Private Insurance

This motherfucker is killing me. I have been on the phone all day and writing documents, and this bitch is not answering me again.

I know he is scared. I know that he is not the type to concern himself with the future.

But it’s got to be, at a minimum, Stage III squamous cell carcinoma. Stage IV is possible. There is no other combination.

It’s statistically improbable that it is anything else, but we can’t know until he goes to the fucking doctor.

I have researched every possible outcome. I have flowcharts from the best-case scenario to the worst-case scenario. I have researched dermatologists, oncologists, and which hospitals are best. Whatever happens, I have the answer. I know everything. This is just how I work. It’s chess. Always think three moves ahead.

But this chess game is life or death. Literally.

I called some brokerages, and private insurance will take him because he has no medical history. I’m not terribly certain of the coverage. I hate it when I know {D} has the answer to my question and I can’t ask.

I don’t know if you should trust private health insurance, but it’s cheaper than the biopsy per month, so the first month pays for itself?

He did respond and was dragging his feet on it. I told him if it was the money, I would pay it tomorrow because he will have coverage Friday if we do it.

He didn’t respond.

I was like, I need you to understand how bad this is. I need you to not do this. I need you to just do what I’m telling you right fucking now.

Here is the text:

9:41 PM

Listen, he isn’t saying that. I am. I am deeply concerned right now.

Listen, my plan is to get you insured and to urgent care so they can look at you and hear the symptoms. I want a doctor to physically look at it. They can get you in with the dermatologist faster. They might want to do some other diagnostics quickly. The big deal is having them check the lymph nodes.

You can be insured by Friday if we do this tomorrow. We have you looked at Friday or Monday if you need to wait until you’re off.

It is private health insurance. It’s a little different. But it’s what we can do. I just wanted to check on a couple of things, but it’s cheaper than the biopsy, so I think it’s worth it, especially if we can get something like a six-month term. That was one of my questions.

10:10 PM

You hate long texts, so I’m trying to be short.

The worst-case scenario is not fucking good. I need you to understand that.

I have a plan. I have spreadsheets and flowcharts. You have no clue about me sometimes.

The probable likely scenario is still not good.

I need you to be ready.

Things could start moving really fucking fast. Testing is first. They might want those tests ASAP, and when those come back, there are decisions to make.

I need you ready for that.

That’s legal, so I’m getting some documents together for you. I used to do estate planning, and I’m a notary. I know this part well.

You need to think about a couple of things.

1. Pain Management.

There is a possibility of invasive surgery that will require opioids. I have a pain management plan written that would let them know there is a history and that you want the least amount possible and want to avoid them unless necessary.

Okay, that is just something to have and give doctors. They will take it seriously.

2.

You will want to give someone the right to make medical decisions for you if you can’t. Mom, sisters, someone you trust. You can do all three or anyone else. You just need that.

3.

I know you probably don’t want to freak anyone out, but you should have someone with you for the first couple of appointments because shit can get crazy and confusing, and decisions happen faster than anyone can process them.

I will gladly do that for you if you don’t want to tell anyone anything yet, since I already know.

Just please take someone with you.

It could be nothing, but it’s probably not.

4.

I need you to think financially about what would happen if you had to take three months off work.

I don’t know your situation, your savings, or anything like that. I know, just from knowing the market, that you have money in your home worst case, so I’m not worried about you there as much, but it’s just something to think about.

The number one rule in life is never lie to your doctor or your lawyer.

{S}, I cannot stress how not good this looks right now.

If it is the money, I will pay that tomorrow. Just hit me back when you can.

Don’t let pride prevent you from going to the doctor.

I know. I know it’s scary. I know you don’t want help. I know you are concerned about appearances.

Now is not the time.

And honey, I’m not the person who is ever going to judge you for anything.

Please, if it’s that you’re scared, that’s okay. If it’s money, we will figure it out. If it’s embarrassment, there is no need to worry.

This needs to happen right now. Right now. Immediately.

Do not be stubborn. Do not freeze. Do not think it will just go away.

{S}, the worst case is something I can’t handle, so don’t do it to me. Okay?

I am here to help you. I know I’m a pain in the ass, but I get shit done.

But first step: insurance.

That MUST happen tomorrow.

So, do you want to call him early and do the application, and then I can make the payment if you need me to?

Do you need me to?

Please answer me.

10:26 PM

Bro, I need you to answer these three questions. Just yes or no.

1. Will you call him early and do the application?
2. Do I need to pay for it tomorrow?
3. Can you go Friday? If not, Monday?

11:05 PM

Please answer me.

Understand me when I say this: we are looking, probably statistically and mathematically, at Stage III squamous cell carcinoma with your combination of symptoms.

You will need surgery, radiation, and immunotherapy. They will have to do surgery on the lymph nodes in your collarbone and under your arm.

I am concerned that the pain went away. I think it’s basically eating the nerves. That’s why the pain comes and goes. It attacks the nerve, there is pain, and then it kills the nerve.

If the groin pain is related, shit is really bad.

Do you fucking understand me?

Sweetie, I don’t freak out about shit like this. Okay? Please. Please.

And I will say I could be wrong. But it doesn’t look like I am, and the only way to know is to get you to the doctor.

Now.

Right fucking now.

Because if I’m right, sweetie, this is fucking serious.

Then I sent him the symptom list to give to the doctor, his pain management plan, and the advance directive.

If nothing else, he has those.

Stage IV squamous cell carcinoma has a survival rate of 6–26%.

I am so worried.

I worry about everyone and everything.

{Dr. H} told me she wasn’t an oncologist or a map. That’s not good. That’s an inside joke that means bad shit.

But we won’t know unless it gets biopsied.

And I don’t know if he is going to do it.

I need to figure out a way not to let it affect me because I have not been okay today.

I’m probably not going to be okay tomorrow either.

I can’t do anything.

I am not his mom or his wife or anybody.

I can’t do a fucking thing.

I had let it go, and then I saw it.

I hadn’t seen it in a year.

Until last night.

And it’s classic.

It looks like every picture, every drawing.

The symptoms align perfectly.

Like every symptom.

You can’t know for certain unless you get testing done. Biopsies. CTs. PET scans.

And I just need to get him through the door.

And it’s like herding fucking cats.

Fucking stubborn, stupid fucking bastard.