|Would you excuse me? I cut my foot before, and my shoe is filling up with blood.|
The hardest time of the month for me is that period between the first of the month and the 15th. That is the period I like to call "Broke Time." My rent check has gone through. All of my utility bills are paid. And I'm finally left with about $200 that I have to stretch and stretch in order to buy the essentials like groceries and shampoo for a very long fifteen days. During "Broke Time," don't even ask me to the movies or dinner because I'll just tell you, "Maybe, you adorable friend," while I really mean, "Look at old money bags over here with his big, fat wallet that can afford to see a movie right now. You know, I always kind of hated him."
Broke Time was particularly hard this month because last week, smack in the middle of Broke Time, I suffered a severe flip-flop injury. How does one suffer a severe flip-flop injury? Well, I'll tell you. I went for a very long walk while also wearing flip-flops. At the end of the night, my left foot sort of hurt. The next day, it still hurt. And now it's been seven days, it continues to hurt, and I think I maybe part of my foot broke off or something because this is not normal. Right?
Now, before you begin your lecture on how flip-flops are a terrible choice for footwear, let me just stop you right there. I hear you. I understand. I already know. But, for fifteen days out of the month, I have $200 to live on. I don't really care much about arch support when I can buy a pair of flip-flops for $5. So, take your amateur podiatrist lectures and drive over to Warren Buffet's house in your solid gold dickmobile because I'm seriously not interested.
This is the part where I apologize for implying that you own a solid gold dickmobile. Also, I'm sure your amateur podiatry lectures are reasonably priced and quite informative. I'm just a little bit testy because of the next part of my story. Are you ready for it?
My mom always said that if something still hurts after seven days, you should definitely get someone to look at it. I decided to go see my doctor, as she tends to be a good judge of these things, due to her many years of medical school. Yesterday, May 14, was the last day of Broke Time and the only day I could get in for an appointment. I had $13 in my bank account, not even half of the amount of money I needed to pay my copay. "Maybe my foot doesn't really hurt that bad," I thought. And then I stepped kind of weird and remembered that, yes, it did actually hurt. I reluctantly handed over my credit card.
My doctor looked at the foot. She didn't scream or anything, so I took that as a good sign. "It's probably just inflamed," she said. And then she wrote me a prescription for an anti-inflammatory cream that was probably just mayonnaise that had gone bad and the President of Hellman's was like, "I know what we can use this for."
I took the prescription to the pharmacy. Now, I know that it isn't the pharmacy's fault that my insurance company is the worst. But I can always tell that they take a certain pleasure in telling me the full price of something when it isn't covered by my insurance. "That will be $472!" they chirp merrily, rather than delivering it the way horrible news should be delivered, which is tied around the ankle of a dead raven.
"That will be $114!" the pharmacy cashier practically tittered when she rang up my anti-inflammatory foot cream.
"Uh, I take it that my insurance isn't covering this," I said.
"Nope!" said the cashier, jolly as ever.
This news was unsurprising, as they refuse to cover the most random things. One time I went in for x-rays, which were covered. But the additional x-rays I had to get afterward weren't.
I didn't even take my credit card out and look at it in utter devastation. I didn't even open my wallet. I just said, "Nope," and limped away.
Now, I would just like to take this moment to say that having health insurance is an incredible privilege, as is having a job that pays me over minimum wage. I am 100 percent aware of the fact that while I'm not doing great or even good, I'm okay. Like if there were a plague epidemic going around, I'd be one of those people who gets a few pustules and a fever for a few days and then recovers and gets out of bed and goes on with my life but with a dark, devastated, lost look in my eyes forever after. I would rather be that than one of those pustule riddled corpses at the very bottom in the corpse wagon that only Old-Eyed Bartholomeus can stand to look at without screaming. I am very, very lucky and do not, for one second, take it all for granted.
But lopping off my leg at the knee and hopping around like some kind of deranged Hershel on The Walking Dead is looking better and better every day.
Just in case it comes to that, does anyone have a saw that I can borrow?