This nightmarish tale begins with responsbility for the medical bill because we haven't yet met the deductable. If, after that small detail, you're not chilled to the bone and would like to proceed with this tail of woe and misery, by all means, proceed.
In horror movies it all seems to come down to who can you trust. We, the audience, always seem to know that the teenage girl should not trust the creepy guy in the overalls with the chainsaw. The teenage girl, on the other hand, seems to be oblivious to this whole idea. I'm wondering if I am the oblivious teenage girl in my own medical horror story. If that is the case, you can be the audience and tell me who the creepy guy in the overalls is, because I'm confused and wasting alot of money in the mean time.
Yesterday I went to see the Rheumatologist. Upon hearing that I'm on Lyrica he deduced that I have Fibromyalga; despite the fact that he's ruled that out in the past and hadn't yet performed a physical exam. When he did perform a physical exam only a few of the pressure points were painful (which were painful because I've been writing a research paper = tension in my shoulders and neck) he concluded that the Lyrica was blocking any information helpful for a diagnosis. HA HA. Did I not voice this very concern months ago and you brushed it off?! "Oh, no, take the medication and make yourself comfortable," you said.
Then you asked who prescribed the Lyrica and how did I get my insurance to approve it? You seemed very knowledgeable. Come to find out Dr. Rheumy was a part of the stage 3 clinical trials for the treatment of Fibromyalga by Lyrica. It took only a little prodding to get a mountain of information, including how to get insurance approval and that if Lyrica is helpful to me, I am no longer his patient. Well, at least I got a straight answer out of the man for once. At parting he asked about my schooling, got all friendly and chatty when he found out my interest in clinical psychology and gave me a parting shot of two sample bottles of Lyrica for the road.
So I ask you, my horror story audience- a villian or a trusted friend? All in all I guess it makes no difference. I won't be seeing him again. In the movies that's usually how it works with friends. But then again, maybe I've just been lucky enough to escape.
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The Dr. appt took alot out of me. In reality the last two weeks have taken alot out of me. After the fever I had one good day then moved into a cold. I haven't breathed normally all week. It gets old. So today I needed rejuvenation.
The rejuvenation started with Yoga this morning. It was wonderful and is now written on my calendar for every Saturday morning for the forseeable future. (I will not say that I was the largest person in the room. Or that the largest person in the room should not wear white. Or that I swear there was a funhouse mirror in front of me. I will also not cop out by saying the meds made me tremble like a weakling, because I have better muscle tone than that.) It was wonderfully refreshing. I like to say "Namaste."
The girls (as in my older daughters) and I went to the Matisse to Monet exhibit at a local museum and to lunch. That was fun. Little things like that make it worth it to have raised children, it's payoff.
Actually, the juried exhibition was more enjoyable than the impressionist exhibit. Yes, you read correctly. The pieces from the impressionists were lesser known pieces, which were interesting to see, but only one or two were memorable. On the other hand in the juried show there were dozens of memorable pieces. What astounded me the most was the multitude of mediums and the more open attitude toward textiles in the art world now, as compared to just 20 years ago. There were art quilts, weavings, and even a needlepoint in this show (among the paintings, prints, drawings, glass, ceramics, wood, barbed wire, paper, buttons, wire; and actual crayons, not drawn with, but the things themselves) they were definately art, not traditional, follow a pre-printed pattern, type textiles- but they were textiles less than 100 years old in an art museum. It's great to see pre-conceived ideas of what art is, crumbling. It is at the heart of what the impressionists were fighting for, so very applicable to have the shows in the same museum.
(I would love to show you pictures but they didn't allow photos and had no postcards of the juried works.) Here is a picture of the girls in a room from a Frank Lloyd Wright house in the museum.
There is something now hard-wired in my soul about halls like this that equals happiness, fulfillment and renewal.
Even with the domineering security guard at the end of the hall.
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After this happy day I tripped over Baby, toys, and my own feet in high heeled fancy boots and hit my cheek and eye on the corner of the computer desk. (You thought I finished the nightmare tale already.) My black eye should show up just in time for branch conference tomorrow where all of our church leaders will be on hand. Hopefully the damage is such that it is obvious to all that it was inflicted by the corner of a desk and not the human hand, so I don't have to defend my husband's honor.