I Got the BlueCrossBlueShield Blues

The conversation started like this:

Me:  Hello.  I need to file an appeal for a claim that was denied.  Who do I send it to?

BCBS rep:  To the medical review board.

Me:  (Pausing long enough for the rep to give me a complete answer).  Ah, yes, but who do I send it to?

BCBS rep:  (Not pausing at all and in a much clipped voice): You asked who to send it to, you didn’t ask for the address.

 This conversation came at the point where I had rallied the troops, I was loaded and ready to fire.  Rob was seeking medical attention for what looked to us as a benign inflammation on his face.  We entered the system with expectations of professional service.  We were following the rules.  I pay our insurance premiums promptly.  We pay our co-pays.  We sit in the doctor’s offices as Rob gets poked and prodded and listen to them think aloud and mutter technical terms.  HA! I was raised Catholic.  I understand Latin (to an extent).  I ask questions only when I get completely flummoxed, but I want to make sure I understand the answer.  I don’t make a lot of friends on these appointments.

Four long months of bizarre and disturbing diagnoses later, we still have no answers to Rob’s issue with his tissue.  We survived the physical and emotional stress of experiencing some pretty dramatic side effects to medications various ones had prescribed for him.   We finally called a halt to further “treatment” until we had a conclusive answer to what indeed was being treated.  We are over $2,000 in the hole, and his condition is worse than when we started. We had hopes that the fifth doctor that we were seeing would be the one to put us on the right medical course.  This is the doctor whose claim was denied. 

I do wish I knew then what I know now about the logic of the medical insurance scheme.  I would have armed myself with more than my miserable grasp of Latin.

What I really want this to be about is the Power that is more formidable that our current system.  I experience emotions largely.  I go to great heights with love and joy and experience dark depths with sadness and injustices.  That makes me sound rather bi-polar, but truly I’m not – at least not until this all started!  I do have a firm grasp on my senses.  But after four months of this roller coaster existence there was more darkness than light shining in my life.  I crave a balance and this was putting me off kilter.  I was fighting off entering into the depths of despair.  I am concerned about Rob, but I was learning through this foray into the netherworld of insurance how this system is not there for our health benefits at all. 

So, there I was, little Davey ready to duke it out with Goliath.  I read the 14 page manual on how to appeal a claim.  I withstood the indignities of the call centers treating me like an idiot as I scrabbled to compile all the documentation necessary.  I “pestered” the doctor’s office for hours.  I got them to send me the secret notes they write about you when you’re in their office.  I put all the reasons for why this claim should not be denied into a letter.  I gathered my arsenal of papers and letters and claims, clamped them to my clipboard and went to town to talk to the doctor one more time and then pick up something for dinner.  I ran my errands and came home to try and make a semblance of a normal day and put this ugly mess aside for a while.

A few hours later Rob came home and asked me how my day went.  It was dinner time, so I told him to join me in the kitchen while I made dinner and I’d tell him all about it.  My clipboard that I took into town with me earlier also retains my shopping list and the week’s menus for our dinners.  It is as valuable to me as my wallet.  I never let it out of my sight.  It was gone.

I had no fight left.  I was officially in the depths of despair.  My shopping list, my menus, my username and password to a specific website, not to mention all the original-only-copy of my retaliation to the MAN was lost!   I had a solution though.  Shoot me between my eyes.   Quick thinking Rob thought that the first step should rather be that we look for the clipboard.

Like that was going to work.  I knew I left it at the grocery store.  I called – but nothing was turned in.  Rob grabbed me and the car keys and drove us, in stunned silence, to the store.  We searched the area where I had parked.  We searched a few lines of carts.  My brain is whimpering, “Futile.  This is futility.” We wandered into the store, peering at every cart we passed.  I went with Rob to the counter, summoning up the dregs of gumption I had left to ask the clerk, again, if my beloved clipboard had been found. 

And then it was all slow motion.  For some reason we turned to look behind us.  A clerk was handing my clipboard to a manager, saying, “A customer just gave this to me.  She didn’t know it was in her cart.”

 We drove back home.  Again, in stunned silence.

~~Dedicated to my brother George Breed.  He shows up suddenly when I need him, too!

