#I spent a month fighting with her office and my pharmacies (2 of them because my doctor told me it was the pharmacies fault)

[jasperyourmutt]

Thank fucking god for doctors who give a shit about your health. I just met my new doctor who is going to be prescribing my T and I feel so relieved to have someone who actually CARES

[tiabearden]

April 14, 2017

Things you need to know going into this post:

1.) I did not write this for you to feel sorry for me. I’m not doing this for attention. These words were hard, but maybe there’s someone else out there who is like me and if this can help them, then it’s worth it.

2.) If you're struggling with suicidal thoughts, there's help out there. You can call 1-800-273-8255, 24/7, to speak to someone.

And 3.) trigger warnings abound for suicidal ideations, depression, etc. If you don’t want to/can’t read about that then I 110% understand.

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Hi. Hello. It’s me.

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? This year is supposed to be about #choosingjoy, but with the country/world in the state it’s in, and with my brain being messed up, it’s been really hard.

I have a confession.

I would rather not talk about it, actually. It’s embarrassing, humiliating, and y’all know I’m an oversharer on so many things, but this . . . This is hard to talk about.

April 14th, 2017. Friday. It was an average day. Spring was in full bloom, a high of 84 degrees. I got dressed for work, played around with Alison, got her ready and off to school. Just a normal day.

It’s also the day that I almost killed myself.

Why that day? I have no idea. That day was as good as any other. There was nothing that set me off. No trigger.

I’ve been depressed for a while now. Years if I’m completely honest. It ebbs and flows, and I gather coping skills and just deal because I definitely am FINE or I will be FINE because I have to be FINE. There’s not another option except . . . the one pervasive thought that ricochets around in my head. I’ve worked really hard to ignore it.

If you’ve spent any time with me in the past year, maybe I’ve seemed fine (or as fine as a weirdo like me could be).

My way of coping - I’ve kept myself busy. A busy person with a busy brain can have lots of loud thoughts that drown out the bad ones. I went to another writing retreat. I made good forward progress on my novel for the first time in a while. I made new friends. My Tuesday night writing group friends and I went to Nashville to a book signing, having a grand adventure along the way.

But the thoughts grew louder. I smiled and laughed and said and did all the things I thought I was supposed to say and do. I tried to act like everyone expected me to be. The thoughts were impossible to keep at bay now.

I was drowning.

Let’s rewind to April 2nd - A different writing workshop. A weekend with my amazing, kind, wonderful writing friends.  Lots of learning, laughing, loving. Not enough time with them. My heart ached having to leave my friends, not knowing when I would see them again - if I would ever see them again, the thought screamed and screamed and screamed. So I gave them extra hugs. Told them how much I loved them and believed in them and their work.

On the way home from this workshop, two of my friends decided it was time to have The Talk (™) with me. We know you’re depressed, they said. You need to get help. Please, please, please. We love you. You would fight if it was one of us. Is it money? We’ll give you money. Let us help you.

But I thought I was putting on a good front? Did I do or say something wrong? I racked my brain going over every conversation that I had with anyone and everyone that weekend. Trying to figure out where I had failed to keep my shit checked. Where my mask had failed.  

No, friend says. But we know you. And to see you sit here and think these bad things about yourself . . . it’s soul crushing. And I guess you have to know this friend to know how much these words weigh. She’s a straight shooter, no bullshit, non-emotional person and for her to say that my behavior was hurting her . . . it was such a gut punch. If I can’t even make it through a weekend of at least pretending that I didn’t want to die every breath every second of every day . . . if I was hurting my friends . . . then this was a real problem.

“Really, I’m okay,” I lied. “I’ll think about it”, I conceded.

Certainly this had to be rock bottom. Giving my friends a reason to worry about me was (and is) fucking unacceptable. But nope. That was just the beginning of the spiral of despair.

Each day got worse and worse and worse. I didn’t know how it could, but it did. The thoughts spiraled, and while I can’t bring myself to even write out the worst of them, I can share that I thought/deeply felt that the world is better off without me. And like, I know, I know it’s not true. Part of my brain knows that . . . but the other part? Y’all. I have no words to describe the pain and agony.

