Fuck Medicare and Bi-Polar SSD

 

 

I need an Anterior Lumbar Interbody (ALIF) Fusion.

Been through epidurals, physical therapy and everything else. The neurosurgeon says that this surgery can give me back the ability to ski more than one run, do more than 3 loads of laundry a day, and go back to where my body was a year ago.

 

Yours truly has degenerative disc disease and spinal stenosis. It’s actually not that uncommon. The problem is the continual pain and inability to do a damned thing that’s physical without painful repercussions. It’s maddening.

 

Got two opinions and this procedure has great results. A general surgeon cuts a hole in your side, then the neurosurgeon goes in and inserts a cool little box with screws, that is then grafted to the spine.

It replaces the area where the disc has blown out all of it’s fluid. No more nerves being squeezed and back/leg pain.

 

When I finally decided to go ahead and schedule the surgery for March 31st –which took several months on my part weighing the pros and cons- there was a barrier. Medicare.

 

There is no way, even with Medicare, that I can afford to have this procedure done. Out of pocket costs –just to set foot in the hospital- begin at $1100.00

 

Am awaiting the total estimate from the neurosurgeon. Being a professional whack-job doesn’t pay well.

Good thing I spent all that money on a college education.

 

This is obsessing me and there doesn’t seem to be any help available. Have looked online, tried to call the Social Security office (ha!) and the Medicare offices (double ha!).

 

If anyone out there has a suggestion please let me know. This blog is usually light-hearted but not today.

 

The past week has been filled with visions of the rest of life in pain, giving away my skis, and getting fatter due to being able to do less and less.

 

So this is an appeal for information. If you know of any services available, people to contact or want to send me a quarter (to call someone who gives a shit) then please let me know.

 

I like to live in the clouds. The beautiful whispy constantly moving and inspirational clouds. Not this dark ominous cloud of helplessness, fear and pain.

 

Weeeeeeeee

The DMV should pay for today’s meds

Fuck this. I have no sense of humor or wit today.

Perhaps it was the hour or so at the DMV that has helped
suck the soul from me.

Or, the 20 minutes waiting at the bank for their single customer service rep to close out my debit card.

Mercifully there was no activity on the debit card since it’s disappearance on Saturday night.

Of course, if the poor bastard who has my wallet had tried to order their gourmet repast at Sizzler they’d have been declined due to lack of funds.
Heh. Kinda sorry there wasn’t any attempt at activity. Would have made my black little heart smile for the first time in three days.

Just spent 30 minutes online trying to figure out how to get out of my Sprint contract. I’m the only person I know with Sprint, their service is awful, and to buy out my contract is $200.00

Every person I know is on ATT/Cingular. Argh.

Since the phone is lost/stolen/gone I am trying to figure a way out of the early termination fee and just divest from those imbeciles.

Read some fine ideas online in various forums but none of them are fool-proof and most seem out-dated or just dumb
“well be nice to the rep and they’ll surely help you!”
Yeah that’s always worked with a phone company in the past hasn’t it.

Have to go to Welfare tomorrow and apply for a new Medicaid card and cancel my daughter’s insurance and food stamps since she is now in California.

and now for your Irony du Jour!

I can’t buy a new wallet to replace the lost one because all of my money was in the missing one

 

Went to another noon meeting today. Free cognitive therapy but you do get what you pay for.
If I have to listen to another fucking flock of sheep (and I raaaaan so far away…. wrong flock ) recite The Lord’s Prayer at the end of a meeting I will surely force a drink down their collective throats.
Serenity thy name is Rachael.

I’m hurting badly this week in terms of mental anguish, guilt and just being alive, so sincere apologies for the angst.
You’ll get over it when I do.

If only I were a sociopath instead of simply neurotic and depressed.

I don’t like pain.
I don’t like to cause pain.
I never want to cause hurt.
I don’t want to feel hurt.
Right now I don’t want to feel.
Anything.
Ever.

Ta da!

Currently listening:

The Singles 81-85

By: Depeche Mode
Release date: 19 January, 1999

Creepy House

This morning I went for my walk. First off it was damned cold. Trust me it takes a lot of calories to get my ass out at 7:30 in the morning to exercise. I mean a lot of calories the night before.

Guilt and fries with roast beef gravy. The great motivator of fat asses everywhere.

Anyway, there are a couple of different routes that I’ll traverse depending on my mood. Today I skipped the Creepy House perambulation. And I’m less of a person for it –sniff-.