Reforestation

In the spring of 1987 two good friends from New York (let’s call them Maureen and Rob) arrived in Flagstaff to seek, well, to seek nothing really.  We just were here for a visit.  We had no idea that Flagstaff would have such an impact on us as to have us form a mutual and immediate agreement to move across the country and settle here.   We camped in the forest as we sought jobs and housing.  Neither search was easy, but the accommodations in the trees were superb.  If it hadn’t been for the minor detail about needing money for food, we were perfectly content to continue our life in the forest indefinitely.  We had the luxury of traipsing all over the city in search of homes and jobs and all over the forest for contentment.  The area we finally decided to live in was in Timberline. 

Over the course of the next 25 years we lived in various homes, held various jobs, lived separately and together, but always we were in the Timberline area.  That was home to us.  We knew “our” side of the mountain intimately.  We knew individual trees.  We named our favorite hiking destinations.  We walked our dogs daily. We rode our horses up to Schultz Pass tank in the summer.  We had our own wonderland of cross country skiing in the winter.  We knew where to go when one of us said to the other, “I’ll meet you on: ‘Sally’s path,’ or ‘Mikey’s trail,’ or ‘Lover’s Lane.’”

We were not runners when we moved to Flagstaff, nor were we lovers.  The forest was a source of where these seeds of desire where planted in our beings and where they took root.  The deer hill trail and the Waterline road were only a couple of our favorite and easily accessible trails for running.    I was happy enjoying my Shrub Oak running status, while Rob was practicing his Ponderosa Pine endurance.  Our love for each other deepened and our veneration of the forest never waned.  We married and bought a house with a view spanning from Mt. Elden to Sugar Loaf, and we never took it for granted.

The view alone was inspiring, but the need to be outside and in the forest is almost a necessity.  Running fulfills this requirement beautifully.  We both were training for Team Run Flagstaff’s Snowbowl Hill Climb on the morning of June 20, 2010.  We were heading out the door to drive up to Schultz Pass tank and run the Waterline road, as we discussed the night before.  On a whim, I asked Rob if he minded if we changed trails and drive all the way across town and run up Elden Lookout road instead.  We did, and saw other TRF and NATRA runners on the road. It was the longest run I had done in quite some time and although I was ebullient about the distance I had just covered, I was also weary and looking forward to a nice rest once we got home.  Driving back through town we spotted the smoke and sped home.

A deserted campfire and relentless wind are a powerful combination in their destruction.  My pleas to the forces of the wind to take my house and leave the forest went unheeded.   A week later a torrential rain fell on the burn area and the mountain wept rivers of ashes and boulders through the surrounding neighborhood areas.  Countless millions of trees were destroyed.  Untold numbers of animals were killed, injured or displaced. At least one human life was claimed.  Our hearts were broken.

I vowed to the forest that I would protect and nurture its rebirth.  Now, almost 2 years later, a great opportunity by the Forest Service has opened up.  The Flagstaff Ranger District of the Coconino National Forest is inviting volunteers to help replant the Schultz burn area.  I would also like to invite anyone who would like to share in this opportunity to help plant these seedlings of hope.   I would like to give back to the forest the peace and love it germinated in us.  I will plant with the hope that this new generation of trees will take root and become strong so that future generations of people will love, cherish and abide harmoniously in their presence.

The Flagstaff Ranger District of the Coconino National is hosting a volunteer event each Saturday in April – 4/7, 4/14, 4/21 and 4/28. Volunteers interested in signing up for one of these events should contact Brienne Magee at the Flagstaff Ranger District by calling 928-527-8290 or emailing bmagee@fs.fed.us.

Are We Rich Enough?

Some years ago, I was walking along the beach in Southampton with a friend who owns a summer home just to the north in an area just a smidge less affluent.  “I can’t believe how much money these people have to be able to afford a house here,” remarked my friend.  Funny thing was, I was thinking about how much money he has to be able to live his lifestyle.  And I thought about some of my other friends and how they must look at us and wonder how much money we earn to afford our way of life.  There seems to be no ends on the spectrum of wealth.  No matter how much you have, there is going to be someone who has more, and many who have less.

This is a prevailing theme in all areas of life.  No matter how good a cook you are, someone is going to serve up a more magnificent meal.  No matter how poorly you jump rope, someone else will always trip over the cord.  Think you have a clean house?  Someone else’s is shinier.  As talented as you are at writing, millions of other authors are the chosen published ones.

