Silver Lining

First of all, thank you for all of your emails, notes and comments. I’m touched beyond words, and you’ve all made a HEYOOGE difference. Thank you.

Thank you.

Secondly, I went to the therapist. It was pretty much one gigantic relief to hear her say, “You don’t have to live like this. You’re making yourself sick and it WILL get better.”

Ahh, the ever-elusive validation.

And can I also mention that I quit my job? Yes, November 11th, I will be a free woman. They are extraordinarily upset and trying to make me feel guilty, but honestly, I can hardly contain my excitement, for it was the right thing to do for me. I slept THROUGH THE NIGHT last night for the first time since I moved here. Awoke to the alarm in a heavy, deep dream with drool on my pillow after a full eight – EIGHT! – hours. I don’t deserve such joy!

At any rate, one thing that pushed us over the edge for me to quit was the absolutely pathetic medical coverage the job offered. It was fine in Boston, but down here, I’m covered by a total of two doctors within a 50-mile radius. And not for lack of doctors here. So it was pretty sad that I couldn’t get coverage, and that for some reason, the insurance company thought it was okay that the only endocrinologist I could go to was 70 miles away and didn’t speak English, despite a pressing medical need. And what’s worse, I couldn’t get on Adam’s until I was no longer employed (something about open-enrollment timing bullshit).

Anyway, a while back I’d made an appointment for the gynecologist (whee!) for today, with someone in my PPO network. As I was driving to the appointment, I didn’t really think much of the somewhat-seedy neighborhood whizzing by the windows, as the area is undergoing gentrification (read: get rid of the poor people to make room for McMansions. Argh) of sorts that means you could be in the ‘hood one moment, passing by mansions the next. However, my apathy came to a grinding halt when I pulled up to the in-network gynecologist, which was situated snugly between a pawn shop, its “CASH FOR GOLD” sign blaring in all of its neon grandeur at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday, and a Western Union station that boasted, “CHECKS CASHED TODAY. PAY UTILITY BILLS HERE!”

When I peeked into the “gynecologist,” I noticed that the interior resembled the bus station in Syracuse. Plastic chairs bolted to the ground (you know, in case patients want to steal them), screaming children and sickly looking mothers with tear-stained faces and clothes that hadn’t been washed since January. A man with fingernails longer than I’ve ever seen was trimming his cuticles with a penknife, with a look in his eye that told me that penknife had seen some action.

I fled. I just…RAN, visions of an ether-soaked cloth being pulled over my nostrils so my ovaries could be pawned for cash, urging me to pull away frantically, tires squealing. Thank God I’ll be on Blue Cross Blue Shield in a few weeks, instead of Bob’s Tackle Shop and Health Insurance.

It’s going to be okay.

*Today’s blog/song title brought to you by David Gray, also covered by Bonnie Raitt.

13 comments November 1st, 2005