Wheeeee!!!! I forgot I had $34 in my Pay Pal account thanks to a couple items sold on eBay!

Yay!

This is great news, because the verdict derived from the reader suggestions about what to do next is:
Engage in self-destructive behaviors.

Except it's not so much "self-destructive" as it is "react to outside influences." The non-self-induced destruction already occurred, and I tried every means of corrective action that I could conceive, and failed, and so, now I'm free to throw caution to the wind and just live in the moment.

Yes, I know, I'm just a knock on the door away from living under the highway overpass by night and pushing a grocery cart around town by day, and I will be living in some not-so-great moments very soon. But, that's kinda the point - I'm already down, I tried to climb out but kept falling.

The two options are: Stand in the hole waiting for the final collapse, or, start digging.

I'm embracing failure and the subsequent liberation of defeat.

During those days when I was being tested for cancer I felt so unburdened, such profound relief, and that felt so good.

I was kinda mad to have relief taken away from me.

But it occurs to me that similar relief can be derived from the unburdening myself of my metaphoric life. Live in this moment, right now, and don't think about the next one, certainly not the next day.

So, yesterday I remembered I have money in my Pay Pal account that, with a couple clicks, went into my bank account. Today: Whatever gamboling I can devise with just my whims and a few dollars.

A movie and Twizzlers? Yeah, that'll cost about $34. So, maybe. Booze is a possibility. So predictable though. And, as we've discussed, during the past two years apart from a couple notable exceptions I've had very little desire to drink or get drunk. I've had plenty of opportunities and almost no desire. So, I dunno, as self destructive as it sounds, I'm not sure that's the first whim upon which I will act.

I'm drawn to the concept that many (most?) truly self-destructive behaviors are not typically considered vices. Alcohol, booze, drugs, food, sex and money are the usual go-to outlets for self-destructive behavior. But there are oh so many more ways to self-destruct. Watch any television pop psychologist (or any reality show, for that matter) and you'll get a long list of ways to self-destruct.

Some of them are a matter of perspective. For example, I happen to view fake boobs, hair extensions and Botox as self-destructive behavior. But many (many) women (and the men who fuck them) disagree so strongly that they'll come at me in an angry mob with torches and pitchforks just for writing that on a blog. For them, these artificial enhancements are where they derive self-esteem. And if it gives you confidence, it can't be bad, right? That's their argument. Their POV. I don't share that opinion, but I'm not judging them. No, really, I'm not. Even though I have zero emotional investment in them, I'm worrying about them. And even more to my point, I'm worried about what's reflected in their need to derive self-esteem from fake boobs, hair and line-less faces. And what they're perpetuating. To me, that behavior reaches beyond self-destructive and is squarely in: This is part of the decay of civilization, we're devolving at a rate faster than the naturally scheduled progression. See? This is the thing about self-destructive behaviors that intrigues me. There's a lot more to self-destruction than a drinking problem, a drug problem, a gambling problem, a shopping problem, an eating problem, or insatiable sexuality. And a lot of gray area about what actually is self-destructive behavior.

The one that always annoys and confuses me is the trite pop-psych fodder of someone who "loves too much." Or someone who's "too nice." Going on the presumption it's genuine, sincere, heart-felt, the real deal, is it truly possible to love too much or be too nice? I mean, no one takes issue with Ghandi or Mother Theresa or the Dalai Lama*, all of whom, were they not international icons of Doing The Right Thing, would be accused of loving too much or being too nice. But they're universally accepted as: really good people, inspirational people, mere mortals to whom we are all reverential. But when a regular schmoe exhibits behaviors like theirs, the schmoe is viewed as flawed, met with resistance, regarded with disdain and dismissed with Dr. Phil drivel: They love too much; they're too nice.

Loving too much or being too nice are viewed as self-destructive behaviors. I'm pretty sure I will never understand that dichotomy. Why was it okay for Ghandi or Mother Theresa to be nice and love boundlessly, without scorn or psychological analysis and dismissal, but the same feelings and behavior are not "normal" or "stable" when exhibited by the woman you dated three years ago and dumped because she loved you too much, or the guy down the street who's always friendly and there to help his neighbors who's viewed as creepy because he's too nice? This will never make sense to me.

But I don't think I'm in danger of loving too much today. I dunno, though. Maybe. Maybe I'll go out and tell a bunch of strangers on the street that I love them and give them my Pay Pal money. That oughtta get me a one way bus pass to the crazy part of town.

What's your favorite self-destructive behavior that's not typically viewed as a vice?



Also, I need to address an err, atone for an oversight. I did not, and do not, mean to diminish a cancer scare. And I certainly did not mean to diminish or judge people who are battling cancer.  This was my personal issue and response, which has absolutely nothing to do with anyone else. I have utmost respect for anyone who is dealing with cancer. If I came off in any way disrespectful or harsh or judgmental I am really, genuinely sorry. That is absolutely not how I feel about anyone other than myself. I know life is precious and most people fight for it and I respect and admire that drive and courage.



*There's gotta be a joke in there somewhere. "Ghandi, Mother Theresa and the Dalai Lama walk into a bar..."

So, I visited a different circle of Hell.

Okay. Well then.

It was, um, interesting.

Always nice to have a change of scenery, meet new people, have new experiences. Even if it is just a different circle of Hell.

I've long suspected I died and went to Hell in 1999. I don't have concrete proof, but there is an increasing body of substantial evidence.

If it's true, I'm not sure what that says about you. Either you're reading this via some portal, a gate of Hell accessed via your computer, or, well, sorry to be the one to break it to you,  but you're in Hell, too.

There is evidence to contrary, some glimmers of hope that I'm not in Hell, that this is merely very mortal run-of-the-mill existential malaise. For instance there's no way in, well, Hell, that my mother would be in Hell. And she's a daily part of of my existence, so...as long as she's part of my existence I think that means I can't be in Hell. Since 1999 I've seen some really gorgeous Earthly natural beauty and I'm pretty sure there aren't Earthly displays of natural beauty in Hell.

So, you know, there are experiences that give me sound reason to believe I'm not in Hell. It's not all Hellish.

But.

Hell-like, at times.

Okay.

Some of you might need to be caught up on a few things to really grasp what's going on.

In 1999 I was in a minor bike accident that didn't cause any serious injury, but I had some lingering pain in my hip. Nothing showed up on x-rays, which was good, of course, but, as a young woman with a lot of life ahead of her, a steady boyfriend and the plan to have children, my doctor wanted to make extra-sure that all was well in the pelvis area. So she sent me for a CT.

Okay. Maybe some of you know that typically for CT scans to really show every nook and cranny of our insides, iodine is fed through an IV. The iodine quickly courses through veins and creates an ultra-vivid contrast to the tissue, tendons and organs when viewed through the CT scan lens and images like x-rays are derived. Cool, right? Right. It is truly very cool.

Unless you're allergic to iodine.

In which case it's deadly.

As in immediate anaphylaxis deadly.

I'd never had a CT scan or any other need to ingest iodine. They ask some basic questions like, "Are you allergic to shellfish?" "Have you ever had sickness or irritation resulting from an Betadine first-aid treatment?" and, "Have you ever been involved in a nuclear accident requiring iodine tablet treatment?"

At that point in my life I'd a) been a vegetarian for several years; b) been reasonably healthy and injury-free; and c) not been directly exposed to nuclear fallout.

There were a lot of questions about food, primarily shellfish and salty food.

