I apologize for not posting last week. The beginning of classes combined with Aetna drama has made for some significant insanity.

As of Friday I’ve gone two weeks without an infusion. This is not the first time that insurance problems have caused a gap in my Ig treatment. Actually it is the third time in 3.5 years of treatment, so if my experience is any indication, it’s hardly a rare occurrence. So what do you do when you run into insurance woes and experience a gap in treatment?

1) You freak out.
tumblr_neiak7IgW71svfqeco1_500If you don’t have PI you can’t fully understand how terrifying it is to go without Ig treatment, but let me try to help you: imagine that everyone is born with a car, but you were only born with half of one. Most of the time you have a supplemental second half that, though not as good as a regular car, allows your car to function. Now let’s say your car insurance hasn’t re-approved your supplemental second half, so it is taken away temporarily. Do you know what half a car is good for? Nothing. That’s what. It can’t drive. It can’t even keep out the rain. Right now I’m driving in half a car (so by “driving” I mean just sitting there hopelessly. But I get lost in the metaphor).

 

2) You prepare for battle.IMG_0002

Ok freaking out time is over. Now it’s time to get down to business. Until you receive your infusion you will be fighting a war of insurmountable odds on two fronts: on the Western Front you will need to pull out all the stops to defend against viral and bacterial invaders–AKA you’ll be trying not to get sick. So dig some trenches and fill them with hand sanitizer, germicide wipes and Vitamin C. On the Eastern Front you’ll be on the offensive, trying to infiltrate the insurance company and get access to your Ig meds before the germs overwhelm your defenses. As it is only a matter of time before your weakened immune system is smushed, your offensive efforts are especially important.IMG_0001

 

3) You harass your insurance company into submission.

This is your offensive plan: you call them everyday, multiple times a day. You ferry messages between your insurance adversaries and your doctor’s office, hoping you’ll be able to find a resolution. You write down the names of people you’ve spoken to so you don’t get lost in the vast sea of insurance employees playing hot-potato and phone-tag with you. Yes, your ears will bleed from the grating, static-filled hold-music you spend minutes and hours and days listening to. Yes, your brain will be battered by the ever-changing information you are told ping-ponging around in your head. Yes, you will burn with frustration and anger as hour after hour of effort turns fruitless. But when you sit once more in front of the TV with your Ig juice flowing through the needles in your legs or tummy it will all have been worth it.IMG_0003

 

4) You breathe and hold onto the knowledge that this is just a temporary setback.IMG_0005

Every time this happens to me each day without Ig coverage seems endless, the insurance maze seems unsolvable and the sickness that results from lack of treatment feels as if it will go on forever. But every time the lack of coverage comes to an end, the insurance puzzle is solved, treatment resumes and health eventually returns. That being said it is still perfectly acceptable to break some stuff, punch a wall and/or cower in an extremely sanitized corner holding a can of disinfectant spray–that my friends is an inescapable part of the process.IMG_0004

 

5) You eventually emerge bloodied but victorious.IMG_0006

Congratulations. By now you probably have caught a virus or developed an infection, but at last you get to resume treatment. Your insurance woes are behind you for at least another 6-12 months. Now you just have to deal with the all the stuff you normally do, plus the physical and psychological destruction caused by your war with the insurance company. Feel free to melt into a puddle of relief that the nightmare is, for now at least, over.

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