Lemme tell you about Creepy House in Old Southwest Reno…

First you should know that this home is in the middle of a neighborhood filled with upper middle class residences. Many of them have similar floor plans and all have landscaped yards.

You’re walking along bopping to Steely Dan on your iPod and BAM. There it is. You stop and stare the first time and quickly keep moving down the street.

It could be the desiccated lawn, or the metal shutters covering every window, Maybe it’s the pile of phone books or the tags hanging off the front door that you’ve seen for at least six months.

No my friends it has not been abandoned because there are two vehicles in the driveway. One is a white truck. One day I noticed that the tags had expired in 2006. Kept on walking that day for sure.

The next walk you spy the tags on the blue car parked in the driveway next to the truck. They expired in 2003.

Oooooh scary boys and girls.

Two days ago I walked by and saw a pink notice taped by the front door of Creepy House. My mind wouldn’t let it go.

Did someone finally go in and find a crime scene? From 2006? How about a meth lab? Maybe a deranged family of serial killers operating in secret, living in my neighborhood but practicing their cruel satanic crimes in Sparks.

The last one might be a stretch given the fact that the vehicles HAVE NEVER BEEN MOVED ONE INCH. Ever.

It was overcast and cold two days ago. I looked both ways down the street and made my way across the dead lawn, almost tripping over an obviously useless garden hose.

In order to get close enough to the front door I’d have to negotiate the walkway. The lawn seemed safer. Slowly I turned and was confronted by an old hag wielding a rusted butcher knife. Okay not really.

I did get pretty close to the house though.

Not close enough to read the notice –and hey there were two of them taped up there.

Nope. Got spooked. It’s a creepy house after all. This blog isn’t titled Happy Shiny Fun House is it?

Today I didn’t walk past Creepy house and missed out on my morning musings about it’s secrets, contents and rusty butcher knives.

I’m sharing this with you all though. Beware Creepy House or you too will be compelled to write about it. It gives me the shivers. Or, it could be that it’s 32 fucking degrees right now. Either way…..

Whatever walks in Creepy House walks alone.

~Miss R

Karma around the neighborhood

What part of Karma don’t you get?

So, a friend is involved with a married person. Not sure of they’re making the beast with two backs but they’re sleeping in the same bed. An old friend of theirs from High School. I can’t figure out what would make someone cheat on their spouse.

Hell, I was married twice and never cheated on either of the swine, er exes. Think about it? Sure. Everyone thinks about it. Do it? Nope. Karma’s a bitch.

What compels a husband or wife to cheat and break a trust that should be sacrosanct? I think of men and women who cheat the only adjectives that come to mind are slimeball and skank. How about you?

Well thanks to Google, too much time on my hands, and the personal stories of other dirtbags I’m here to hip you!

1. My husband/wife can’t have sex anymore. So I need it from somewhere.

2. He/she doesn’t pay attention to me or listen anymore.

3. Adventure!

4. Moral bankruptcy

5. I don’t want to pay for a divorce I’ve worked too hard

6. My wife/husband had an affair so I will too. I deserve this

7. She’s hormonal due to menopause. He’s having a mid-life crisis

8. Low self-esteem

So here’s my rebuttal to the Top 8

1. Unless your tongue is paralyzed you can still have sex and sexual intimacy. There are toys as well. And of course that old stand-by, your partners hands on your body.

2. Call the fucking wahbulance. Even the most perfectly matched couple will, over time, become inured to the other’s words sometimes. It happens. How about having a talk about it? Maybe over a romantic dinner? You might want to avoid the alcohol for this one. Potential fights and make-up sex could be in your future. Not to mention a fine justification for continuing the deception and lies.

3. STD’s!

4. Seems to me that if a spouse is not honest with themselves and others, or has no real moral compass then the sexual liaisons with someone else are easy to rationalize. The old saying is that you can get a horse thief to stop drinking, but then you just have a sober horse thief.

5. Wow. Who DOES want to lose their ass in a divorce? I didn’t. It’s called life and it isn’t fair. File the papers and suck it up. You’ll be free to screw whoever you want and no longer have to live with guilt, hiding and (if you have any scruples at all) shame.

6. See Number 5

7. Really? As we age changes take place in out bodies and thought process? Who knew. For many years married couples lived their lives out together. Divorce was unthinkable. Were a lot of them horribly unhappy? Oh yeah! My grandparents slept in separate beds. Seriously fucked up I think. Isn’t great that social mores have changed and we’re free to be free now? Call the lawyer and move out.