When I was a really little kid I tried shrimp and hated it.  The texture made me gag. (Ditto scallops for that matter.) Never understood all the hullabaloo about it. (Ditto scallops for that matter.) Also, when I was a very small child visiting my aunt and uncle, they unwittingly took me to a restaurant where they did the whole, "Choose your lobster and we'll steam it in front of you" blood-lust thing. I, of course, was fascinated with the tanks full of lobsters but when I saw them being killed, well, let's just say a) scarred for life and b) even though I was too young to understand the term "vegetarian," I would never go anywhere near a plate with anything remotely resembling a sea animal after that. And it was relatively few years later that I refused to eat anything with a mother.

My mother was a hippie in June Cleaver clothing. She has been anti-preservative for as long as anyone who knows her can remember. She rarely buys bread or any packaged baked good - unless it comes from the local bakery. She always made bread and pretty much everything else completely from raw, scratch ingredients. And even those ingredients came from local farms. I was paid in eggs at my first job. Yes. My first job was to go across the road to the farm, fetch egg baskets off the farmhouse porch, then go into the hen house, collect eggs, give them to Mrs. Farmer, who gave me several eggs and occasionally a bonus of a dime. I had absolutely no idea that my mother was also getting other, um, parts of the chicken from Mr. Farmer who had a back-door barn operation where he sold milk, butter, vegetables, raw fresh-sheared wool and...chickens. The chickens were wrapped in paper and I had no idea what my mother and the other neighborhood mothers were procuring in those brown packages, at least not until I was old enough to connect the dots between the steady turnover of chickens in the hen house. But. That's a blog for another day.

Anyway, point being, my mother has been "eating fresh, eating local" for far longer than even the hippie granola movement caught on. My mother casts a dubious eye at the FDA and every time there's a food contamination outbreak my mother gets smugly superior and somewhat high-and-mighty about food. And she casts a disapproving eye on anything that has even the faintest taste of sodium. She thinks "they're trying to cover up the fact that the food isn't fresh" by liberally dosing it with salt. And she's right. And I'm thankful, my cardiac function is thankful, that she is so anti-sodium. This a long way to say: We didn't eat or use much salt in our family. We had salt in the house, and my mother did use small dashes in cooking, but there were no salt shakers on the table like at my friends' houses. And though we weren't Jewish, the only salt used in our house was Kosher salt, which is typically iodine-free. (I didn't realize/understand what Kosher meant until my dad's sister and cousin came to visit and I overheard a lengthy gossip session about the Kosher salt, my mother, and the possible religious skeletons in her closet.)

Ta-dah. And so it was that it came to pass that as an adult I had absolutely no idea that am allergic to iodine. And not just a little allergic to iodine. Not "just a little itchy" allergic. Full-blown anaphylaxis allergic.

And on that fateful afternoon in 1999 when, after a bike crash, I went in for a routine CT to make sure my pelvis was healthy and okay to sustain childbirth, I "died" for what's best calculated at 4 minutes. What happened pre, during and after is another blog, heck, another 12 volume set, for another day, another life(?)time.

Some of the long term readers know/remember this and know it's the main source of the (?) after Life.

And you may better understand why I have valid reason to believe I'm dead and in Hell. 




So, yeah, the iodine thing is kind of a big deal for me. And so, you can understand why the term CT strikes fear in my heart. This reared its ugly head when I injured my foot a few years ago. "They" really needed a contrast CT to get a good understanding of what was causing the swelling, redness and pain. Without the iodine, the CT didn't really show much except enlarged tendons and tissue...and, well, duh, one look at the outside of my foot showed that. When I finally had foot surgery they affixed three, count 'em three, big red and orange warning tags to my body spelling out my iodine allergy.


Okay. So. I haven't been feeling well for several months. Longer, actually, but until a few months ago I  attributed the symptoms to stress, depression, fatigue and anxiety, and not eating properly. And then some new symptoms emerged, kind of troubling symptoms, symptoms that could not be excused away by poor mental health and lack of nutritious food.

I bit the bullet, borrowed money and saw my doctor.

After a couple subsequent lab tests and doctor visits (more borrowed money), and conversations about the symptoms and the preliminary lab results, yadda yadda yadda my doctor wanted me to have a CT. I'm still not sure what scared me most: The possible health issue that would be exposed, the abject paranoia I have of CT imaging, or the cost without insurance.

At some point in all of this I asked my doctor what she was looking for on the CT. She just said, "Trillian, you're intelligent, you wouldn't be here if you weren't smart enough to know that we need to have these tests to rule out what we're both thinking. I don't need to say it, yet, because you don't need to hear it from me, yet. Get the CT, don't let them give you iodine and we'll talk when the results are returned."

The "it" to which she was referring was that every symptom and then the preliminary lab tests pointed to a serious health issue. And, when she didn't immediately dismiss the notion or my inquiries, I took that as "proof" that my suspicions were correct. I left her office with a prescription for a CT and assumption that I had cancer.

Yep.

I told you. A new circle of Hell.

Except.

Instead of being scared or angry or upset in any way, I was relieved. I felt emotionally unburdened and relieved. I felt mentally better than I have in a long time - years. By the time I went in for the CT, no longer afraid of pretty much anything, I was giddy over the prospect of what it would show, even without the iodine. (Even running into my former boss and would-be employer who rejected me didn't bring me down - embarrassed me, yes, bring me down? Nope.) For a few moments during those few days I thought maybe this was mercy. Maybe there was a God and He was finally taking pity on me and helping me bow out of this quickly, giving me an escape. Mercy.

Things made sense. In the past 5 -6 years things have been steadily falling away and I struggled to figure out why and what I could do to pull things back. For a few glorious days when I thought I could be terminally ill all the losses made sense. The Universe was winding down, alleviating my necessity, phasing me out. Think about it: I'm at a point in my life where the only responsibilities I have are for my mother's well-being and my own future. No one's depending on me for anything. The decks are empty. No job. No significant other. No kids. No pets. Except for my mother, no one's relying on me for anything. And my mother can manage without me. She'll be sad, but she can manage without me. Ditto my friends. So I was starting to realize, "Ah, okay, it all makes sense, now. I'm being downsized from life."

Now my questions were all related to: Not if, but how advanced? How much longer would I have to endure this life(?) in this body? I was hoping for a 6-9 month diagnosis. I'm not sure why, really, but it sounded like the right amount of time.

Okay.

I'm pretty sure I know what you're thinking.
A) Trillian needs a team of trained therapists. (Nothing new there, really.)
B) Wow, I didn't realize Trillian was such a hypochondriac. (I'm not...the symptoms were severe and scary.)
C) Wow, I knew Trillian was under a lot of stress but I didn't realize she was that depressed.
D) Wow, why am I reading this blog?


So. Yesterday I had a long talk with my doctor about the test results. There are a few things wrong with me. None of them fatal, even if I forgo treatment.

Painful, disconcerting and not exactly the way "we" like to have our bodies functioning, but not fatal. There are still some questions to be answered regarding a couple of the lab results, and a couple areas on the CT that "we" "want to watch" but without further, more expensive tests there's no way to get concrete answers. The possibilities aren't minor enough to be dismissed, but not major enough to warrant the concern "we" had prior to the CT and other preliminary tests.

It's not a run-of-the-mill infection and my blood test results indicate some unsettling issues which may, or may not, among other things, be attributed to a lack of, you guessed it, sodium and iodine. But. As of right now it doesn't appear that I have cancer.

