Tit for Tat in new Orleans

Tit For Tat
By
Debbie Lindsey

Don’t forget to cross your ts and dot your is and then get ready to erase.
It all starts with a letter. The one that gets lost for two weeks in a pile of junk mail and No Payment Due statements. Nothing really catches your eye. The pile grows larger with membership drives, more junk, and the occasional menu flyers. Then when some real bills arrive along with your NetFlix rentals, you find it. It is the letter that changes everything.
Your recent mammogram examination showed a finding that requires additional imaging studies for a complete evaluation…This is where I switch to first person and begrudgingly. I often write about me, me, me. Well, this time it’s not just an egocentric exercise, it’s an exorcism of sorts. I have always found, for myself, that if I expect the worst it just doesn’t happen. The gods of fate enjoy confusing me. Well, I say let ‘em throw me good results, let ‘em tell me I have worried for naught. Make a liar of me!!
It’s the waiting. When I finally found the letter from the radiology place where I had a date with a machine that felt me up like a high school back seat ooh baby baby baby tiddy twister I almost didn’t open it. I thought it was a bill for additional charges. You see, my people at the womens’ clinic never called. They always say that all is fine if I don’t hear from them, but of course they invite me to call and double check results. Cross your ts and dot the is. I did not take my own advice. Check results yourself. Never assume. Because we all know what happens when you assume: you make an ass of you and a breast-less wonder of me.
Time out! I am running with a ball I was not even passed yet. They said it could be nothing – nothing. But I know what the something is, and I can’t even afford it. It’s a rotten shame when folks (trust me there are too many out there) have to focus not on a life-threatening situation but on how to pay to have a life-threatening situation. Oh, It’s our fault, that’s right. We, the uninsured should have been insured. Not always so easy.
I recently decided to join the ranks of the play-by-the-rules and get myself insured. I set up an appointment with an agent from Cross Your Fingers and it became apparent that most of my medical needs would be considered PRE-EXISTING. We talked and crunched numbers and he was to get back with me as to whether this or that might work for me and my piggy bank. Never heard from him again. I was just too problematic or he simply gave up trying to live here in New Orleans.
Trying to live here is a real, albeit stupid, reason behind so much of my procrastination, forgetfulness and just plain old “I have no damn time to take care of myself”. Stupid, I know. Just because my potential insurance guy dropped me doesn’t mean there are not a gazillion agents ready to write me a policy. The only prob is money. Sure I can insure myself but then how do I pay my rent? I already work seven days a week. I work for myself and I don’t give benefits! Excuses, excuses. I just feel so stupid for having no net to catch me. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. And now if…if this thing is something, it will be considered pre-existing.
I have a friend who found herself with symptoms indicative of Hodgkin’s disease, cancer that attacks the lymph nodes. She had to tough it out for nine months as she waited for her new insurance to kick in because diagnosis prior would have ruled her cancer pre-existing. She was one of the lucky ones. Her guess was right, she did have cancer and she got in just under the wire. Her insurance covered her because she was forced to feign good health until eligibility kicked in. She got treatment in the nick of time. And now, wears her scars with genuine pride.
Scars. They never bother me. I have my physical points of interest, don’t get me wrong, but scars always seemed kinda cool to me. They are like nature’s little tattoos – reminders of some misadventure as a tomboy, that first razor nick when finally old enough to shave my legs, or a kitchen mishap. But I’m not too sure about having my tits sliced up. Hell, if that’s the case, I say just take ‘em. Yep, just remove the whole kit and kaboodle. I want to live a ridiculously long life; not win a beauty pageant.
I speak, write and think with no real medical knowledge. And if very very lucky I will need little knowledge this time around, because within days, perhaps even hours I hope to hear the words: “It was nothing”. But for many women, numbers too large to comprehend, happy words, words of good health are not in the cards for them. And as words of remission become the next best sound to hear -- some never will.
Will I learn from this debacle? Oh yeah. I will never put off those annoying annual check-ups that truly save lives. Never allow myself to be lulled into thinking No news is good news – no news merely means someone dropped the ball or in my case I wasn’t even looking to catch that ball. Follow up! Cross those ts and dot those is. And if my luck goes south then I will use every eraser known to science until my slate is clean.
Promise me, dear reader, that you will never take your life for granted. I never have, and yet I have been careless with the one and only body I have. And I need and depend on it to carry me through what I hope to be a long and interesting life. Feet don’t fail me now!