Keeping the doctors happy, insurance companies satisfied, and my pill box full

I take some medicines for an auto-immune condition. I’m not sure what the medicines do, but when I quit taking them a few years ago, the lovely skin and muscle related condition reared its ugly head. I broke out in a rash, my cuticles got crusty, and I could hardly get up out of the bathtub without help. Those pills must be some kind of magic.

So, I’m back on the pills. These two medications keep the boogie man at bay. Up and down the terraces of my wrinkles, the skin is smooth. My arthritic fingers, which can’t seem to figure out which direction to point, have cuticles which are not infected and sore. The pills help. My legs are stronger.

However, to continue taking the medications, I have to pass certain tests. If I can’t document those test results, the Great Insurance Company in the Sky will not let me have my pills. So, to keep my skin subtle and my arms and legs less flaccid, I follow orders.

I go to the specialists for yearly checkups… or checkups every three months… or whenever they tell me. Praise the Almighty, someone invented those emails and text messages which remind me when and where to show up. I have been known to call them, give them my birthday and “real” name and ask them when my next appointment is. Otherwise, I’ll get a call from the pharmacy telling me that the doctor has refused to refill the prescription.

Contritely, with head hanging low and tail between my legs, I call and make an urgent plea for enough pills to get me by until the next available appointment. These calls are more effective if accompanied by tears… descriptions of possible rashes… and tales of sick grandchildren and dead pets.

However, I have managed to put off the big eye exam. Recently, when I went in for my glasses, it caught up with me. Time for the big tests. It would require an hour’s time, and my eyes would need to be dilated. Without it… my magic medication would go away. She threatened to tell on me. I was like a third grader who forgot to get her report card signed. I showed up on time

During the process, I was decorated with strips of metallic “trim work,” fitted with a listening device on my forehead, and hooked up to a series of television connections on the back of my neck. Seriously, one yellow, one red, and one white. I didn’t see any HDMI connections, but something was on the back of my neck. In one test, I was required to wear a pirate’s patch. GRRRRR. The last test included poking a button every time I saw a light flash. Some were small. Some were bright. Some sneaked up on me.

For a woman who has always been burdened by Attention Deficit problems, flashing lights and requirements to keep my eye focused on the orange dot in the middle of the screen was a problem. I kept worrying about the music, the fact that the big red X on the screen had a shadow of blue beside it. I wasn’t sure the technician knew it was there. And there was a stuffed fish floating in the corner of the exam room. Did anyone else see that?

So, I’ve done my test. My prescriptions are safe, and I can go to sleep tonight knowing that I won’t have to lie to the rheumatologist when I go in next week. I won’t tell him about the fish in the corner. He might send me to a psychiatrist.