My husband, my best friend

Sometimes, life is just such a fucking hassle. I was in quite a state tonight after I got a statement from my insurance company saying that they aren’t going to cover some of the bloodwork or the day three sonogram my fertility doctor did to check that my ovaries are doing some of what their supposed to do. Now, I called my insurance company, and they told me diagnostic testing is covered. My doctor’s office called the insurance company and they were told that diagnostic testing is covered. Simply looking at my ovaries is in no way shape or form a treatment. And yet I have a statement from the bastards at Unicare/NCPPO saying that they aren’t covering the $670 bill from the clinic. Which, first of all, oh yes they fucking well are. And second, $670?! For looking at my ovaries for approximately 47 seconds and taking a couple of pictures? You have got to be kidding me. Seriously, right now, I hate all of them. The doctor’s office for charging so much money. The insurance company for denying the claim, and the world at large for not recognizing that infertility is a disease. Infertility is a MEDICAL CONDITON and treatment should be covered by insurance!!!!! Even though this was NOT a treatment.

It’s not that I don’t have the money to pay the bill. I do. That’s not the point.

Actually, that’s not even the point of this entry. The point of this entry is that I’m in an exceedingly negative place where I despise just about everything and everybody (not you, of course. Never you!) I’m dealing with all of this health bullshit, trying to feel my through eating healthy and exercising properly all on my own because God forbid I be able to get an appointment with an in-network specialist in a timely fashion. I’m STILL feuding with the oral surgeon from when I had my tooth pulled last summer over the bill for the anesthesia. The car is acting up – the left front tire gets wobbly feeling and rattle-y sounding after you hit a bump. I’m in this terrible and uncreative place – at work and at home – where all I want to do is whine and feel sorry for myself, and frankly, even I am sick of me.

And then there’s John. My husband, my best friend and truly the light of my life (not in the Jack Nicholson/The Shining way. The real, non-sarcastic way). Who, when I am in the middle of a full blown tantrum about all of this, notices and admires the new t-shirt I’m wearing. Who takes the time to make me laugh and not care, for a little while, about the assholes in the medical and insurance communities. Who makes dinner when I get home late because there were six raindrops and my evening commute slowed to a crawl. Who offers to pass up buying something he really wants so that we can put the money toward the $670 if it comes to that. And so much more. I love you.