And then there are the back of the pack runners.  We run together back there, not always on a front of solidarity, but mostly because we can’t run fast enough to get away from each other.  We gaze in wonderment at the ease by which the faster runners wing past us.  We breathlessly admire the speed, gracefulness and, seemingly to us, the effortlessness of their gait. They are the envy, as well as the pride, of the gang behind them.  We cheer them and encourage them to go beyond what we strive for in our strides. 

But I have to wonder.  Are they, too, caught up in the dissatisfaction of their limits?  Do they not see themselves as we see them?  They can breathe while they run – what must it be like? Would that it was possible to run in their sneakers and have the experience of barely touching the ground while you run. We share their frustration during their agonies of defeat, because we feel it much more frequently. We can also have a good run and get a taste of triumph in the pace we set. How much different then, are they from us?  Do they have the same conversations among them as we have among ourselves?  Do they beat themselves up too – these idols we chase?  Are we all really just running around in circles or are we running towards our goals?

We are all together on this track. Everything is relative and perspectives can be skewed.  When we acknowledge the strength that is already inherently our own and no one else’s we become aware of our individual wealth.  We can silence the jeering voices in our heads and not allow them to rob us any longer.  We find out that our inner souls are gold plated, our rubber soles have been dipped in bronze and all our hopes have a silver lining.  We are all rich enough. 

Patches

One gets to see all manner of life and lives as an appliance repair person.  And Flagstaff is home to all manner of these lives.  We service the exceedingly wealthy who are in town occasionally to visit their second homes in the gated communities.  We go on calls to the indigent who have been led off the streets or brought in from their camps in the forest by social assistance organizations and are living in shacks that are in dire need of some social assistance of their own.

We were asked to check out a refrigerator in one of these housing authority communities.  We were told the tenant was always home, so we didn’t need to make an appointment.  It was in “the neighborhood.” The neighborhood where the crime level is higher.  The neighborhood where there are chain link fences jailing growling dogs.  The neighborhood where the only landscaping is what will grow despite the broken cemented areas and forgotten refuse.  The neighborhood where landlords charge exorbitant rents for houses and mobile homes that somehow still stand defiantly despite their structures and utilities being absolutely against code.

We walked up to the mobile home’s front door after Rob cautioned me to lock the truck.  The steps were rickety looking, but actually swayed as we were let into the house by the tenant.  The interior belied the exterior – it was in a much cleaner condition than expected.  Tinny strands of an aria were being broadcast through a timeworn radio. The man of the house was of medium height and build with a face that I considered belied his age.  I guessed he was younger than he looked.  His thinning, fine hair sprung from his head.  His eyebrows were triumphant arches over his blood-shot eyes whose crystalline blue still claimed predominance, even in his attempt to avert them.  His shirt was flannel.  His jeans – and they were jeans at one time – were covered in beautifully hand sewn patches of every color and pattern imaginable.   (Later, I told Rob that I actually thought he looked a little like me. Rob replied, “Indeed.  He had the map of Ireland all over his face, too.”)  What he lacked in words he certainly made up for in movement as he darted about the room with anticipation-charged energy – eyebrows arching and hands clapping in what can only be described as delight.

We all squeezed into the kitchen area as Rob opened the refrigerator and proceeded to diagnose the problem.  Rob mumbles a lot, hems and haws, chews his lip and has a decent amount of eyebrow arching himself while he thinks out a problem.  I am Rob’s mind-reading-right-hand man, and tool-provider, but before I could rummage through my toolbox for the flashlight, the man had whipped one out from who-knows-where and was dancing behind Rob to shed the best possible beam.  Rob was only intent on the job before him, but I was beginning to take more notice of this guy. 

I told him I loved the music he was listening to.  He said he only listens to NPR.  The more he spoke, the more I sensed he was beginning to trust, and the longer he would hold eye contact.  He said even NPR is one-sided, but if the media was going to try to manipulate you, he would rather listen to that side.  But he mostly listed to NPR for the classical music because it was so soothing.

Meanwhile, back at the refrigerator -- when Rob would free a screw from the back panel, cheers from the eyebrow gallery were raised; the flashlight beam would spin around the room before resuming its place on the next screw.  When Rob had trouble with the wiring, little hops of piqued energy from the tenant were transmitted to Rob’s fingertips, and sure enough, the flashlight would twirl in celebration as the wiring obeyed.  This guy was getting to me.  I was becoming totally engaged in his vigor.  Rob started feeling it too.  Every successful turn of the screw was being met with applause.  Every unsuccessful attempt at a fix brought a momentary pall to the action.  Flashlights and eyes were twinkling, while Pavarotti was serenading our drama.