Which is how my doctor phrased it. "There are a few things going on inside you, but, cancer isn't one of them."

This was final confirmation that "we" were both thinking what she wouldn't say out loud until we had the results. Now that she's certain I don't have it, she'll say the word out loud, which means prior to the test results she thought there was a chance I did have it.



Here's the real issue, though.

I'm disappointed.

Enter: Self-judgment and doubt. I'm not surprised that I was disappointed that I'm not terminally ill, but I'm concerned because it should surprise me. I should be concerned that I'm disappointed that I don't have cancer.

I should be leaping for joy and embracing life with newfound zeal. But instead, that's how I reacted when the possibility was hanging out there prior to the CT. I was relieved and elated at the possibility that finally, finally there would be something concrete, something certain and real in my life. It solved a lot of problems and answered a lot of questions...and helped me prioritize.

When you think you're dying, living becomes a lot easier.

Or, in my case, when you have reason to hope you're dying, dealing with life becomes a lot easier.


This is, of course, all a very, very sad reflection on my life(?). I have no job, just spent two and half months jumping through hoops interviewing for a job that I didn't get, and I have no prospects for a job. I have no romance or even bored complacency with a significant other, and no prospects for romance (or even bored complacency) with a significant other, further, I have successfully removed all interest in love. And other than my mother, I have no meaningful relationship with anyone. My friends...well, I mean, I have a few very good friends, but we're separated by very long distances and, yes, of course we still care about each other, we call and email, but day-in, day-out, we're unable to cultivate the relationships. And yes, I know a lot of people, I have used-to-be friends who've drifted to acquaintances and they're "around" but I dunno. With notable rare exceptions, unless I call or email I don't hear from them.

So, I have no money, no significant other, no job, no kids, soon-to-be no home, and very few friends. I'm a loser, baby. And I can find no way to change any of that - I've tried, I've tried really, really, really hard. I have gone many extra miles in every one of those capacities and all I have to show for it is a worn out pair of sneakers, a broken heart, more confusion, disillusionment, and an empty bank account.


Hence my relief at the possibility of a "get out of life free" card in the form of cancer.

And my disappointment and frustration when that possibility was removed.

You know you've made some really bad life choices when you hear yourself thinking or saying:

Crap. I'm not dying.

Crap. Now what? 



Well, in the immediate I can either borrow more money to get a couple more tests, or, just forget about it, deal with the pain and the symptoms until they either diminish or increase to the point that I want to borrow money to do something to treat them. I'm leaning toward the latter.


I know, I know, just one phone call could change everything. One phone call from someone offering me a job would turn my situation at least 90° and eventually maybe even 160°. Let's be realistic, though. At this point those odds are as low as the odds of me getting married. Not impossible, but statistically unrealistic. Not dismal; bleak.


So.


Crap. I'm not dying. Now what?

Let's play a game.

Pretend this is 2011. Not much of a stretch because it is 2011, so far so good, right?
Now pretend you are single. (Really single. Re-virginated single.)
And you are unemployed and have been unemployed for two years.
And your financial resources are completely depleted (you have $24.63 to your name).
And you have sold everything you owned that held any monetary value including your blood.
And you're squatting in your former home waiting for the bank to kick you out.
And you have few (or no) true, reliable friends within a 1,000 mile radius.
And the only family you have who is remotely accessible/helpful/viable is your handicapped, senior citizen mother who is moving into a senior housing situation where no one under the age of 55 is allowed to stay more than 2 weeks.
Oh, and you have no car, just a bus pass with three rides on it, an old broken-down bicycle and some sneakers for transportation.
Oh, and your passport is about to expire and the renewal fee is $110.


You do have:
College degrees (plural, advanced).
15+ years of career experience related to your degrees (plural, advanced).
A reasonably well-functioning laptop.
A reasonably well-functioning camera.
A Starbucks gift card with $8.32 on it.
750,422 air miles on three different airlines (keep in mind there is a minimum $150 "booking fee" to use air miles for a plane ticket). 

You want a job, you need money, soon you will have no place to live, and you have no one to rely upon but yourself. 

What do you do?

I'm not asking for suggestions. I'm begging for help. Short term suggestions are welcomed, but because I'm not dying (crap) I need a long term solution.* I've exhausted all of the options/ideas I can mine out of my head and: Nothing, no results. Which of course means I'm not clever enough to find a solution on my own. My attempt at the whole "independent career gal" thing is a bust and I'm not exactly trophy wife material, and I've tried to achieve all of the options in-between that I can brainstorm. Nothing. And now that I've ruled out possibility of the luxury of terminal illness I have to figure out my life beyond the next 6 - 9 months. So. Any and all ideas are hugely appreciated.*



*A solution that doesn't include internet porn or prostitution. I know, I know if I were truly desperate I'd do porn, and don't think I haven't considered it. Here's what I considered: What would you pay for a nip or snatch shot? Right. Not exactly a long term financial solution.

And as for selling other services, like photography or design or online services like data-entry, believe me, I have tried, and am trying, but the income generated is insubstantial. Everyone and their brother and sister and niece and neighbor are trying to sell photography, design, data-entry services, etc. online. The internet is a great marketplace, but the competition is fierce and the money to be made is minimal and short term.

** And yes, yes, I know, it's crucial to have, or at least project, a positive, undepressed attitude. Positive attracts positive. Believe me, I know. And I have maintained a pretty darned positive attitude, or at least hopeful and optimistic with an accurate level of confidence in my abilities and career experience in terms of my job hunt. Truly. People remark on it. Family, acquaintances, former coworkers...people tell me they're inspired by my positive outlook and resiliency. And I have been told over, and over, and over, and over again by interviewers and HR people that they really like me, and for the most part they seem to genuinely respond favorably to me. But it comes down to me and one other candidate and that one other candidate has more industry-specific experience or whatever, some one tiny little professional edge over me, to get them the job. And in the rejection calls I'm always professional and say something like, "I understand, it's crucial for your brand/project/whatever that you have the right people on the team. It's great you found someone, please keep me in mind for future opportunities." I've managed to say that with warmth and sincerity that would impress Ghandi. So. While I'm depressed and melancholy in this forum, in real life I have been almost disturbingly positive and resilient.

In an plot device usually only reserved sitcoms...and my life...the Universe once again played the ironic timing ploy.

Because I'm used to this I usually know how to handle these situations.

But this time, well, I was in way over my head. If I did the wrong thing it's too late to undo it. But I'm curious to know if I handled it okay or if I should have said or done something differently.

Okay, here goes.

I'm going to meander off course a minute. Okay a few minutes. Buildup to the sitcom plot device and rant about the medical community all that. You can skip ahead if you want to get to the ironic plot device in a sitcom part.

So, I'm having a health issue. It's been going on for over a year. I saw my doctor about it last year. This is no small thing considering I have no health insurance. Doctor appointments are not cheap. So in the last two years I have seen a doctor twice: Once for this issue and once when I broke my thumb. And, when I broke my thumb I was in Michigan and went to a walk-in clinic. So I've sought medical attention from my doctor once in the two years. She is aware of my unemployed/soon-to-be-homeless/no health insurance "situation" and, while not crazy about me not having my usual check-ups, she is sympathetic and understanding, she knows I normally take care of myself and it's not a reflection on anything other than my employment and financial situation.