I stopped being able to get out of bed on time. Everything and everyone was exhausting. Fighting my brain and fighting the urge every second of every day to kill myself fucking exhausted me. I came home from work every day and laid in the bed for at least 30 minutes staring at the ceiling before I could even start dinner or help Alison with her homework.

Speaking of Alison, I know y’all are thinking how could I even think about doing this. Think of what it would do to my daughter? My husband. My family. My friends. But I thought it would just be easier on everyone if I was gone. I wouldn’t be a burden anymore. I wouldn’t be that weird girl blowing up your twitter. Everything would be quiet and nothing else could hurt me.

I felt like I had nothing of worth to contribute to this world. That I’m insignificant and everything is meaningless. These are just a fraction of the thoughts that I live with and it damn near killed me.

By April 14th, the thoughts were waking me up at all hours of the night. Sleep was a thing I didn’t see much of. At least restful sleep. I couldn’t remember the last time I slept through the night. And I was tired. So very very tired of feeling like this. I just didn’t want to hurt anymore.

7:53am. Running late for work. And then I almost drove my car off of a bridge. I swerved at the last second, made it across the bridge, pulled over and started sobbing. I was terrified. Once I was able to breathe again,I drove myself straight to my primary care doctor’s office and asked to see my doctor. They asked me what was wrong and y’all . . . I couldn’t speak. My throat felt like a hand was around it, cutting off all air. I quickly typed in a new text message. “I’m very depressed and I’m having suicidal ideations.” I put my phone up to the glass that separated me from the receptionist, and her eyes widened.

They immediately pulled me back and put me in the triage room.

My doctor was furious at me. She yelled at me. For coming in on a Friday. They were slammed and understaffed and she didn’t have the time she wanted and needed to spend with me. For letting it get this bad without coming in. All I could do was cry and apologize. “Tia,” she said, softening as she climbed onto the table and put her arm around me. “You have so much to live for.”

“But it doesn’t feel like it,” I sobbed. “I can’t see it. All I see is that I can’t live like this. I can’t breathe. Every thought tells me I’m better off dead. I can’t fight it anymore. I can’t live like this anymore.”

She wrote me a prescription for Wellbutrin, gave me a list of therapists, and made me swear to her that I wouldn’t hurt myself over the weekend, that I would call first thing Monday and report in, and that I would come back in one week.

She told me that if I killed myself that she would come to my funeral and punch my casket. And that made me laugh. The first spark of light in all the darkness that day.

I went to the pharmacy, got my prescriptions, and promptly took them. Despite my doctor’s warning that it may take a few days for it to kick in, I kept expecting to feel magically better. Wellbutrin doesn’t exactly work like that, but every day it’s a little bit easier to breathe. Maybe even one day I’ll be able to have my head above the water.

That brings me here, a little over a month out and I’m better. Not 100%. Not by a long shot. But Wellbutrin? It saved me. It makes the days seem less scary. The nights, too.

And writing? Writing doesn’t seem so impossible anymore. Finishing Little Foxes is still a far away goal, but for the first time it doesn’t feel unattainable. I’m here writing this, after all. And if I can be brave enough to write these words, then maybe, just maybe I will finish that novel of mine. One day.

So I’m still here. I’m still fighting. Every day is a battle, but I’m not giving up.

If any of my friends had told me they felt like this, I would have not stopped until they got help. Even if I had to drive them there myself. So why was it so hard for me to advocate for myself?

I just want to be someone y’all are proud of. Someone I can be proud of. And I’m not her. Not yet.

And for the first time in a really, really long time I genuinely want to see what that future would look like.

-Tia

* I feel like you should know that my doctor is not normally a violent person who threatens to go to funerals and punch caskets. I had really scared her, and she told me she had given up cussing, bread, sugar, and soda for Lent. I asked her if she wanted to die, too. LOL! I needed and appreciated her strong feelings and reactions. The fact that she didn’t blow me off and listened made all the difference.

**So many thanks to Amanda, Kristin, Amy, Anna, and Sarah for being there no matter the time in those darkest of days and for loving me enough to be brutally honest. Thank you to Jeff for holding down the fort at home when I couldn’t do anything but stare at the ceiling and cry. Thank all of you for loving me and reading this.

