Nothing says Christmas like paying a medical bill.
Although I've had two friends who both had their apartment buildings burn down, with all their very uninsured belongings. So it's not like, a competition. Shit's paid. We can all move on. Maybe I'll try to get insurance next year, after they've ironed out what healthcare insurance costs with revised monthly premiums. Because what's the fucking point of trying to get insured THIS week, when everybody's costs are going the fuck up come February? Let me know what the real bill is, and I'll pay it.
I know what the cost of two pairs of surgical grade non-latex gloves are. I think I know what the cost of two pairs of disposable n95s are. The swabs that were used to clean the wound in my scalp. The cost of the antibiotic salve. The alcohol used for flushing the wound. The cost of the butcher paper under my ass on the examination table. One nurse, five to ten minutes, including paperwork. One doctor, ten to fifteen minutes, cumulatively, including paperwork. One admissions clerk, ten to fifteen minutes, who failed to record my correct billing address because she was more concerned with the man with the bloody towel on his face trying to leave the building and get back into his boss's car because my insurance wasn't "in the marketplace".
Oh! And the superglue. I know what medical grade epoxy costs.
What I don't know is, is that one thousand and ninety four dollars worth of trouble?
Because I bled in my scrambled eggs, later that morning. Quality work. Quality all round.
Northwestern Medicine sent all my bills to nowheresville, GA, and then they passed my case to collections, and my boss never gave me worker's comp, so here I am, at christmas, writing a big fat cheque, licking the envelope and putting a cute little Keith Haring stamp on it and walking it down to Thorndale Beach, where the nearest pockfaced blue maildrop waits. I will walk up the street and buy a copy of 'Shortbus' on DVD because my husband's never seen it, and Janet Jackson's 'Rhythm Nation 1814' on CD, and thank the guy at the closing storefront for selling me a used Sony turntable last week, telling him the gift cleaned up great, and exchange a genuine smile, and walk on. And walk on. And walk on, admiring the mellow stripe of the settling horizon as chalky throws of cloud rift in the wake of passing commercial flights, listening to friends speak through my headphones, one-hitter loaded, looking through eyes of forty-nine years at the accomplishments of forty-eight-- mine included --thinking At Least I Paid The Fucking Bill.
That's my seasonal sentiment for the day.
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