Right. So. I was in tremendous pain last year, to the point that even vicodin leftover from my foot surgery wasn't helping. There were also some other disconcerting symptoms I'm not going to disclose publicly. So I broke down and spent the money on a doctor visit. After a (very) thorough exam, my doctor thought I pulled some muscles which was causing the pain and the other issues were stress and sleeplessness related. Among others, the term chronic fatigue was used.

Okay, so, I've tried really, really hard to sleep at least 4 or 5 hours every night. It's not easy. But I make it my mission. And eventually I started to feel a little better. Not great, still having aches and pains, but at least not doubled over on the floor in agony. And the other symptoms abated, so I thought, "This is why I love my doctor. She's good. No drugs, no tests, no chastisement for not getting in sooner, just a pat on the back and a prescription to get more sleep."

Right.

Well, over the summer the pains returned. Still unemployed, still skint, still without health insurance, I did not seek medical assistance. Then last week some very disturbing symptoms sprang up, and I was fairly certain it was all related in one big morass of a health issue.

So I called my doctor's office to ask for advice. It was effectively the same thing I saw her for last year, and the prescription was: Sleep. But combined with these other symptoms I was concerned, to say the least. I was equally concerned about the cost of the office visit.

And here's my high-on-horse rant about healthcare. Why is it so difficult to get a price quote for anything medical related? I understand that sometimes an office visit leads to other tests/exams and it's difficult to predict the necessity of those tests/exams. But shouldn't an office visit be a) a standard fee and b) easily quotable/findable by anyone who works in said doctor's office? And for that matter, shouldn't urine/blood tests cost the same, or at least cost the same in tiers? I understand some urine/blood tests are more involved than others, and cost more, I get that, but, the cost doesn't fluctuate like stocks or gold, right? The cost is the cost, right? So why is it so difficult, even impossible, to get a quote for the cost before embarking on the exam? If I can't afford the office visit and/or subsequent tests/exams, I'm not going to have them done.

And before you get up on a high horse about health being a precious commodity, citing that you can't put a price on health, let me ask you this: When was the last time you went to a doctor's office or medical facility and did not see a notice clearly posted (in at least two places) that payment in full is expected at time of treatment, including co-pays. You can put a price on health.

Yes. "They" expect payment at time of treatment, and that's fair. But isn't it equally fair for patients to know what to expect in the way of cost? In most states there are laws requiring car mechanics to provide a detailed summary and cost of repairs before doing the work. And if, for instance, while they are aligning the tires they discover a bad wheel bearing, they are required to call and revise the estimate/cost before replacing the wheel bearing. If the mechanic fails to provide details and an estimate and does the work without consent (usually written) of the cost, the consumer is not required to pay. These are standard, basic, consumer protection laws.

And yet, there are no such laws regarding healthcare.

I'm all for capitalism. And I understand that a doctor affiliated with a world renowned major medical research facility is going to cost more than a doctor who has a small office behind the Sip and Curl Salon in Podunk. I understand that. I also understand that a specialist who has spent years of extended education and training treating very specific and complex issues is going to have a high fee attached to their service. I get that. I even applaud that. Yes, really. If a doctor went to the time, trouble and effort to advance their skills beyond the usual doctoral studies, then yes, they should charge more for their services. I'm totally okay with that.

However. They, or their office, should be able to tell any patient, any patient, the cost of a visit/exam before the patient shows up for their appointment.

I had this issue when I had health insurance, and honestly, it was worse. I got so much runaround about codes, and deductibles, and copays, and caps, and out-of-pocket, and out-of-formula, and blah blah blah, that I was always, yes, always, the monkey in the middle of the doctors/treatment facilities and the insurance company. I never, not once, got a straight answer on what a treatment or exam or test would cost me. Hence the over $25,000 in out-of-pocket costs I incurred over a two year period with my foot issues. Much of that was physical therapy expense that my insurance company said was covered, but several months into physical therapy, ooops! surprise! nope, that "type" of physical therapy wasn't fully covered and I had to pay thousands of dollars in out-of-pocket expense that I could not afford and never in a million years would have had done if I'd known I was going to have to pay that much for it. I fought that battle for 14 months, making payments all-the-while, calling the insurance company two or three times a week for help resolving the dispute, or, even, just an explanation why they told me it was covered and then, well after the expense was incurred, they refused to pay. I never got an answer other than, "it's not included in your deductible" and "it's out of formula." Why they couldn't/didn't tell me this beforehand, and yes, I inquired ahead of time about my cost, remains a mystery.

Honestly, it's a lot easier when you don't have health insurance. You're no long a monkey in the middle, a pawn or a cash cow. Yes, my healthcare is expensive, but, since all of my expenses are out-of-pocket there's no waiting and wondering what the bill is going to be.

I have learned something about the medical community: When you don't have that magic golden ticket in the form of a health insurance card, you are a) an anomaly and b) viewed with disdain, contempt and a little fear.

I triple dog dare you to call your doctor's office and ask them what an office visit will cost without health insurance. Go ahead, try it.

If, after being put on hold at least four times, you are connected with someone who knows what the fee for an exam is, you will be given a list of disclaimers about additional fees that cannot be quoted until the doctor completes the exam. The takeaway is, "The fee is $125 with a discount for cash payment, but, be prepared to have a lot more cash on hand because that's just to get you in the exam room and into a paper gown."

I've been going to the same doctor for several years. She is expensive. I know there are less expensive doctors. But. I like her. I trust her. She's good. Really good. And she's a decent human being, too. Smart, kind, compassionate, reassuring, funny, aware and chock full of information she's happy to share. Every time I see her I learn at least one new thing. I count her among the rare few good things and good people in my life. If I believed in blessings she'd be near the top of the list. So that's why I continue to see her.

Until two years ago, I had health insurance and was in the monkey-in-the-middle situation where I never had a clue what I was going to have to pay for my doctor visits. I tried, oh how I tried, to ask and get a handle the fees, but it was so complicated and inconsistent that I finally gave up and just opened the wallet and handed over my cash, debit and credit cards and let them take whatever they wanted. (This isn't my doctor's fault.) So, even after years of seeing the same doctor, I really didn't have a clue what an office visit costs. Sad, isn't it? Not right, is it?

You know what's more sad and not right? The way I'm treated by the front line artillery squadron when I call for an appointment. Here's a transcript of the call I made last week (we'll listen in after all the press one, press three, press five, press one again automated response stuff):

"Good morning, Fancy Schmancy Impressive Hospital Doctors' Office," a woman oozing with charm, professionalism and pleasantness cooed. Like if Miss Moneypenny had a twin who worked as a receptionist at posh hotel.

"Hi, my name is Tricia McMillian. I'm a patient of doctor M's. I'd like to make an appointment, but before I do so I need to know the cost."

"Hello, Ms. McMillian! We haven't seen you for a while!" she seemed genuinely happy to hear from me. "Certainly, Ms. McMillian, let me just check a few things for you, what insurance do you have, now? Still the Blue Cross, is it?"

"Um, no. I don't have health insurance."

"Oh. I see." Notable change in attitude. Abrupt click to hold and informative canned medical tips.

After at least five minutes on hold she returned.

"(audible exasperated sigh) Awright, how do you intend to pay for your exam?" She morphed from smooth, professional, slight air of sex Miss Moneypenny's twin to Jenny from the Block.

"Cash, erm, well, debit card."

"Not check or credit card?"

"Well, erm, I mean, I guess that depends on the cost..."

(mimicking me) "Well, I mean, I guess that depends on how you intend to pay."