[type2diabetestreatments-blog]

My Flex Spending Fiasco

New Post has been published on http://type2diabetestreatment.net/diabetes-mellitus/my-flex-spending-fiasco/

My Flex Spending Fiasco

We all spend too much time fighting insurance coverage battles, am I right? This humongous time-sink can be one of the worst things about living with a chronic illness. But don't take my word for it. Take a read on fellow D-blogger and journalist Mike Hoskins' latest row:

Special to the 'Mine by Mike Hoskins

Like most of you, we spend thousands of dollars in diabetes supplies and meds every year.

Thankfully, our insurance coverage provides a Flex Spending Account (FSA) to help us not have to eat through this money on the front end. It's a simple concept: money you earn goes into a pot to be used during the course of a year to pay for certain medical supplies. Submit receipts to prove that all is legit, and personal money spent is reimbursed forthwith.

At least, that's how it should work.

Not for us, with the newest FSA company we're dealing with.

The evil villain of a company known as Aflac has kicked of a three-month battle that we've yet to win. Rather than getting reimbursed, we're on the receiving end of hair-pulling, teeth-clenching, curse-inducing thoughts of violence for what we've had to endure. These days, I certainly don't feel like I have a stock-pile of D-supply cash ready at the swipe of a plastic card. In fact, I'm truly starting to believe that the whole Flex Spending Account initiative is a scam — just a way to coax people into putting up money that's supposed to help them save on healthcare bills, but in reality will disappear into the abyss of company double-talk and lousy record-keeping.

Luckily, I've resisted the temptation to throw my phone against a wall — mostly because I know I'd be less able to make the calls that are still on the horizon.

Aside from that, about the only other thing I have to be thankful for is that I've managed to avoid a mental breakdown because my wife (the faithful policy-holder via her job) has been navigating some of the Flex Fiasco. I deal with most of the insurance coverage calls, because I've been dealing with these people for most of my life. But since her name's on the Flex plan, she takes the lead initially. When they won't play nicely, the ball gets knocked into my part of the grassy field.

That's where we found ourselves early this year. The company wanted more documentation about some particular receipts we'd sent in for reimbursement. A root canal. Monthly medications from the pharmacy. Insulin. Some office visits with my endo and my mental health counselor. To the tune of $1,200.

Somehow they decided the already-submitted info was not good enough, so they suddenly deactivated our Flex card, forcing us to pay for everything up front and then go back to them to fight for reimbursement.

So I started calling, to get to the bottom of this mystery and apparent communication failure and find out what they specifically needed to restart our card — and start offering the promised payback (from money we saved ourselves, no less!)

The first conversation was doomed from the start.

First of all, when I provide you with the policy-holder's name and account number, please don't tell me that the account doesn't exist or that I must be mistaken in thinking we have a Flex Plan. No, you just need to correctly key in the information.

And then when you cut me off, and I call back, don't tell me that you can only provide information to my wife, the policy holder — when she's already approved. This doesn't help the customer's faith that you can perform simple tasks, like reading and comprehending what's on a computer screen.

Me: So the receipts from each provider listing the services aren't good enough?

Flex Lady: No, we need individualized receipts.

Me: That's what I sent. Receipts, showing the reason for the visit or medicine I got from the pharmacy.

Flex Lady: No, you didn't. That's not enough.

Me: I don't understand. The receipts we sent are from the pharmacy we use, and each item says "pharmacy" with the cost of the medication purchased. Or the doctor's office that says why we were there. What else do we need to send?

Flex Lady: A more detailed breakdown of everything.

For every other Flex company we've had through the years, submitting a receipt from the pharmacy was adequate. But not this time. Apparently we need to send in a list detailing every medication, dosage, patient name and cost breakdown of each item.

We've never had to do this before, and at first I thought it might be some new policy mandated by (*gasp*) that big bad health care reform that's causing the sky to spit glucose. Apparently not. Aflac says this has been its own policy for years.

So basically, rather than relying on simple receipts as I've always done, this means I must contact each individual doctor's office or provider for more detailed itemized receipts. If they don't break everything down exactly the way Aflac wants, then I need to circle back, re-submit a request and follow up on each one, or sacrifice the money we've invested in medical reimbursement. Ouch!! As if work, life and diabetes didn't keep us busy enough!