8. Low self-esteem can lead a spouse to cheat, to prove that they are worthy to someone else. It may not make it right, but it does happen for that reason and probably has no relation to the individual being cheated on. My suggestion is therapy and maybe more time spent with your husband/wife. Or…. A divorce! Hell, try a separation first. You may both find out you’re happier this way.

So kids, thinking of cheating? It may not be planned but it seems most people who do it once will repeat it. Doing something hurtful the first time makes it easier the second. Ask career criminals.

These are just my thoughts of course. I’ve had experience with men who wanted to cheat on their wives with me. Kinky Married Guy ™ comes to mind. But I can’t. I’ve been cheated on and it hurts. Terribly.

It’s not worth the utter breach of trust you’ve built upon over the years.

Of course you could always kill them and wind up on TruTV. I’ll be watching for you!

Karma indeed.

Manic Panic

Someday this will be funny. Actually it kind of was right after I attempted it.

Clearly the new mix of meds isn’t working and I had another bout of severe mixed state mania. I could tell it was starting because of an inability to sleep for about a week and the agitation I felt.

Have never had an episode of euphoric mania. Oh the fun that would be! Think of the housework that would get done around here. But no, it’s always been dysphoric for me and it’s getting more severe as I get older. This is the second time in 4 months. What the hell.

The answer? Take an ice pick to a plastic safety razor and try to get the blade out. It was a damned cold day so I thought slitting my wrists in a hot bath would be the way to accomplish my task.

Can you picture this? Am pretty sure I looked like a moron at the kitchen sink attempting to dissect the damned razor on the cutting board. Oooh goody. An irony! The best part? All I did was bend the shit out of the blade. Hell I laughed at myself after that and gave up.

Was suicidal, severely, and had no one to talk with. My roomie/best friend has become embroiled with his own personal demons. He was the only real friend that I could talk to. Even if he didn’t understand the reasons for my illness he would listen. I feel very alone now without his confidences and interaction.

My shrink is a fool and virtually worthless but there are only a few shrinks in Reno.

At this point I called a musician friend who has been hospitalized for his bi-polar condition and also attempted suicide. He recommended that I check into West Hills Hospital. I called them. They couldn’t tell me if my insurance would be accepted because the billing office was closed for the day. Told them I’d be in on Monday morning at 8:00 a.m.

This all occurred on Saturday night.

On Sunday I went for a walk and tried to get some kind of focus. Kind of hard since I’d fallen the night before and now have a huge black bruise on my chin and a cut on the forehead which probably needs stitches. Being a klutz sucks when you have a step with wrought iron railings. Especially when you fall into them with your fucking head.

Anyway, Monday morning came and my bag was packed. Felt some better and decided that being locked up for observation would suck. Don’t ask me how I know this.

Instead I asked my bi-polar friend for his shrink’s name, and also found out from West Hills that this same doctor is on staff there.

Have an appointment for April 5^th which is a month out.
Am on the cancellation list though which is good. Have to see the lame-ass psychiatrist next week otherwise I’ll be out of the lame-ass meds.

Took another walk today and lifted some dumbbells (no not myself) yesterday. Exercise can help.

Feel as though the crisis has been averted, albeit temporarily.

And that’s all for now kids. Thanks for listening.
Remember to keep your chin up and your Geodon down.

There’s a signpost up ahead

So it’s day 3 back on the meds and all the side effects are creeping me out; racing heart, panic attacks, sweats, the whole shebang. Ugh. Not immediately suicidal though. Which is nice. Took a long walk yesterday –one of my patented Death March to Bataan excursions- but didn’t have the energy this morning.

I spoke with a friend on the phone last night. He’s recovering from a broken ankle and worried about how he’ll pay for everything, along with managing the pain as well as his loss of mobility. His ex-girlfriend just moved out of their home this week and he has to figure a way to keep making the mortgage payments on his income. He’s a freelance writer for a local newspaper. You can do the math.

Earlier there had been a phone conversation with another friend. Apparently he’d spent the night in jail and his older son was still locked up. The whole family unit (said friend and his two sons) were handcuffed and hauled away after the elder son went on a rampage through the house. The police showed up and ordered everybody on the ground and things went even more sideways from there. He wasn’t formerly charged but obviously things are not too spiffy over there.

