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My last short fiction instructor told us not to write about cancer. "It's been done," she said. Well, the hell with that. I learned in the last three weeks that I have stage III breast cancer. Writing, painting, and assorted other arts are how I process stuff, in addition, of course, to long conversations with friends. These conversations have begun in earnest these recent days, but I realized my Facebook page in particular was in danger of becoming a medical-update site. I do not want that. My life is still going to be about more than cancer, as much as that may not seem possible right now. Also, I don't want to alienate friends who are not ready to walk this particular valley with me at this time. For example, one elderly friend who called to cheer me up this week can't even handle the "c-word," and there is no way she will be up for any truly frank discussion of what's about to happen here. So she is advised to keep in touch with me via Facebook. People who are comfortable with the c-word, honest discussion and occasional cursing are welcome to join me here.

Friday, April 1, 2011

Insurance ridiculousness, part 1

I can't complain, because I am the one with great health insurance, so I will get my medicine one way or the other.  But I can't help but marvel at the silliness.  I need to take a certain injection the day after each chemo treatment.  The injection will keep my immune system working properly.  Yay!  It is available in a self-injectible form, almost like an epi-pen.  I can totally handle that.  But the insurance wants me to drive one hour each way to the chemotherapy parlor in Chevy Chase and have them do it.  The apprarent holdup:  each injection costs $8,000.  I guess they really don't want me to screw up--or is it that Aetna really wants a bigger cut than they'd get otherwise? Hmmm.

What do people without insurance in this country DO?  They end up in the ER, that's what.
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