Sometimes being a grown-up girl isn't just about learning how old sewer maintenance works, sometimes it's about figuring out how your own maintenance works. For example, I did my best grown-up girl job to find a gynecologist for my first ever grown-up girl appointment. I picked the name off the "covered provider list" provided online by my grown-up insurance company (you know, the one that isn't your parents' insurance). Then I bravely called them all by myself, drove myself to my appointment, boldly went through all the joys and pains and awkwardness of that kind of doctor visit with a stoicism that made me proud of myself.
Then, a week or so later, I get a very grown-up sounding email from my grown-up insurance company informing me that there has been a new claim on my account and that I should check it out ("check it out" is what all the grown-ups are sayin' these days). So I checked it out. And I was informed that my grown-up insurance actually didn't cover my grown-up girl doctor appointment, and that, between the visit and the standard lab work, I now owed over 300 grown-up dollars to my grown-girl doctor and his lab. This money will have to come from my hard work at my grown-up job, money I was planning to spend on other grown-up girl purchases like new sheets (the ones my mother gave me before I left for college are finally wearing out), new towels (the ones the nice lady in the ward gave me when I left for college are now the same color--they were originally bright orange and bright green), and maybe some more new clothes that fit.
Now before you tell me I should have checked with my insurance before scheduling the appointment, like any sensible grown-up would, I TRIED. I hunted all over my grown-up insurance company's infantile web site without discovering anything remotely resembling a list of benefits. So I made inferences based on available information: I live and work and am insured in Utah, which is probably the baby-producing capital of the US. Surely my insurance, my educator (another high baby demographic) insurance, would cover a routine gynecologist visit. They cover a once a year eye examination, and it's not even vision insurance!
And now, because of my grown-up girl logic about my grown-up girl insurance company's interaction with my grown-up girl doctor, I am now pouting like a five-year-old. Well done world, well done.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Grown-up Girl
I'm been doing my best to be a grown-up these past few years. I clean my own toilets without being asked, I wash my sheets regularly, I pay my bills on time, I have a car payment, I get regular dentist appointments, etc. One of these days I'll even manage to send birthday cards to my nieces and nephews. Then someone can give me a medal. A big medal for being a grown-up. They give those out right? There's a ceremony and streamers and a big sign that says "CONGRATULATIONS! You Made It!" And then someone presents me with a certificate redeemable for a husband, 2.5 kids, and a blue house with a .75 acre yard in some suburban neighborhood. And chocolate cake. There'd better be chocolate cake or I'm not doing it. Unless there's pie. I'd grow up for pie, I guess.
But anyway, as I was going through the mental list of "things that grown-up girls do," it occurred to me that grown-up girls sometimes go to the doctor. In fact, they go on a regular basis. Then I realized that I haven't had a physical check up of any kind since....high school? Seven years? I don't have a primary care physician. I've never picked up a prescription for myself. Then it occurred to me that grown-up girls go to girl doctors to talk to them about girly stuff. Was I supposed to be doing that, too? So I asked my roommate who is a nurse; I ask her all of my medical related questions, whether or not she should be able to answer them.
"Am I supposed to go to a gynecologist sometime?" I asked.
"Well, when was the last time you went?" she replied.
"I've never been," I said nonchalantly.
"Never?!" she said, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline.
I inferred from this that this was, in fact, something I was supposed to be doing as a grown-up girl. So I dug through my wallet until I found my insurance card, dug through the internet until I found a covered provider, and then picked a name of the list and called to make an appointment. The receptionist told me to go to a website and fill out the registration and health forms before I came in.
So, this morning, I sat down to fill out the forms. Besides asking me my name, birthday, social security number, and what surgeries I've had (tonsils out when I was two, Lasik eye surgery when I was 21), they also asked for a family medical history. I stared at the screen trying to remember, did any of my uncles, aunts, grandparents, etc. have cancer, strokes, diabetes, etc.? As the youngest child of a youngest child, my grandparents are all long gone, and my aunts and uncles on my dad's side are all retired with grandchildren older than I am. Luckily, I'm at home for a few days, so I tripped my way upstairs to my dad's office to ask him how my grandparents died and if his siblings are healthy.
That's how I learned about sewer pipe. Old fashioned sewer pipes, the kind that had homemade gaskets made from hemp and molten lead. The plumbers would pour melted lead on the hemp they had pounded around the opening. They would boil the lead right there in the enclosed, underground space, inhaling the the vapors from the lead. Did you know that? I didn't know that. But that's what I learned form my dad this morning. How does this relate to my family medical history? When of the many professions my paternal grandfather had was a plumber. He got some sort of poisoning several times and eventually died of bone cancer when I was in second grade. Then Dad and I spent another ten minutes discussing cheerful topics such as nursing home neglect and old fashioned sewers. Then he went back to work, and I filled out my forms, musing on the nature of life, death, health, and the way you never know where a conversation is going to go.
Maybe my gynecologist doesn't know about old-fashioned sewer pipe, either.
But anyway, as I was going through the mental list of "things that grown-up girls do," it occurred to me that grown-up girls sometimes go to the doctor. In fact, they go on a regular basis. Then I realized that I haven't had a physical check up of any kind since....high school? Seven years? I don't have a primary care physician. I've never picked up a prescription for myself. Then it occurred to me that grown-up girls go to girl doctors to talk to them about girly stuff. Was I supposed to be doing that, too? So I asked my roommate who is a nurse; I ask her all of my medical related questions, whether or not she should be able to answer them.
"Am I supposed to go to a gynecologist sometime?" I asked.
"Well, when was the last time you went?" she replied.
"I've never been," I said nonchalantly.
"Never?!" she said, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline.
I inferred from this that this was, in fact, something I was supposed to be doing as a grown-up girl. So I dug through my wallet until I found my insurance card, dug through the internet until I found a covered provider, and then picked a name of the list and called to make an appointment. The receptionist told me to go to a website and fill out the registration and health forms before I came in.
So, this morning, I sat down to fill out the forms. Besides asking me my name, birthday, social security number, and what surgeries I've had (tonsils out when I was two, Lasik eye surgery when I was 21), they also asked for a family medical history. I stared at the screen trying to remember, did any of my uncles, aunts, grandparents, etc. have cancer, strokes, diabetes, etc.? As the youngest child of a youngest child, my grandparents are all long gone, and my aunts and uncles on my dad's side are all retired with grandchildren older than I am. Luckily, I'm at home for a few days, so I tripped my way upstairs to my dad's office to ask him how my grandparents died and if his siblings are healthy.
That's how I learned about sewer pipe. Old fashioned sewer pipes, the kind that had homemade gaskets made from hemp and molten lead. The plumbers would pour melted lead on the hemp they had pounded around the opening. They would boil the lead right there in the enclosed, underground space, inhaling the the vapors from the lead. Did you know that? I didn't know that. But that's what I learned form my dad this morning. How does this relate to my family medical history? When of the many professions my paternal grandfather had was a plumber. He got some sort of poisoning several times and eventually died of bone cancer when I was in second grade. Then Dad and I spent another ten minutes discussing cheerful topics such as nursing home neglect and old fashioned sewers. Then he went back to work, and I filled out my forms, musing on the nature of life, death, health, and the way you never know where a conversation is going to go.
Maybe my gynecologist doesn't know about old-fashioned sewer pipe, either.
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