. I miss only being worried about what has brought me to the doctor’s office that day, instead of how the visit itself could hurt me.

And I’m terrified.

Terrified of my fellow Americans: the cousins and brothers-in-law and college friends in our feeds, at our grocery stores, masklessly delivering our food because we’re scared to go to the grocery store, who tell us this isn’t real, or that it is but it’s only going to kill off the weak (like me), or that masks don’t work 100% so why bother, or that most of those quarter of a million dead Americans probably actually just died of heart attacks and strokes (it’s just a coincidence that they were intubated at the time), or that they’re safe because they take baths, or that Jesus will protect them, or that all the doctors are lying to make more money . . . .

Prove us wrong, assholes.

Let’s do an experiment.

Put on the masks, wash your hands, practice social distancing. Do it for a month.

If the numbers don’t change, even though we all did it, then you were right. My mask was always a useless piece of fabric, like a tie.

This is just a short blog to recommend an episode of This American Life, “Something Only I Can See.”

It’s about a woman who first is convinced her family has a rare genetic condition.

And who then is convinced she has a second one.

The doctors don’t believe her either time.

I’m lucky, at this point in my life, to has a GP who believes me. I have lots of rare things, and I’m that person who has the rare side effect–the one that isn’t listed in the commercial.

When I go to the ER for abdominal migraines, I have to educate everyone about it. Since I’m never asking for pain killers, they don’t fight me. God help me if I did need some to fight this, though.

This story reminded me to keep explaining and to keep pushing. Lightening does strike twice for some of us.

This post isn’t about how I taught straight through the summer. About how next week, my 4 UCD classes start or about how my Los Rios classes are in their 5th week.

This post is about literal blood draining out of me.

Last month, I had a really heavy, long period, which I didn’t enjoy, since I’m not even supposed to have periods on my current birth control.

But then, two weeks after it ended, on 9/3, I started bleeding again. The first week was really light. The last two weeks have been excessively heavy.

Like bleeding through my clothes heavy.

Like I’m going to need to do a GoFundMe for new underwear if and when it ever stops heavy.

Like the bathroom turning into a crime scene heavy.

Like the doctor’s assistant telling me that if the clots get to “small lemon” sized, I need to head to the ER heavy.

Meanwhile, my gyno can’t see me until the very end of October.

We’ve determined that my blood work is normal, and she’s ordered a vaginal ultrasound to check for fibroids.

I’m exhausted, crampy, and cranky.

Unlike Dave Foley, I do not have a good attitude towards menstruation.

The other night, I had a strange dream.

One of my healthcare specialists recommended that I join a secret upscale Davis orgy group. He said it would make me feel better.

My first response was “no. I’m so ashamed of my body. I don’t want a whole room full of people to see it.”

He talked me into joining anyway. Unfortunately, my dreamscape didn’t feature a meeting.

I’m sad about what I said about myself.

I woke up convinced I was ill, not sure if I’d somehow managed to get a bad cold or the beginning of Covid.

What a relief to discover that I’m ill because the fires are closer and the smoke is hurting my throat, eyes, and lungs!

It’s also 110F today.

(Seriously, 2020, go fuck yourself.)

Graymalkin, being blind, doesn’t always know how the bathroom works. He often digs a hole in our tiny back patio space, only to stand in it while pooping outside of it.

About once a month, he misses the litter box.

And when he does, it’s spectacular.

He always manages to let loose what seems like a pint of pee, which goes all over the bathroom. He then tries to “cover” it, which means swiping at the tile floor, spreading it around even further. The pee footprints then go all over the house.

When I woke up this morning, I could smell pee, but it wasn’t my primary concern. My back was really bad yesterday. I could get out of bed, however, to discover where the smell was coming from.

Since I didn’t think I should tackle that with a bad back, I closed the bathroom door and went to put paper towels over the paw prints.

And that’s when my back locked all the way up.

Dante will get home from work soon. I wonder if he’ll want to clean up piss or take me to the doctor first.

It’s weird to not know for sure.

Let’s back up.

On Monday, in preparation for an endoscopy, I have a Covid test. It didn’t hurt, exactly. Instead, my body was hyper-aware that something was in a place it should not be. Thus, my body tensed up and freaked out. My eyes watered cause my sinuses were irritated–and I felt weird for a few hours.

But the test came back negative.

So I was cleared for yesterday’s procedure.

I have severe GERD, exacerbated by a hernia. I have bile reflux too. These problems, combined with a family history of esophageal cancer, mean we need to check me every few years.

The severe GERD meant they had to fully sedate me–they wanted to intubate. That meant, unfortunately, that everyone else in line for the procedure got to go first. It was a fasting test, so I just lay there, getting hungrier and thirstier for a few hours.

When they finally took me back, my IV line got jerked around a lot. My arm is still in bad shape. Also, who IVs on the TOP of the hand? The dominant hand?

I woke up with a sore throat, naturally, and got dressed. When I looked down at the hospital bed, I saw a wet spot. There was no smell or color, but my panties were a bit wet too.

Thus, like all classy ladies, I threw them in my bag and tried not to Sharon Stone anyone when I was getting wheeled out to the car.

Today, I’m wiped out, and my throat is still killing me. And it hurts to type, so I’m going to stop and take the rest of the day fully off.

But so far my panties are dry.

And I’m in my new tank top.