Seriously, if it wasn't for their talking duck mascot, I'd have nothing positive to say about these people... Then again, I don't. I kind of want to wring my hands around the duck's neck right about now...

For each drug or supply, they want a pharmacy receipt with a signature at the end. Even though we sent three pages of information with a signature following on the last page... I guess reading through all the pages isn't as easy for them as just demanding a new fax. But then again, who cares what's easy for them? What about us customers?!

Then there's the whole song-and-dance of justifying the reimbursement I'm asking for, which I'm not even sure is legal.

One receipt was for blood glucose test strips. This different Flex Representative wanted to know not only how many, but that my doctor has signed off on the amount of strips requested (duh, he wrote the prescription!).

Me: I'm sorry, but why do you need to know that?

Flex Lady 2: We have to make sure you're not listing thing that you don't use, or in amounts that aren't necessary.

Me: That's a discussion between my doctor and I, and possibly my health insurance people. Not you. This is about getting reimbursed for covered supplies that I've already paid for!

Flex Lady 2: We still need to confirm it.

The thought of stabbing myself in the eyes with blunt lancets danced around in my head, but I resisted. Colorful catch phrases were on the tip of my tongue, a la Marcus Grimm's "Sh*t Diabetics Say."

Tact prevailed, and instead I clenched my fists and eyes and shook my head silently.

This whole Flex Fiasco has gone on for weeks, with each situation leading to what appears to be a solution but later turning out to be wasted time. Minutes and hours I'll never get back...

They've wanted more proof that I saw my dentist for the listed purposes, rather than — I don't know — a foot exam or stress test... or maybe just a chat?!

They've refused to take my word that my visits to a mental health counselor, a Licensed Counselor and Social Worker, is for actual mental health evaluation. Apparently, the credentials aren't good enough and it might be possible I'm paying $35 a week just to meet for a weekly game of poker, rather than therapy.

Hmmm... This brings a question to mind: Is this even allowed??? Doesn't a little thing called HIPAA prevent them from asking me for all these details? Seems like it should. At least I think so. I'm tempted to contact my past flex providers just to see if this current situation is something out of left field. But that would take more hours I can't afford to give away...

Meanwhile, after all the conversations we've had on the phone with these people, they've knocked off way too many trees by sending us waves of statements in the mail. They deny our reimbursement claims, telling us that we'll lose our untapped money if it's not claimed by May. Yet they won't let us claim it...

YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING!!

(Sigh, again. Face into palm.)

You wouldn't think that health care providers and insurance companies would need advice on how to run their businesses, but apparently they do. So here's what I'd suggest:

1. Hire people to answer the phone who actually know what the heck they're talking about and can offer correct answers to their customers, who are simply trying to get what they need to be healthy.

2. Provide care that actually helps people, not just your bottom line or other companies and insurance carriers.

3. If you cover someone with insurance or provide them with a FSA, then COVER us or allow us to get that money when we follow the rules. Please don't assume we're trying to cheat you (we're NOT guilty until proven innocent). We pay you money for a reason.

4. Stop asking to confirm our information every time you breath. Seriously. Look at the computer screen in front of you. Use the information already recorded. We shouldn't have to repeat ourselves ad nauseum simply because you can't comprehend the concept of teamwork.

5. Talk to me like another human — not a person with a condition that you think is evil and not worth covering or providing (OUR) money for.

6. Don't tell me what you want me to want. I called you, not the other way around. Please listen to me and do your job. Honestly, I'm not trying to needlessly take up your time.

And so, the Flex Fiasco continues... Hopefully some remedy can be found before the end of May, when our benefits reset and whatever money's left in that account actually does go down the drain.

We shouldn't have to fight these battles. But apparently, that's just the way it is. Because apparently, listening to us patients isn't an option. And logic must fly in the face of... common sense.

Disclaimer: Content created by the Diabetes Mine team. For more details click here.

Disclaimer

This content is created for Diabetes Mine, a consumer health blog focused on the diabetes community. The content is not medically reviewed and doesn't adhere to Healthline's editorial guidelines. For more information about Healthline's partnership with Diabetes Mine, please click here.

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