I was totally knocked off guard by her attitude. I mean, I understand that I'm in the minority in their office. Most of their patients have health insurance and open wallets. And apparently I was asking an out of the ordinary question. But I've been going there for years. I know the people who work there. I once helped two of them figure out an Adobe Acrobat issue. I took them sugar-free Halloween and holiday treats and a swutting baby gift to one of them, for crying out loud. Had I not been so surprised at her attitude I would have had more presence of mind to react in ways other than a chastised school girl.

"It's just that, erm, until I know the cost I can't really say how I'll pay. I hope to pay with cash or debit card, but if it's really expensive I'll have to use a credit card."

"What's really expensive to you?"

I kid you not. She said, "What's really expensive to you?" And she was not joking.

Yes. She went there. We were firmly in, "If you have to ask, you can't afford it" attitude territory.

And to an extent, that's true. If you have to ask what doctor's exam is going to cost, you probably cannot afford it. However, in the interest of savvy consumerism, doing some price comparison shopping is always, always advised. Were this not my doctor, my doctor whom I trust, respect and like and with whom I have a long term history, I would have ended this phone call. I would have hung up with an incensed hurrumph long ago and already be on the phone with at least two other doctors. But, this is my doctor and she already saw me for this issue last year, and I really don't want to see anyone else, and, my pride and self-esteem are already nonexistent. I live in a state of constant humility. In terms of my dignity I can't be wounded any deeper.

For the record, I am sad and disappointed about this, though. I expected more from my doctor's office. The compassion and respect my doctor gives to her patients is obviously not reflected in the frontline phone staff. Or, at least not when dealing with swamp-bottom feeders like me who don't have health insurance. When I had health insurance the call and desk staff were all oozing with kindness and a helpful, professional demeanor, offering assistance for things I didn't even need. "Do you need a doctor's note for work? How about a care info sheet? Here's a list of websites we like to offer our patients." They tripped over themselves to help me and to be friendly and kind, like they'd just been to some customer service seminar.

The abrupt change in attitude happened the second I said I no longer have health insurance. And keep in mind, they made a shitload, oh yes, I said it, shitload of money off me and my health insurance. Yes, I know, they didn't pocket all of the money they charged, I understand it's expensive to maintain a physician's office. I know that. But. My out-of-pocket expense for office visits alone was thousands of dollars, probably around $9,000 over just the three-year period before, during and after my foot injury and surgery. And that was "just" 20% of the total cost my doctor's office billed and received payment for, the insurance company paid another 80%. So, I'm not "just" some Janey Comelately off the street who wants to see the doctor and has no insurance or payment history with said doctor's office. I'm a former cash cow who undoubtedly paid the equivalent of at least one front desk worker's salary.

I expect that sort of behavior at a fancy department store, for instance. The once "preferred customer" the sales people coddled and fell over themselves helping suddenly has a drop in her expendable income and starts actually inquiring about cost, comparing prices. Money is suddenly an issue and just as suddenly the sales team couldn't possibly care less about their previously preferred customer. And they abruptly start giving her the if "you have to ask you can't afford it" cold shoulder treatment.

I finally said, "Erm, well, I guess anything over $250 will have to go on a credit card."

I heard a bunch of clickity clack typing on a keyboard, then the click to hold and canned health tip info. No, "Hmmm, I'm going to have to put you on hold another minute..." Just a click and then the pre-recorded audio telling me more about prostate exams than any woman needs to know. (Yeeesh, I thought pap smears were bad...)

Then she clicked back and sounded like she was reading a script, "Okay, without insurance an office visit costs $125. But Dr. M sometimes gives a cash discount so if you can come up with cash it might be less than that. But remember, that's just the office visit. Any other tests or treatments will be additional. As you are aware, we offer premium state of the art healthcare. If you are having difficulty paying for healthcare perhaps you might want to look into more affordable healthcare options for your routine health care."

Oh yes, she did. She went there. From my perspective, the perspective of someone who's been unemployed for two years, has no money and is about to be homeless, this was an unnecessary kick in the already painfully self-conscious ass. I understand that sort of attitude when the situation at hand is along the lines of, "As you are aware, Saks Fifth Avenue offers premium designer fashion. Perhaps you should be checking out the Blue Light clearance bin at K-Mart." Price snobbery is the accepted norm in retail, but when did that norm seep into healthcare? When did a health insurance card at the doctor's office become equivalent to a platinum preferred card at Neiman's? Don't answer that.*

Also integral to my state of mind at this point is my mother. Yes. My mother. My mother is Scottish. And unfortunately, she is prone to behavior that happens to be cliché stereotype Scot. I'm 90% certain her thriftiness has nothing to do with where her DNA originated, but, there's a 10% margin of doubt that has embarrassed me since I was old enough to understand the whole "thrifty" and "Scottish" thing. My mother is just a savvy consumer, I tell myself. She's not cheap. (Truly, she's not cheap or stingy. She always tips well, overtips, actually, and she buys lovely gifts for people, and she doesn't buy anything that's inferior quality, like 1-ply no-brand toilet paper or cheese food instead of real cheese.) But. She always, always throws in the, "...and we'll be paying cash, today" card when dealing with sales people. And for some reason when she speaks this phrase she inflects it with Maggie Smith accent. I think it might be her way of exerting authority, or a way of trying to bring some class to this low-brow haggling transaction, or maybe it's just nerves. Whatever the reason, she sounds like a haughty, superior dowager. And she is completely, utterly unaware that she's affecting a Maggie Smith accent. "No, no we won't need financing on the toaster. We'll be paying cash today." And then gives a knowing look at the sales person, the knowing look that says, "and you swutting well better give 'us' a discount for paying cash or we'll march straight over to your competitor who will be more than happy to honor your sale price and give us a discount for cash. I am prepared to walk out the door right now if you don't cough up at least a 10% discount for paying with cash." When I was young I thought everyone did this, that negotiating a discount for paying with cash was standard consumer practice, including affecting a Maggie Smith accent, and that every sales person, in every store, selling anything, knew the universal knowing look and accepted the Maggie Smith accented cash discount gauntlet.

When I got older and realized my mother is a) from a bygone era and b) an embarrassing cliché stereotype, I started refusing to go shopping with her. I began to realize that certain sales people around town recognized my mother and didn't seem exactly happy to see her coming. Some of them would preempt her "...and we'll be paying cash today" look by beating her to it in their sales schpeel. At then end of their pitch they'd say, "And of course we're always happy to offer a discount if you'll be paying with cash today." This is where I first learned about phony smiles and passive aggression, so in hindsight those were valuable experiences. But embarrassing nonetheless. Discovering that your mother has a reputation as a cash discount ball buster all over town is not exactly a pleasant experience for a child. Or an adult.

When my dad was sick and the local pharmacy had to special order a prescription from a boutique drug manufacturer across the country, the pharmacist said, "Now, I'm not sure we'll be able to offer your mother the usual cash discount on this because it's special order. You might want to okay that with your mother." That was just a few years ago. I was an adult. Getting medicine for my gravely ill father. And the pharmacist was so aware and afraid of my mother's "cash discount" threat that he wanted me, an adult, to call my mother and okay it with her before he ordered the medicine for my seriously ill father. He wouldn't even let me use my cell phone. Instead, he dialed my mother's cell phone number on the pharmacy phone, put it on speaker and handed me the phone - and listened while I explained the situation to her, that the pharmacist might not be able to offer a cash discount on the special order prescription that was being flown in from 2,000 miles away. I was instantly reduced to a 10-year-old child, incapable of properly procuring a prescription for my father. My mother, who was at my father's side in the hospital at the time, knew that she was on speaker and the pharmacist was listening and said, in her Maggie Smith voice, "Well, your father needs it, we'll just have to pay whatever they're going to charge us. (pause) But make sure he gives you a few of those coupons for free Tylenol." Okay, to be fair, before you judge my mother, yes, we knew my dad was sick but we didn't know he was dying. So, you know, in the moment it didn't seem like such a big deal to negotiate a couple of free bottles of Tylenol in lieu of the usual cash discount. Embarrassing, but not a big deal. But it's moments like those that the 10% margin of doubt nags at me. Maybe there is something in her ancestral DNA that makes her that way. Which means there's a chance I might end up "that way." 

