I’ve had a lot on my plate lately and each and every day it seems my patience (and anxiety level) is tested ...again. Since I seem to forever be at an impasse in this thing called “life” I thought it might be a good idea to give my therapist a call and have another session with her.
Me and “Dr. A”
I first contacted “Dr. A” while my mother was dying more than two years ago. Not only did I have to deal with my mother dying, I was worried about my elderly (and seriously hearing impaired father) taking care of her more than seven hours away from where I live. Mix in a very stressful job in one of the worst economies this country has seen since the Great Depression and the fact that I was single and worried that I’d be single for the rest of my life, meeting “Dr. A” really helped me make sense of it all. She helped me through the death or my mother and my father and helped me well, attempt to stay sane.
What to Do When Dr. A Goes Away
Fast forward to the present day, and I find myself needing to talk to her again to sort some things out (I won’t go into personal things now but I’ll just say that I really need to speak to an objective third party before I go postal…).
So I call her and there’s no answer. I email her, only to get a bounce back reply saying she closed up shop.
Just like that.
No notice.
No referral.
No more prescription refills.
I couldn’t believe it. The woman just shut down her practice without letting her patients know. What was I supposed to do now?
Shopping Around for Sanity
After I come to terms with the fact that “Dr. A” has gone away, I decide to take action. I called my cut-rate insurance to see what type of mental health counseling they cover, figuring they have to cover something, right?
Wrong.
The nice lady on the phone referred me to a few therapists-- all of whom are “out-of-network” which translates to: out-of-pocket. Not exactly what you are looking for when you are stressed to the max and looking for a new job. Regardless, I still call around to see who was accepting new patients and how much each visit will cost me.
Sanity is Expensive
Boy, was I in for a shocker.
Every therapist I called wanted $300+ for the initial consultation and $150+ for follow-up visits. Honestly, when I was done making my calls, I almost started to cry. I don’t think my surgeon charges that! And frankly, he deserves every cent he can get out of me!
I just can’t bring myself to pay that much for someone to listen to my problems. I think I would become even more stressed out and just plain pissed off that I was walking out of an office where it cost more than $300 just to get to know me and my problems (I may have problems and maybe stressed out at the moment, but I am by no means, functionally retarded. Anyone who pays that much to have a stranger listen to them must be...)
Identifying with the Criminally Insane
I can now see why people drink too much and shoot up offices. And you know what? I might just go buy a gun and join them.
Ok, I'm not really a violent person and I don’t necessarily agree with murdering random individuals at a former place of employment, but ... I can definitely identify where they are coming from. I’m pretty sure these folks didn’t have the out-of-pocket $300 to cover therapy either.
And it makes me sick (pardon the really bad play on words here) that our government is screwing around with health care. They can sit there and debate it for years to come ... and I’m sure they will.
After all, it doesn’t matter to them—-they can afford to.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Having Your Cake... And Eating It Too
October is a big birthday month for several friends and family members. “Several” meaning like 20 people I know are celebrating their birthdays. From friends to family, it seems everyone’s parents got in the groove while ringing in the New Year. What strikes me about celebrating a birthday is that as you get older, the more they begin to well, inevitably suck.
Baby Birthdays are Simply The Best
For example, I know a baby that just turned 1—a great age for a birthday in my opinion. You’re fed cake, you’re dressed in your finest and people think it’s cute when the cake gets all over your face. At the age of 1 you are just happy that someone cared enough to change your diaper. Life is pretty good.
Fast forward to the age of say, 11, and it’s not cool to admit you have a birthday coming up but you think about it, remind your mom about it and learn how to plan a party. Gone are the days of diapers and cake replaced with the angst of learning how to send out e-vites (no kid gets paper invites anymore apparently) and trying to persuade your mother into having 14 of your “closest” friends over for a sleep over and of course, cake. Details don’t matter—as in who will actually be invited—just invite all the girls in your class and see who makes it through the night without wanting to go home. Oh—and the birthday invite is an equal-opportunity invite: you have to invite all the girls whether you like everyone or not. Because that’s what you just do.