Apparently this is Wreck Week for myself as well as others. Bet it could be a blockbuster series on the Discovery channel. All the tension, scares and anticipation of Shark Week but with Real People of Reno. Damn. I’m already counting the royalties sure to come this way.

Crazy is not taking today off for the holiday. It’s hanging out here at the house with me. Maybe we should have a glass of wine. Get to know each other better.

Trazadone is not your friend

So yeah.

I had a severe dysphoric, psychotic manic episode 3 nights ago and made a lame-ass suicide attempt. Trazadone: the drug of choice for those with suicidal ideations!

This was after what was a total black-out-wig-out-manic episode. I called 911 and two very nice patrolmen came by and gave me a lift to the hospital.

Once there my clothes were taken away, an IV was stuck into me, stomach pumped blah blah blah. And I continued on my manic way. I remember trying to get out of my room on several occasions only to be blocked by a nurse perched on one of those damned mobility scooters. On my last attempt at freedom I was advised if I tried again they’d restrain me.

Go figure. I knocked that shit off right away and tried to bide my time, mind racing. By 4:00 a.m. I’d spoken with a psych nurse and she suggested I go back on my meds. Immediately. Was finally released at 4:30 a.m. and took a cab home.

Have been back on medication for 3 days now. Geodon, Lamactil, and Lexapro. Also alprazalom as needed, 2 BID seems to ward off the panic attacks.

Have not had a manic episode in YEARS. Of course I haven’t been off meds in years either.

My roomie spends a lot of time bitching about everyone he knows being on medication and how none of them really need it. I started  to believe it. Dumbass me.

Speaking of the roomie I’m pretty sure he wants my crazy ass out of the house. I fucked up our friendship with my craziness over the past month or so and cannot imagine ever making things right again. This makes me so sad and angry at myself that it’s a constant drain and burden. Just as I must be on him.

That’s it. Thought I should write about it.

~Manic in Reno

Mother’s Day Makes Me Cry

Mother’s Day is Sunday.

Last year I sent my daughter to live with her father at this time. This year I’m even more alone.

There’s something fucked up about being utterly alone every day and night, especially if you’d previously spent 20 years of your life married and 13 of those with your child in the house as well.

Maybe it’s that Mother’s Day is dovetailing with the move into this house. I’m finally feeling settled here so my mind is no longer as occupied with the thousand tiny problems that a move presents. Now that same neurotic mass of gray matter is back to it’s usual tricks.

A person can escape from a lot of things but unfortunately the cerebellum is continually attached and functioning. Damned brain. Doh.

God knows I’ve tried to placate the bastard. For years I drowned it in alcohol and drugs. Phalanxes of doctors have tried to re-organize the functioning with pharmaceutical cocktails.

Years of analysis and psychotherapy have resulted in new Porsches and second homes… for the doctors.

I’ve tried exercise –with an iPod or Walkman to shut out my thoughts-, reading, watching movies (I have a difficult time sitting still through them), writing, sex, food and playing the piano.

Some days the head wins though. The will to even try and avoid those dark alleyways has vanished. You never know do you?

The last year was a bad one. Seems it all started to go sideways last May. Hopefully I’ll start a better twelve months now.

New house, my beautiful piano is on it’s way, and the sun is shining in Reno again. Hell, we even had another earthquake last night. Could be a sign of change.

Could be a sign of the Apocalypse.

Oh wait. The Apocalypse is already here. Bush is still in office and gas is almost $4.00 a gallon.

If I can make it through Mother’s Day without totally losing it there’s hope. I’ll talk on the phone with my mom, my step-mother and of course my own daughter.

I’ll drink a cup of coffee to that.

~The Fairly Morose Miss R

The Book of St. Pat

What the hell.
That’s all I can say about last night.

I learned some things that I so wish were kept buried.
Here’s the intriguing part first:

Dave and Lisa are on their monthly pilgrimage to Reno, so we’ve been hanging out every night. Both nights we’ve stopped into Dilligas (the local Swingers bar/club) to have a few, listen to the jukebox, make fun of the drunks, and revel in the free show put on by the bartender Cat.
I’d gotten Lisa dolled up in one of my low cut tops and out of her mountain woman attire. My own attire was, well, as usual.
Last night there were supposed to be pole dancing lessons, but unfortunately due to it being St Patrick’s Day the event had been cancelled.
Last night involved drinking of epic proportions all over Reno, it being St. Patrick’s Day and all.
We opted to avoid the pub crawls to keep our sanity.
Despite this at one point I got my tit grabbed by friend Dave (I knocked his hand hard and called him a motherfucker. Lisa laughed and the bartender offered to slug him for me), hit on by an obnoxious guy from Sacramento, and trapped in a hotel room with Lisa while we waited for Dave and his friend to get back from the store.