So when the snarky receptionist at my doctor's office said there might be a cash discount available, it sent me straight to a complicated emotional place. Yes, I need and want any discount I can get and I'm grateful for any price reduction. But. The term "cash discount" triggers some very deeply rooted issues in me. Any shred of dignity I was clinging to was squashed. She said, "Sometimes Doctor M gives a discount for paying cash." I heard, "Yes, you cheapass Scot, we'll give you a cash discount, wouldn't want you to get your kilt in a twist, now would we?" So. Yeah. I was not exactly in a sound, healthy or stable frame of mind.

And let me reiterate: I would not have remotely considered going to any doctor if I wasn't worried, really, genuinely concerned, about this health issue. I'm in a lot of prolonged pain and I have a few disconcerting symptoms that warrant valid concern. The sort of symptoms that, when you tell someone, anyone, the response is always, "(look of shocked worry) You need to see a doctor. That's not normal. That can be serious. Don't let that go. Really, don't mess around with that. (stern look of 'I'm serious about this, go to a doctor, now')"

So.

You know. I was kind of in a situation. And really wanted to see my doctor. And I'd like to say, "Money doesn't matter when it comes to your health!" But money does matter. A lot. Apparently a lot more than I realized.

Yadda yadda yadda I finally got a quote and made an appointment. To say my reception at the front desk was chilly is a gross understatement. I used to be greeted with smiles and news from the office and even the gal from the back billing area would come up and say hello. This time I was greeted with an abrupt, dismissive, no eye contact, "Just your insurance information has changed, right? Everything else is still the same?"

"Yes, everything else is the same."

Pointing toward a sign taped over the counter, she said, "And you are aware of our payment policy." It was a question inflected as a statement. As in, "I presume you can read, and the sign clearly states payment in full is expected at time of treatment, so consider yourself schooled on our payment policy."

"Yes, yes, I am aware. I am also aware that there may be a discount for cash payment." Oh crap. I said that out loud. In front of a room full of people. Oh crap. I've turned into my mother and there are witnesses.

Insert: Years of issues with my mother playing out in my head;
Insert: "Well, that's it, I've turned into my mother" sigh of resignation;
Insert: "Really, does everyone in the waiting room need to know I don't have health insurance and that I'm paying with cash and want a cash discount? Because if they do need to know, I think there's an elderly gentleman in the corner who didn't quite hear all of this conversation so why don't you just speak a little louder, and hey, why not mention why I'm here, too? I'm sure all of these people pausing from their game of Angry Birds and looking over here at the woman who doesn't have health insurance would just love to know the gory details of the health issue that would bring someone with no health insurance and wanting a cash discount on her healthcare into the doctor's office."
Insert: Let it go, let it go, just let it go and don't say anything or they'll make you see a "special" doctor and you really cannot afford a "special" doctor or the "special" medication they'll mandate.

Finally the receptionist found whatever note she needed to refer to about the cash discount and said, "That'll depend on how the doctor writes it up. Have a seat. We'll call you when the doctor is ready for you." End of conversation. I had been schooled.

And I had to slink into the waiting room where all the other patients suddenly got very, very busy with their smartphones or extremely interested in brochures about Shingles vaccinations. Okay, maybe that was my insecurity and imagination taking charge of the situation. But. Still. I'm sure I noticed a few furtive glances. This is not the sort of place where people who do not have health insurance hang out. I truly was a K-Mart Blue Light clearance bin shopper in the couture velvet rope area of Saks. I'm pretty sure it was pretty obvious. But. Whatever. I didn't feel well, I had some scary symptoms and in a few minutes I'd be alone in a room with my doctor whom I trust, respect and adore and everything would be okay.

I did have to have a couple in-office tests but my doctor "forgot" to add them on my payment sheet. See? I told you she's great. Truly, she's a fantastic doctor and an even more fantastic human being. Worth all of the nonsense I dealt with prior to the appointment.


Unfortunately she's concerned about the symptoms and the preliminary exam and test results. So. She wanted me to have a CT. She knows I don't have money for a CT and so she told me about this incredible site called Leslie's List. If you're not in Chicago or Dallas, I am truly sorry you don't have this unbelievable service, but hopefully the idea will catch on and it will become a nationwide phenomenon, a true reform and revolution in healthcare.

Imagine this: A site where a patient can compare prices for prescriptions and exams. Which means, (bwa ha ha) the price for exams and prescriptions is made public. No, really? Is that possible? How can it be? Medical exam and prescription prices are trade secrets! The public isn't supposed to know the huge disparity in charges for the same tests and medications! My God, if the general public is allowed to shop and compare exam and medication prices, why, they'll, they'll, they'll be empowered! They'll be savvy and they won't just accept whatever price we ask them to pay!! They'll have, gulp, choices!!! We can't have that!!!

Get this: The prices for the exam I needed ranged from $278 - $3,211. Same exam. Same equipment involved. Same process. Same everything. That's quite a range in price, isn't it? Yep. It is. Holy price gouge. Holy we've been had. Holy crap. I expected some range in price, but I figured they'd all be within a couple hundred dollars of each other.

No. Not even close. $278 - $3,211 and everything in between. In the old days, days when I had health insurance and just went to the treatment/exam places in my doctor's hospital, I just did as I was told, went where I was told, and assumed with my health insurance the cost elsewhere wouldn't vary that much. And maybe, with health insurance, it doesn't vary. Now that I'm in the "no health insurance" "I'm paying cash for everything" legion, there may be some difference in costs. I don't have to take anything but price into consideration. And so, my eyes are now open. I'm starting to realize there is some freedom in not having health insurance. And if/when I ever do get health insurance again...there's no going back to the old way. Thanks to Leslie's List the medical price gouge cat is out of the bag. I'm really scared the site will be shut down, I'm sure some of the healthcare providers are fighting this, but I really hope there's some sort of Freedom of Information Act provision for this information that will allow the site to continue and spread to other cities. Empowerment and emancipation. They're beautiful things.

I called three of the providers on the list. I admit, I was kind of afraid of the lowest cost place, but, I called them anyway. And guess what? They were the nicest, most helpful and accommodating of the places I called. They had a long waiting time for an appointment, but when I told them why I needed the exam they had me speak with a triage nurse who said she'd find a way to get me in sooner. I went to the place and guess what? It's not some scary back alley clinic type of place. It's perfectly sterile and professional and the people who work there are super friendly and helpful. Oh, and by the way, it's in the same building as some of the city's most hoity toity doctors, surgeons and dentists. Just sayin'.


And now we get to the sitcom ironic plot device.