Pre-Adolescent Party Planning Starts
When you get to the age of 15 you just want to hang with the buddies you see each and every day. That usually totals a pack of say, 4-6 pre-adolescents who frankly are just looking to get into some kind of trouble. Cutting the cake is usually relegated to after a family dinner as the parents worry about what type of birthday to throw for their 15 year-old who just wants to learn how to drive already. He/She starts hinting at getting a car—like “so-and-so” who’s a Junior at their school and who frankly, isn’t responsible enough to drive one. Parents start to get anxious about properly teaching their children to drive wondering if everyone else thinks the same thing about their child (quietly admitting to themselves that the extra driver would help with the endless amount of car pooling they currently have to do…).
Twenty-One …or Bust
When you approach the age of twenty one, the birthday celebration peaks. The anxiety of having to get into those college bars with your older brother/sister’s fake I.D. is finally over and finally you can let loose and drink all you want…any time you want.
In fact, you actually revert to the age of 1 during the big night out—wear that funny hat, dirty-up your face with either cake (if your friends had the foresight to buy you one) or more likely, the whipped topping of your 10th shot as you attempt to make it to 21. Wearing a diaper during these exploits may not be a bad idea because inevitably, after 10 or 12 shots (no matter who you are) at one point in the night, you’ll lose all control of your bowels.
After the big 2-1, birthday celebrations start to spiral downhill. Planning takes on a whole new level of significance and may take weeks. Long gone are the days where you can have 14 of your closest friends over for a sleep over, or party like a rock star at the age of 21, because in fact in your mind, you are one.
Here Comes the Reality Check
As you get older (post-twenty-five or so), birthdays take on a whole different significance. In fact, no matter who you talk to, they begin to well … suck.
Organizing the event becomes a logistical nightmare as you try to plan a night out at a restaurant no one has tried only to find out that their menu does not comply with the plethora of dietary restrictions your group of friends may (or frankly, may not…) have.
You worry how many people can even swing by for a drink to help you celebrate. Half the time they do for an hour or so, and the other half they want to “re-schedule” for next week (like that you really want to celebrate your birthday on their schedule instead of, you know, the day you were born). And without fail, you start to take stock in your life: You worry about getting married if your single, having kids if you don’t have them and how badly that Botox shot could possibly hurt and more importantly, why you’ve waited so long to make the appointment.
Bring On the Diaper
Yes, my friends, from here on out—birthdays go downhill in a death-like spiral until about the age of say, eighty. That’s when you’re just happy to be alive. I hope by the ripe old age of eighty, I’ve learned how to appreciate the life God has given me and more importantly, how to have my cake and it too (regardless of whether I’m sitting in a diaper or not).
Baby Birthdays are Simply The Best
For example, I know a baby that just turned 1—a great age for a birthday in my opinion. You’re fed cake, you’re dressed in your finest and people think it’s cute when the cake gets all over your face. At the age of 1 you are just happy that someone cared enough to change your diaper. Life is pretty good.
Fast forward to the age of say, 11, and it’s not cool to admit you have a birthday coming up but you think about it, remind your mom about it and learn how to plan a party. Gone are the days of diapers and cake replaced with the angst of learning how to send out e-vites (no kid gets paper invites anymore apparently) and trying to persuade your mother into having 14 of your “closest” friends over for a sleep over and of course, cake. Details don’t matter—as in who will actually be invited—just invite all the girls in your class and see who makes it through the night without wanting to go home. Oh—and the birthday invite is an equal-opportunity invite: you have to invite all the girls whether you like everyone or not. Because that’s what you just do.
Pre-Adolescent Party Planning Starts
When you get to the age of 15 you just want to hang with the buddies you see each and every day. That usually totals a pack of say, 4-6 pre-adolescents who frankly are just looking to get into some kind of trouble. Cutting the cake is usually relegated to after a family dinner as the parents worry about what type of birthday to throw for their 15 year-old who just wants to learn how to drive already. He/She starts hinting at getting a car—like “so-and-so” who’s a Junior at their school and who frankly, isn’t responsible enough to drive one. Parents start to get anxious about properly teaching their children to drive wondering if everyone else thinks the same thing about their child (quietly admitting to themselves that the extra driver would help with the endless amount of car pooling they currently have to do…).
