Dear Insurance Company,
Thank you for putting a price on my life. I was having a casual conversation today with my brother about whether or not I should see the wonderful Doctor of Oz, he suggested that I see her without my parents knowing. I said I could, but that Mom might find out because she would get the billing statement. The Milwaukee Hospital of CF might actually have a.... wait, no. She shouldn't get the bill. I'm over 18... it's against HIPPA for her to get the bill. Huh. I should tell my brother that.
Anyways, I had to explain to my brother that I'm slightly worried about going to all sorts of doctors in search of someone who gets me because I have a cap on my insurance. I had to explain this cap to my brother because he didn't know - and I guess most people wouldn't realize this about your private insurance unless you're really sick.
My life is worth 2 million dollars to the insurance company. In my lifetime, they will only pay 2 million dollars towards my health care, and then they are done. I guess my life should be over by then... or it's not worth keeping me alive if it has cost them more than 2 million already. (I have back up insurance, so it's not a huge issue, but I worry sometimes that I'm going to live too long). My meds are expensive and so are all those hospital stays, and sometimes it's interesting to think about that my insurance company thinks I'm worth 2 million dollars. And I wonder what risk assessment dude came up with that number.
Big Giant Random Ramble that was in the middle, but I moved it: (My dad would know if I went to Milwaukee. I blog most things I do, he reads my blog, whatever. I can tell my dad anything because I'm pretty sure I remember him yelling at me twice. Ever. Think of the most supportive person you have, multiply that by 100, and that's my dad. You have no idea what a crazy monster child I was - mainly for my mother; I gave her lots of shit and she gave it right back. We still have that passing shit back and forth relationship. Anyways, I was the child from hell and my dad yelled at me twice. Both times I was over the age of ten. Once I really deserved it - don't ask me what I did, I just remember it was really bad. The other time I was in high school and screaming at the top of my lungs because I couldn't find the shirt I wanted to wear, and every other word was "Fuck," and he yelled at me, "You should probably not use the F word so much." Those were his words. I was a tortured little soul at the time and usually took out all my agression on the clothing that didn't fit right or the one piece of hair that wouldn't perform correctly. I bet living with me was really fun back then. Are you sure you didn't know that I really needed some big time therapy because I was SCARY? Especially you, Mom. I love that you comment now that I used to hit myself in the head with my hairbrush while yelling at myself in the mirror because my hair wouldn't stay in perfect ringlets - and it never occured to you that I was one really messed up kid. Makes me laugh now, actually).
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