Okay, so my test required me to completely disrobe and wear a gown. The nurse was very nice and escorted me straight back to the changing room.  The place does mammograms, and by the queue of women waiting wearing a gown on top and regular clothes on the bottom I presumed most of them were there for mammograms. Because I was having a different exam there was no wait for me! The nurse waited for me to change into the gown. (Which, by the way, was in a little vacuum hermetically sealed bag and when I opened it out popped a heavy-weight, real cloth garment with strings that weren't frayed or knotted beyond use, and ample room for coverage and comfort. Sanitizing, modesty and comfort? At the cheapest place in town?! Wow!) So I didn't pay much attention to the women sitting and waiting in their mammogram gowns.

The exam went okay, I mean, it didn't hurt or anything and the technician and nurse were super nice and I even got to take home a CD of my CT. Yeah, swag. Go figure.

When I went back to the changing room it was even more full of women in gowns reading magazines or looking at their smartphones. All the changing rooms were full, including the one where I had my stuff locked up. (Guys, maybe you don't know this, inside the inner sanctum of mammography/imaging centers there's usually an antechamber with chairs and magazines and sometimes a TV. Adjacent to it are little changing rooms with lockers where you change into your gown and lock up your clothes and purse, then take the key with you, then you sit around with a bunch of other half-naked women wearing gowns and holding locker keys waiting for their exams. Sometimes there's conversation but usually everyone just tries to mind their own business and avoid eye contact. I presume it's the same for men except it's a bunch of guys sitting around in gowns with ESPN on the TV instead a bunch of women with Lifetime on the TV.)

There were no chairs left so I had to stand there, naked except for my socks and the gown, and wait for the specific changing room where my stuff was locked up. Naturally the woman in "my" changing room was taking a stupendously long time. And no one was called for their exam, so no chairs freed up, and there was no television, and I had nothing but the locker key to busy myself with...and I was trying to avoid eye-contact but it was difficult because I was standing and everyone else was sitting...and did I mention I was completely naked except for my socks and the exam gown? Everyone else was at least wearing skirts/pants and shoes. Not me, the gown was nice enough, as exam gowns go, but it didn't hide my stupid ridiculously long and cartoonishly white legs and arms. And remember, I'm not feeling well. And I'm having some, um, symptoms. Not exactly my finest hour.

And then...I noticed one of the women noticing me.

Oh crap.

Who is the last person you want to run into in a situation like this? Dozens of people and types of people come to mind, I'm sure, but really, think about it, who do you absolutely not want to see you in this situation?

Perhaps the executive managing director of the department you spent two months and five interviews with and just got the rejection call last week? Yeah. That'd be an embarrassing person to run into in this situation, wouldn't it? Yeah. That's kind of sitcomical, isn't it? Yeah, that's my life(?). There, she was, in her executive managing director glory. The woman who put me through five in-person interviews, including one requiring a trip to New York with her to meet the rest of her team, the woman who courted me and dangled carrots in front of me for two months, put me through several phone interviews/conference calls with her team, the woman who called and emailed me evenings and weekends to "touch base and make sure I knew I was still a top candidate and that the process was gaining momentum and wanted to make sure I felt the same way and wasn't seeking other offers," the woman who then had her minion call me to let me know she chose another candidate instead of me.

Yeah. That woman. Her. She was sitting there half-naked looking up at me amidst a room full of half-naked women in exam gowns. And I was just standing there, all naked except for my socks and the gown, standing there unable to do anything because there was no place to sit and some woman was taking an inordinate amount of time in "my" changing room.

Once we made eye contact there was no going back. I mean, what do you do? You have to acknowledge each other, right? A nod, something, right?

I could not think of what the appropriate acknowledgement would be if I ran into her in any situation. "Hi, nice to see you again. Thanks for the opportunity to interview for a job I really wanted. I'm glad you found a good fit for your team, even if it wasn't me, even though I really wanted that job, even though you pestered me night and day for two months and made me jump through hoops so far and above the normal call of interview duty that I'm pretty sure you violated your company's code of ethical conduct. Really, great to see you again. I hope the person you chose instead of me is working out okay." Yeah, probably not the right words.

Then add in the weirdness of the waiting room situation and I mean, come on, really, Universe? You really did this to me? And to her, for that matter?

Cripes. It was awkward for me, but then as I thought about how awkward it must be for her I felt even more awkward, awkward for her, and, awkward for me, I mean, good grief, what does one do or say in this situation? They don't tell you how to handle this situation in business school or etiquette classes or ethics seminars. No one ever mentions that you might want to prepare yourself for the possibility, that, while standing naked in the changing room of an exam center, you may run into an executive director of a major corporation who recently interviewed and rejected you. At least no one ever mentioned that possibility to me.

I'm 100% certain I am the last person she wants to run into while sitting half-naked waiting for a mammogram. Or, ever, for that matter. She knows I'm crushed that I didn't get the job, and she knows I know she was the one who made the final decision. If I was her I would not want to run into me anywhere. At least not while it's still so recent, so fresh. The wound of rejection hasn't even had time to scab over and there I was, standing there before her, naked except for socks and a stupid exam gown. I'm still shedding tears over not getting that job, for crying out loud (literally). I'm still going over every detail of every interview and conversation trying to piece together when I made my fatal misstep. I'm  still thinking she was a spineless coward for not calling me herself, for making her assistant make the rejection phone call. And there she was, half-naked in an exam room full of other half naked women, looking up from her Blackberry at me. And there I was. Stupidly overlong and overly white legs and arms made even more obvious by the stupid exam gown and socks.

Humiliation and irony, thy names are Trillian.

We just kind of nodded at each other. I think I managed a smile. That was my intention, anyway. "Just nod and smile, nod and smile. What the swutting Belgium is taking that woman so long in my changing room? Nod and smile, nod and smile." She nodded but didn't smile at me and then went back to her Blackberry. Whew. Okay. That was over. But. I still had to walk past her when (if?) whomever was in my changing room finally came out.

And you thought that was the sitcom plot device of irony moment, didn't you?

Yeah, well, you're right, that's a good one. But. Heh heh, this is me. This is Trillian. There are reasons why you read this blog.

And I suspect this is one of them.

So, the would-be manager who rejected me last week was engaging herself in her Blackberry and I was waiting for my changing room. The antechamber was chock full of women. (And let me take this moment to say how proud I am of those women and how pleased I am that so many of them were there to have what is hopefully just an annual routine exam. And also to remind the ladies in the audience that it's October and it's breast cancer awareness month so be aware of your boobs and take care of them. If you're in Chicago or Dallas Leslie's List has pricing and sources for mammograms.) Right, so the room is full, nowhere to sit, woman who interviewed me five times and then rejected me last week sitting there awkwardly trying to avoid me and occupy herself with her Blackberry, me standing there naked except for socks and an exam gown waiting to get into the changing room where my clothes and purse are locked up. I kinda had to stand next to the swinging entry door because there was nowhere else to stand except for the middle of the room. Which, I suppose, if I wanted to just go for broke ridiculous, I could have stood in the middle of the room waiting for "my" changing room. But I didn't. I opted to try to be as inconspicuous as possible for a 5'11" naked woman wearing nothing but socks and an exam gown to be and just cower against the only spot of bare wall which happened to be by the swinging entry door.