Twenty-One …or Bust
When you approach the age of twenty one, the birthday celebration peaks. The anxiety of having to get into those college bars with your older brother/sister’s fake I.D. is finally over and finally you can let loose and drink all you want…any time you want.
In fact, you actually revert to the age of 1 during the big night out—wear that funny hat, dirty-up your face with either cake (if your friends had the foresight to buy you one) or more likely, the whipped topping of your 10th shot as you attempt to make it to 21. Wearing a diaper during these exploits may not be a bad idea because inevitably, after 10 or 12 shots (no matter who you are) at one point in the night, you’ll lose all control of your bowels.
After the big 2-1, birthday celebrations start to spiral downhill. Planning takes on a whole new level of significance and may take weeks. Long gone are the days where you can have 14 of your closest friends over for a sleep over, or party like a rock star at the age of 21, because in fact in your mind, you are one.
Here Comes the Reality Check
As you get older (post-twenty-five or so), birthdays take on a whole different significance. In fact, no matter who you talk to, they begin to well … suck.
Organizing the event becomes a logistical nightmare as you try to plan a night out at a restaurant no one has tried only to find out that their menu does not comply with the plethora of dietary restrictions your group of friends may (or frankly, may not…) have.
You worry how many people can even swing by for a drink to help you celebrate. Half the time they do for an hour or so, and the other half they want to “re-schedule” for next week (like that you really want to celebrate your birthday on their schedule instead of, you know, the day you were born). And without fail, you start to take stock in your life: You worry about getting married if your single, having kids if you don’t have them and how badly that Botox shot could possibly hurt and more importantly, why you’ve waited so long to make the appointment.
Bring On the Diaper
Yes, my friends, from here on out—birthdays go downhill in a death-like spiral until about the age of say, eighty. That’s when you’re just happy to be alive. I hope by the ripe old age of eighty, I’ve learned how to appreciate the life God has given me and more importantly, how to have my cake and it too (regardless of whether I’m sitting in a diaper or not).
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Appearances are Deceiving
From the outside looking in, the development where my parents lived in North Carolina is a near utopia for those who rode the Wall Street highs of the ‘90’s and got out while the getting was still good. Dream houses sit back on wooded lots, manicured lawns decorated with artsy statues of the family’s little white dogs sit neatly next to the front door welcoming Friday night dinner clubs or saying good bye to their owners as they rush out for early morning tee-times.
I’ve driven through the club gates and passed Teddy’s house countless times. I love this house. In my own future utopia, I hope to have an exact replica. In fact, when I see Teddy sitting out on the front lawn, I usually pull over and make it a point to say “Hi!” to him and his owner, Cathy.
I’ve known Cathy for as long as my parents have lived down here. She walks Teddy (her 6-year old Bichon) past my parent’s house at exactly 5:30 every night and more often than not, Teddy runs up to our door and peaks in the window hoping to see the face of my pup staring back waiting to play. More often than not, I open the door and let the pups romp around the living room before chasing each other down the driveway to where Cathy is usually waiting at a respectful distance.
Everyone Has a Story ...
Cathy is the town gossip. She knows who’s coming, who’s going and what they did in-between. So, after my parents died, I’d get the local scoop from Cathy (and Teddy) each night while standing at the bottom of the driveway. Usually it’s petty retired stuff about people I’ve never met—which daughter is pregnant again. Whose son lost their job. Who’s moving to the street and where they are from, etc. etc. Honestly, I could care less—and I always knew she is just waiting to get the scoop on me, but there’s no more gossip here. (Two parents dead within a year, and no—we haven’t put the house on the market yet so don’t bother asking us what we plan to list it for...)
Needless to say, I’ve driven past Cathy’s house countless times, so when a different neighbor the other night asked me if I’ve ever noticed her son staring out the window in the upstairs room, I looked at them like they were crazy. After all of these years, I had never noticed him. In fact, I never knew Cathy had any kids except for Teddy.