Finally – it worked!  The new fan was spinning.  There was an invisible group hug that was felt by all the hearts in the room.  Patches, as I was now beginning to call him in my mind, was ecstatic.  There was no question of the joy he was now experiencing.  Rob and I packed up our tools.  I was a little sad to be leaving.  I enjoyed my time with Patches so much.  But there was something else. Something else that seemed so contradictory to this moment of happiness I was just a part of – that Patches had pulled me into.  He was so thrilled to have been part of fixing his refrigerator, elated that is was fixed, but…

There was no food in the refrigerator.  At all.

Leadville, Colorado

Leadville.  Hump day of the TransRockies 6 day foot race that Rob was once again running.  It was the scene of catastrophe for the pair of runners I was rooting for in 2009.  How would it differ in 2011?

For starters, no one in 2009 clambered to get aboard our 1988 Ford truck with our 1988 Bigfoot camper strapped on its back.    Not so in 2011.  Stage Two of the race ended at Twin Lakes.  The race organizers did have vans aplenty for the runners to travel the 15 miles to the Leadville camp.  But when 5 Flagstaff runners asked if they could hitch a ride with us, we thought, sure, what the heck.  It quickly became reminiscent of the days when college kids would try to squeeze as many of them as they could into a VW bug or a phone booth.  These guys saw an opening and swarmed, lighting into the Bigfoot like senseless moths. Unflappable as I am, I finally closed the door behind the 10^th “passenger,” and swatted the rest of them away.  We recounted the story of the trip to Leadville at the camp dinner that night. Eric, who was also part of the 2009 race, shot out with amazement: “Did they not know the history of that truck?!”

Catastrophe was completely averted as we arrived successfully at camp and everyone exited the clown bus.  Rob ran a very successful, albeit, hard run for himself.  Much unlike 2009 he did not have to jack the truck up after he ran, attempt to fix the brakes, have the truck fall off the jack, and then figure out how to get the truck back up and fixed.  Then take a shower, have dinner, and get some rest so he could run 24 miles with his partner the next day.  This was a vacation compared to 2 years ago.  He had hours available to him to rest.  He doesn’t rest when he’s at home and finishes long runs.  He did not know how to do this thing called rest.  I had to show him.  I demonstrated by lying down in the bed and falling asleep.  I was completely unfazed that he laid there watching me throughout my whole demonstration.  Well, a little fazed.  His eyes finally bored their way into my unconscious until his competing restlessness won out over my nap.

We decided to take a stroll around the town.  Leadville sits at an elevation of about 10,000 feet.  I don’t know what the means of income is for the residents.  It’s a small town.  Many of the homes that aren’t ramshackle are Victorian-like with scalloped eves and painted many colors.  There’s a certain grit to the atmosphere there.  It’s a town of unique individuals.  Many have their teeth still, but many do not.  Most have all their appendages, but some do not.  Many have a certain roughness to their edges, but some are nymph-like as they flit in and out of your life, sprinkling their fairy gritty-dust that quivers your spirit.  The magic of Leadville is palpable.

Leadville invites you to enjoy the experience of living in the present and simultaneously feel the soul of a life from generations ago.  Maybe it’s this duality that unbalances people that live there.  But just maybe it’s the present that is unstable for these residents and they have found their balance there.  Something of consequence has always happened to me when visiting Leadville.

We were walking hand-in-hand as we passed a hovel that was home to some old hippies.  The evening was approaching and the air was changing from the dusty heat of the day to the cool flowery scent of mountain air as it welcomed the twilight’s humidity.  The birds were discovering their last bugs of the day and the townsfolk were discovering the bloom of their early evening high.  As we walked by the hippie house I knew they were watching us – and probably with as much curiosity as I was watching them.  We were different kinds of people.  We wore different kinds of clothes, we engaged in different habits of personal hygiene; we lead different kinds of lives.  These generalizations were pronounced in the few seconds it was taking us to walk by their house.  And yet, there was something that transcended our differences.  The hippies, beer cans in hand, joints singeing fingers, slowly shifted and called out to us, “You guys are beautiful!  You are so in love!”  I was clearly in agreement and answered back that indeed we are and that life is great.  And we thanked them.

It was a moment with a connection.  It was Leadville.