This was an "Are there God, it's me Trillian" moment. Sometimes I try really hard to give God a chance. "Okay God, I really do want to believe in you and I'm more than willing to Believe, but if you're there you know me, you know my issues. And you also know I'm a decent person, I follow your rules and respect you and those who Believe in you, I mean Thou, and maybe if you, I mean Thou just helped me out once in a while I'd be more receptive and so please, for the love of God, I mean you, I mean Thou, please get that woman out of my changing room so that at the very least I can put on some clothes and regain a shred of dignity in front of the woman who just crushed my hopes and dreams of finally landing a job. Please? God? Please? Just this once, please?"

If there's a God, and if He heard my prayer, he's a mean, sick, twisted, spiteful, vengeful deity because what happened next defies everything we've ever been taught about God.

Instead of mercifully freeing up my changing room, He presented me with the one thing that could make this situation worse.

The door came swinging open, almost hitting me, so I had to step out and away from the door and into the aforementioned center of the chock-full waiting room. And who do you think came strutting into the waiting room, fully clothed?

Yep, my former nincompoop boss.





To recap, we have:
Me, naked except for socks and an exam gown, 5'11" worth of sickly pale legs and arms sticking out of said exam gown the only one standing in the middle of:
A room full of seated women who are half naked, wearing exam gowns, including:
A half naked woman who interviewed me five times and rejected me for a job last week.

And my former boss, fully clothed, who laid me off two years ago.

Oh, life is sweet, isn't it?

My former boss, never, ever keeps her mouth shut. She's a nervous talker. When she's nervous she talks. A lot, about anything and everything. She's loud, obnoxious and usually the only one talking, saying nothing, really, but blathering on and on and on and on. (I know, kinda like this blog post, but at least I'm aware, and there is some shred of intent, whereas my former boss is the most self-unaware, aimless person I've ever known.)

So of course she said something. Something really loud and rambling and in no way covering the awkwardness she was feeling about running into someone whose life she ruined by laying her off. 

"Trillian, my GAWD, how are you? What a coincidence to run into you here! Wow, they're really busy today! Are you here for a mammogram? October is breast cancer awareness month! What are you doing these days? I heard you moved. Did you move? Did you sell your condo? The market's horrible did you take a big loss? Someone said you're working at (competitor company). Are you working there? I heard they lost (XYZ account). Wow your hair is really long!" She made a move toward me. Oh crap. She was coming in for a hug. No, no, no, please, no. Not here, not now, not ever. No. Every half naked be-gowned woman in that room was staring at us, including the woman who interviewed/rejected me for a really good job that I really wanted.

And still, still, "my" changing room was occupied. What the bloody swutting Belgium was going on in there?

All I could think of, the only words I could consciously form in my head were, "Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, got nowhere to run, nowhere to hide..." Yes. The Martha and the Vendellas song. For a split millisecond I contemplated breaking into song because the whole situation couldn't possibly get any weirder anyway, so why not just break into song? Well, because, wasn't a dream sequence in a sitcom.

My former boss did, indeed give me a sort of half-assed air hug. I didn't reciprocate. For many reasons, but top on the list is that I wasn't sure how securely I'd tied the gown and I was afraid of what might happen if I moved too much or lifted my arms too high. I know a full frontal nudity hug in a women's changing room full of half naked women, including a former boss and would-be boss sounds like a titillating scene in a porn movie, but it's not.

I just stood there, enduring. I noticed the woman who interviewed/rejected me last week was doing that thing where you try not to notice what's playing out in front of you but it's too awkward and too public to not notice and everyone involved knows this so you just try to seem apologetic and sympathetic.

Then a nurse poked her head in the door and called out the name of the woman who interviewed/rejected me last week. Up she stood to move toward her summoning nurse, and, I and my former boss, who was obviously (and just this one time we can't blame her) clueless about my "relationship" with this woman, broke our "embrace" in the middle of the room to let her pass. As she passed me she bowed her head and mumbled an "excuse me" and gave me a slight apologetic grimace. I'm not sure if the apologizing grimace was for not offering me the job after all she put me through during the interview process, or for breaking up the reunion between me and my former boss.

I had another fleeting thought. "Wouldn't it be funny to introduce these two women? After all, they have a lot in common, they both held my future in their hands, and they both rejected me for employment, they both broke my dreams...so, yeah, really, they should get along really well. And it would add the icing on this many-layered cake of weirdness."

Instead the woman who interviewed/rejected me left for her exam and my former boss, our "moment" interrupted and over, went into a changing room and I took the vacated chair left by the woman who interviewed/rejected me.

Then, finally, finally, I found out why "my" changing room was occupied for so long. And of course the reason made me feel like a total callous bitch. A fully clothed middle-aged woman emerged with a be-gowned elderly woman walking with two canes. Crap. I'm an intolerant, impatient, horrible shrew of a human being and I'm going to rot in Hell.

Or, more likely, I'm already in Hell.

*Sorry God*

I sprinted into that changing room so fast I'm sure I left a contrail. I jumped into my clothes and hoped to be out of there before my boss, who was always kind of a slow-paced lumbering lunk, emerged from her changing room.

It was then, and only then, I remembered what I wore to this exam. It was an early morning appointment so I'd just thrown on the t-shirt on top of the pile and a pair of something that could pass for pants but as close to sweats as possible, and the comfiest sneakers I own. Which amounted to: A four-year-old pair of trainers with a lot of miles on them, loose fitting baggy crotched yoga pants, and a Spinal Tap t-shirt that's at least 15 years old and looks every day of that age. Oh. And a jean jacket that doesn't quite fit right anymore. Okay, normally this wouldn't be a big deal, right? Home, bus, exam place, bus, home.

Had I known I was going to run into the woman who recently interviewed/rejected me and/or my former boss I would have worn something more, oh, I don't know, professional? Or, well, something, anything, that doesn't make me look like I've been unemployed for two years. I mean, at least I bothered to take a shower and wear some makeup. Because, you know, I didn't want to scare the other passengers on the bus. (You know you've made perhaps at least a couple bad life choices when you reach the point that the only reason you take a shower and wear makeup is because you don't want to scare bus riders.) But hey, at least it was just my former boss who saw me in my schlumpy clothes, not my would-be boss who interviewed/rejected me, right? That's all that really matters, right? Who cares what my former boss thinks, right? Right.

I wasn't quite swift enough to beat my former boss out of the changing rooms, and so, there I was, in a pair of schlumpy baggy crotched old yoga pants, ratty worn out sneakers and a Spinal Tap shirt, running smack into my former boss who was now half naked and wearing an exam gown, standing up because the elderly handicapped woman took the only vacant chair. I was way too close in proximity to my former boss. Overlapping personal space close. Crap. Can I just get out of this inner circle of Hell? Please, can I just get out of this place? I pulled away from my former boss, smiled, again, and said, "Good to see you" and left.

As I left the antechamber and headed out to the hall to the exit, I nearly ran smack into the woman who interviewed/rejected me. She was standing in front of an exam room, apparently waiting for her exam.

Of course.

So much for avoiding her seeing me in my craptastic baggy crotched yoga pants, ratty sneakers and ages-old Spinal Tap t-shirt. And ill-fitting jean jacket. And so much for any chance of her calling me for any other job opening she might have in the future.

Closure. At least I have closure. 

And that, my friends, is the sitcom plot device of ironic madcap hilarity.




*And spare me the hopeful pabulum about Obamacare. From what I understand based on a few conversations with my doctor and my mother's doctor, the Healthcare Reform Act doesn't reform this aspect of healthcare. The same "if you have to ask, you can't afford it" attitude will continue because the reform does not include reforming patients' rights to know their cost, with or without insurance, prior to making the appointment or even prior to receiving treatment.