I'll tell ya, folks--once they got ya down, they just keep on poundin', no mercy.
A year or so ago I had to assign all my old debts to an agency called Credit Solutions, because with the expense of MS diagnostics and treatments, I simply had no money to continue monthly payments. Herein the old credits cards are, of course, closed, and new interest supposedly does not continue to accrue.
Nonetheless, I have today received a summons to appear in court by one of these old creditors. They are suing for the amount owed plus interest.
They don't seem to like the idea of the credit solutions route.
This is disheartening, frightening, and stressful for me. The idea of appearing before a court as a deadbeat is not appealing. Where will the money come from? Am I supposed to stop all treatments, discontinue visits to the neurologist, forgo any further MRIs? Sadly, even were I to take those steps, there would still be no money, as we are still paying on the MS bills so far incurred.
Add on top of this the hospital cost for my recent surgery for kidney stones. I don't know yet what the insurance will pay, but the straight, unadjusted bill so far is $13,000.
It may as well be 13 million.
These are the financial, the morale effects that come with MS--those that lurk like storm clouds on the periphery of the day to day struggle--just living with the disease. These are the locks on the chains, the electric fences, the surplus in reality that says No, you are NOT going to be okay after all. Because of MS, you will be hunted not only by symptoms and relapses, but by poverty and legal action.
Life is hard, right? Life's a bitch, and then you die. We've heard it over and over, and yet somehow, deep down, will not believe.
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Showing posts with label healcare costs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label healcare costs. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
What We Have Here Is A Failure To Communicate
Given my current financial situation, I am hoping that the economy continues to slip (though dive would be preferable) such that we will find ourselves in a true Great Depression mode, prompting a return to the days when those who could not pay for services in cash were allowed by the individual philanthropist to pay in potatoes (or some such other potable good).
I have plenty that might be traded along these lines--bushels of apples in the summer, for instance (God knows I don't want the damn things), strawberries from my garden, zucchinis, green onions.
I also have two dogs that could be traded off for some small consideration. Well, the big one anyway. The small dog honestly ain't worth a pinch of snuff, and I have too much personal integrity to dishonor myself in an uneven transaction.
In addition, being an at least marginally able-bodied worker, on a good day, I might also make payment in labor--painting houses, mowing lawns, providing sexual favors, that sort of thing.
Here's the trouble: I have at present a neurologist, a dentist, and an ophthalmologist telling me that I must receive treatment if I want to maintain any sort of livable existence. The clear implication is that I would be stupid not to do so. My few remaining teeth will soon flee, my MS will relapse, my sight will grow dim. Within weeks I will transform to the likeness of the Hunchback of Notredame.
And I agree with these folks. I really do. I certainly do not mean to be recalcitrant or obtuse.
Yet we seem completely unable to communicate. Because they do not understand the the words No money. No matter how many times I say the words, no comprehension results. It is as if I were speaking in some rare dialect of Mandarin or Swahili. The words go in one ear and out the other. They are meaningless, impotent.
The doctors stare right through me, listening but not hearing. And then they say I very strongly advise you to do this. You will be very unhappy if you do not.
Of course I will. I know. I agree. But, you see, I HAVE NO MONEY!
Good Lord.
Nor do I have money for medications. Protonix, Lexapro, Baclofen, Provigil, Ropinoril. All have seen their final refill. Until that lottery ticket pans out.
What luxury, what comfort must reside in the ignorance of want.
No money? No money? What can it mean? No money? Why, the man is either mad or an idiot. Doesn't he know that it grows on trees?
I have plenty that might be traded along these lines--bushels of apples in the summer, for instance (God knows I don't want the damn things), strawberries from my garden, zucchinis, green onions.
I also have two dogs that could be traded off for some small consideration. Well, the big one anyway. The small dog honestly ain't worth a pinch of snuff, and I have too much personal integrity to dishonor myself in an uneven transaction.
In addition, being an at least marginally able-bodied worker, on a good day, I might also make payment in labor--painting houses, mowing lawns, providing sexual favors, that sort of thing.
Here's the trouble: I have at present a neurologist, a dentist, and an ophthalmologist telling me that I must receive treatment if I want to maintain any sort of livable existence. The clear implication is that I would be stupid not to do so. My few remaining teeth will soon flee, my MS will relapse, my sight will grow dim. Within weeks I will transform to the likeness of the Hunchback of Notredame.
And I agree with these folks. I really do. I certainly do not mean to be recalcitrant or obtuse.
Yet we seem completely unable to communicate. Because they do not understand the the words No money. No matter how many times I say the words, no comprehension results. It is as if I were speaking in some rare dialect of Mandarin or Swahili. The words go in one ear and out the other. They are meaningless, impotent.
The doctors stare right through me, listening but not hearing. And then they say I very strongly advise you to do this. You will be very unhappy if you do not.
Of course I will. I know. I agree. But, you see, I HAVE NO MONEY!
Good Lord.
Nor do I have money for medications. Protonix, Lexapro, Baclofen, Provigil, Ropinoril. All have seen their final refill. Until that lottery ticket pans out.
What luxury, what comfort must reside in the ignorance of want.
No money? No money? What can it mean? No money? Why, the man is either mad or an idiot. Doesn't he know that it grows on trees?
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