… And a Cross to Bear
As it turns out, Cathy does have a son. He’s my age. He had a girlfriend. He had a good job selling real estate. When the market tanked, so did his job and bye-bye went the girlfriend.
But that’s not the story. We’ve all lost jobs and girlfriends/boyfriends. Life goes on right? Maybe for us. The story here is that he took a shot gun, aimed it at his face and pulled the trigger…
… and lived.
At first the doctor’s wouldn’t do the reconstruction surgery. They asked him point blank if he wanted to live and said that he needed to undergo months of therapy before they would even rebuild his face. This sounded harsh to me at first, but after you realize it wouldn’t just be one surgery, but a succession of surgeries that will test his pain threshold for years (and his will to live) it’s a question that had to be asked and taken seriously. He said “yes,” agreed to the surgeries and now lives with Cathy and Teddy in the beautiful yellow house overlooking the manicured lawn on Wexford Way.
Appearances are Deceiving
I keep thinking about Cathy’s son. The guilt he must live with each day. The depression he must overcome just to get out of bed. And I think about Cathy—the bubbly town gossip who seems to live vicariously through other people’s lives—because her own must be unbearable.
As I passed Cathy’s house for the last time this summer, I couldn’t help but look around and wonder what other incredibly sad stories are lived out each and every day on this street—a perfect little street—from the outside looking in.
I’ve driven through the club gates and passed Teddy’s house countless times. I love this house. In my own future utopia, I hope to have an exact replica. In fact, when I see Teddy sitting out on the front lawn, I usually pull over and make it a point to say “Hi!” to him and his owner, Cathy.
I’ve known Cathy for as long as my parents have lived down here. She walks Teddy (her 6-year old Bichon) past my parent’s house at exactly 5:30 every night and more often than not, Teddy runs up to our door and peaks in the window hoping to see the face of my pup staring back waiting to play. More often than not, I open the door and let the pups romp around the living room before chasing each other down the driveway to where Cathy is usually waiting at a respectful distance.
Everyone Has a Story ...
Cathy is the town gossip. She knows who’s coming, who’s going and what they did in-between. So, after my parents died, I’d get the local scoop from Cathy (and Teddy) each night while standing at the bottom of the driveway. Usually it’s petty retired stuff about people I’ve never met—which daughter is pregnant again. Whose son lost their job. Who’s moving to the street and where they are from, etc. etc. Honestly, I could care less—and I always knew she is just waiting to get the scoop on me, but there’s no more gossip here. (Two parents dead within a year, and no—we haven’t put the house on the market yet so don’t bother asking us what we plan to list it for...)
Needless to say, I’ve driven past Cathy’s house countless times, so when a different neighbor the other night asked me if I’ve ever noticed her son staring out the window in the upstairs room, I looked at them like they were crazy. After all of these years, I had never noticed him. In fact, I never knew Cathy had any kids except for Teddy.
… And a Cross to Bear
As it turns out, Cathy does have a son. He’s my age. He had a girlfriend. He had a good job selling real estate. When the market tanked, so did his job and bye-bye went the girlfriend.
But that’s not the story. We’ve all lost jobs and girlfriends/boyfriends. Life goes on right? Maybe for us. The story here is that he took a shot gun, aimed it at his face and pulled the trigger…
… and lived.
At first the doctor’s wouldn’t do the reconstruction surgery. They asked him point blank if he wanted to live and said that he needed to undergo months of therapy before they would even rebuild his face. This sounded harsh to me at first, but after you realize it wouldn’t just be one surgery, but a succession of surgeries that will test his pain threshold for years (and his will to live) it’s a question that had to be asked and taken seriously. He said “yes,” agreed to the surgeries and now lives with Cathy and Teddy in the beautiful yellow house overlooking the manicured lawn on Wexford Way.
Appearances are Deceiving
I keep thinking about Cathy’s son. The guilt he must live with each day. The depression he must overcome just to get out of bed. And I think about Cathy—the bubbly town gossip who seems to live vicariously through other people’s lives—because her own must be unbearable.
As I passed Cathy’s house for the last time this summer, I couldn’t help but look around and wonder what other incredibly sad stories are lived out each and every day on this street—a perfect little street—from the outside looking in.
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