While waiting in the hotel room Lisa bared her soul.
Seems she and Dave have been living a life of seclusion up there in their cabin. The only time they get out is to visit a local swinger’s house/club on weekends.
Uhhhhhh. More information than I wanted.
Our trips to Dilligas were a goof. I had thought.

In Lisa’s words ‘well we want to be swingers but we’re too fucking chickenshit’.

They’re experiences have pretty much been relegated to ‘watching’ thus far.
Dear god. I’m gonna be a bit more on guard here kids.

Dave is an old friend and he and Lisa seem happy. I’ve no inclination to do the horizontal bop with them, or any other couple. Oh sure it’s all well and good and tantalizing in pornos but in reality things are always different.
Add to that… you don’t fuck your friends. On any level. Particularly those that you view as friends and don’t find any more physically attractive than a sibling.

Speaking of fucking your friends we’d run into TK earlier that evening. We were walking about downtown, looking for appealing venues and eventually headed to the Eldorado for some dancing, we hoped.
I look into the window of West Second Street and there’s TK. I rap on the window, smile and wave. What do I get? Flipped off.
Yessiree.
I’d told Dave and Lisa to come back and wave at TK with me, and if I caught his attention was going to introduce them.
After being given the finger we continued on our way.
Jesus. This was from someone I consider a dear friend. It hurt my feelings. What the hell.

On the way back from the Eldorado (there was no band so we split) I saw TK crossing the street and I yelled ‘Night Terr!’ His response was ‘Are you stalking me!?’
“Yes” I said. “We’re stalking you.”

Gotta tell you that this put a damper on my evening. I’d been having fun all day, despite feeling like a third wheel with Dave and Lisa, but having one of my best friends flip me off and make seemingly cavalier and hurtful remarks was kinda tough. I take things far too personally, I know this. Too bad self-realization doesn’t do a fucking thing towards changing a character trait.

Lisa wanted to tackle him then flip him off (she gets feisty when she’s been drinking and she was actually a raving bitch by this point) and I just got a bit quiet.

It was after this that we headed over to Gerard’s and we girls were trapped while the guys went out to get provisions.

We all wound up at my place about 2:00 am.
Jesus. Sounds familiar. I poured them all more cocktails and we sat around the kitchen table laughing and telling tales.

Still couldn’t shake the aura of wtf at this point so at 2:30 I announced it was bedtime. I went into my bedroom, got into my jammies, took a xanax and turned on the TV. The rest of them were left to finish their drinks and lock the door behind them as they left.

I heard them leave of course and then got out of bed and cleaned up the kitchen.
Did I mention my OCD?

Finally got to sleep around 4:00 I think.
The kitchen was clean, a spilled drink was mopped up, and I was sober.

I feel more alone than ever and wonder what I’m doing in this place called life.

Another St. Patrick’s Day another file of stories.

There are just some books that you wish you’d never picked up.

The Banana Peel of Death

Some night I’ll drink one too many glasses of wine and take one too many sleeping pills.

Just have a feeling.

Is it suicide then? Not sure. The Magic 8 Ball says Conditions Cloudy. Check Later.

The older I get the more it seems plausible; so many whose deaths were ruled as accidental were really not so. Maybe accidental on that particular day, but not in total.

My tentative plans involve going out someplace where family and/or friends will not have to deal with finding me. Well, finding me and cleaning up the aftermath actually. One of the benefits of too many forensic/scientific shows and books is foresight.

I know what will happen after checking out. It will be a goddamned mess. Pills or a bullet it doesn’t matter. It’s a horror show for whoever finds you and has to clean that shit up.

I’m thinking hotel. Big hotel with lots of staff and a good reputation. They’ve a familiarity with these things. They have experience AND those big-ass commercial steam-cleaners.

In the last nine months my face has aged almost 10 years. It’s been the hardest year.

Looking in the mirror makes me cringe. The lines of worry, dry crêpe spots from stress and creases from sleeplessness create a relief map. It’s hideous and sad.

So when does that desire to escape the reality which is slowly killing you turn the dial to Broil?

When does your subconscious slide into the Oops position?

That would be just fucking perfect.

No matter what, I’d go out smiling

The banana peel of death.

I like that.

~Miss R