I've Entered the 21st Century...and Found It Full of Bills

Ah, the high-speed, it is glorious. The poor laptop kept choking, so Roomie hooked up his system, which has a faster processor and a more recent OS. It is, to be blunt, fucking fabulous. No more connection timeouts, lag, freezes, or waiting for dialup to load a picture of Richard Z. Kruspe. Instant sex appeal at my fingertips, baby. The laptop hasn't been fully retired; it'll be used for writing during thunderstorms, but it's Internet-cruising days are over.

I had my dentist appointment yesterday. ~sob~ It's going to take two more cleanings just to get rid of the horrifying tartar buildup beneath the gumline. I also have four cavities and six other areas that could become cavities if they don't re-mineralize through diligent care. My gums were so inflamed by the tartar buildup that my mouth was a bloody mess, and they contemplated dosing me with Novocain just to clean them. The dentist ultimately decided to give me the chance to toughen up my gums on my own through a twice-daily flossing regimen. So, I have a deep cleaning in November and my first filling appointment next month. And no, you don't want to know what they charged for the opportunity to scour my tender, bleeding gums with a Brillo pad.

Today was my doctor's appointment. It was the most pleasant, least stressful doctor visit ever. Patient people who listen make all the difference. Even the blood draw, which usually sends me into gibbering hysterics overlaid with a fine patina of snot, was stress-free because the phlebotomist listened to me and took the time to rub topical anesthetic on my skin before the injection and let it work. No tears, no pain, and minimal anxiety.

The doctor was concerned about my swollen, discolored feet. She's worried about possible neuropathy or circulation problems, though sensation was good and pulses were present in both feet. She prescribed six weeks of physical therapy to see if my sedentary lifestyle and difficult movements were the culprits and gave me a muscle relaxant to see if spastic muscles were impeding blood flow. Unfortunately, I can't afford the $189 price tag on the medicine, so I'm going to have to ask her to search for cheaper alternatives. I can't afford the rehab, either, unless they're willing to take me on assignment, but the doctor is trying. She also ordered a comprehensive wheelchair evaluation.

I haven't the foggiest how I'm going to pay for all this. My mother thinks money shoots out of my ass with every fart, the way she asks me to spend it. It's eighty-five dollars per filling. You do the math. A new wheelchair is $2700. If Medicare agrees to the new wheelchair, I still have a 20% co-pay. Rehab is $75 a session. Multiply that by eighteen. I'm supposed to pay for all this, plus bills, plus a car and the sundries that go with it, plus a washer and dryer and new refrigerator. Because that's just how people on the government dole roll, yo. Just hoarding that money and hiding it in the mattress. She can't afford to help, but she always phrases it as, "I don't want to pay that much for that." As though wheelchairs and rehab are frivolous luxury items. And yet, she tells me about the staggering trust fund I'll inherit when she dies.

Translation: You're too expensive. You can be comfortable when you're no longer my problem and convenient pity prop.

Gee, thanks, Mom.

At least there's high-speed Internet, and on Monday, I'll have cable. Oh, TV, how I've missed you.

I've Entered the 21st Century...and Found It Full of Bills

Ah, the high-speed, it is glorious. The poor laptop kept choking, so Roomie hooked up his system, which has a faster processor and a more recent OS. It is, to be blunt, fucking fabulous. No more connection timeouts, lag, freezes, or waiting for dialup to load a picture of Richard Z. Kruspe. Instant sex appeal at my fingertips, baby. The laptop hasn't been fully retired; it'll be used for writing during thunderstorms, but it's Internet-cruising days are over.

I had my dentist appointment yesterday. ~sob~ It's going to take two more cleanings just to get rid of the horrifying tartar buildup beneath the gumline. I also have four cavities and six other areas that could become cavities if they don't re-mineralize through diligent care. My gums were so inflamed by the tartar buildup that my mouth was a bloody mess, and they contemplated dosing me with Novocain just to clean them. The dentist ultimately decided to give me the chance to toughen up my gums on my own through a twice-daily flossing regimen. So, I have a deep cleaning in November and my first filling appointment next month. And no, you don't want to know what they charged for the opportunity to scour my tender, bleeding gums with a Brillo pad.

Today was my doctor's appointment. It was the most pleasant, least stressful doctor visit ever. Patient people who listen make all the difference. Even the blood draw, which usually sends me into gibbering hysterics overlaid with a fine patina of snot, was stress-free because the phlebotomist listened to me and took the time to rub topical anesthetic on my skin before the injection and let it work. No tears, no pain, and minimal anxiety.

The doctor was concerned about my swollen, discolored feet. She's worried about possible neuropathy or circulation problems, though sensation was good and pulses were present in both feet. She prescribed six weeks of physical therapy to see if my sedentary lifestyle and difficult movements were the culprits and gave me a muscle relaxant to see if spastic muscles were impeding blood flow. Unfortunately, I can't afford the $189 price tag on the medicine, so I'm going to have to ask her to search for cheaper alternatives. I can't afford the rehab, either, unless they're willing to take me on assignment, but the doctor is trying. She also ordered a comprehensive wheelchair evaluation.

I haven't the foggiest how I'm going to pay for all this. My mother thinks money shoots out of my ass with every fart, the way she asks me to spend it. It's eighty-five dollars per filling. You do the math. A new wheelchair is $2700. If Medicare agrees to the new wheelchair, I still have a 20% co-pay. Rehab is $75 a session. Multiply that by eighteen. I'm supposed to pay for all this, plus bills, plus a car and the sundries that go with it, plus a washer and dryer and new refrigerator. Because that's just how people on the government dole roll, yo. Just hoarding that money and hiding it in the mattress. She can't afford to help, but she always phrases it as, "I don't want to pay that much for that." As though wheelchairs and rehab are frivolous luxury items. And yet, she tells me about the staggering trust fund I'll inherit when she dies.

Translation: You're too expensive. You can be comfortable when you're no longer my problem and convenient pity prop.

Gee, thanks, Mom.

At least there's high-speed Internet, and on Monday, I'll have cable. Oh, TV, how I've missed you.