So, before we left New Zealand, I got 3 months worth of our meds to see us through. I was sure that 3 months would be plenty. I mean, there's affordable healthcare available, right? And besides, it would just be temporary, right?
$1,700 a month is not bloody affordable!
We had gone into the clinic last month at the bequest of my son's school. That's a whole nother story. Basically it wound up with my nine year old handcuffed in the back of a police cruiser, screaming his brains out, on his way to an emergency psychiatric ward. Except he's too young for them to deal with either, so they sent us away. At least they gave me a prescription for a month worth of meds for him. Stronger meds. Except he can't come off them. If he does, we're not sure what could happen. But it would be bad.
Flash forward to last week. I suddenly realize that my meds have run out and my son's are getting really low. I have an appointment at the clinic in a few weeks, so my husband convinces me to go there and beg for mercy, and schedule my son in at the same time. They can't give me a prescription. They are booked as far out as their system goes and can't give my son an appointment. Seriously? Crap.
So I come off my meds because I don't feel like sitting for hours in urgent care and immediately delve into a black hole of self loathing. None of my clothes fit. I have to go buy yet another bigger size. Bad idea in my current mindset. I go in the change room with 2 pairs of pants, 3 shirts, and a dress. All of which make me resemble a stuffed sausage. I can't even get the jeans over my gargantuan thighs. So I leave. Of course, on the way out of the store, I find a pretty pot and 3 gorgeous scarves. The purchase of which makes me later feel horrible when I get home and am faced with the full length mirror. I don't deserve pretty things.
Anyway, after crying for 2 days straight, my husband tells me he's not letting me not take my meds. That's how I wound up sitting in urgent care yesterday afternoon, next to my son yelling at his Thor character on his Nintendo DS and watching some show about rednecks who catch snakes. I think if you added all their teeth together, you may find that they still don't have as much as one adult should have.
Finally, the nurse calls us back. And she wants to weigh me. I break out in a cold sweat. I've been treating scales like the evil undead for awhile now. You see, I'm on thyroid medication, and the doctors refuse to believe me that the levels are wrong. So I've been putting on weight. Fast. Basically, I ended 2011 at a fairly comfortable size 10/12. I've begun 2013 at a tight 16/18. This is with dieting and exercising my ass off!
When I was 9 months pregnant with my son, I was 180lbs. The heaviest I've ever been. Until now. I'm now over 200lbs! I now have a goal of loosing over 60lbs. A goal which doesn't seem feasible. And actually, it is completely impossible until I can get a doctor to actually listen to me and adjust my medication.
So we're sitting in the sterile exam room and the doctor comes in. Instantly I feel like I'm a druggie just after a fix. Yeah, thyroid medication and anti depressants give you the best high. He asks, "Why did you leave New Zealand? It's so pretty there!"
I reply, "Yeah, and it rains constantly. But more, we thought that there would be more opportunity here." And once I get started, I find I can't stop. "But it seems the land of opportunity is a dried up barren wasteland of pain and suffering," I continue. "And people are so close to the edge of poverty that they don't care who they have to claw and fight their way over, or stab in the back just to survive. It isn't even about getting ahead anymore! It's just getting the basic needs met. And I've been trying to get some sort of insurance going, but it's like we can eat and have a roof over our heads, or have medical insurance. It seems kind of pointless to have medical insurance if you're starving to death on the street....This is why I need the fluox," I finish lamely.
And all this time, my son is taking pictures of everything with his DS. I'm actually a little afraid that he's also recording my rant.
The doctor then says, "K. I'll be right back." I figure he's getting a social worker. I'm about to be locked in the high security ward. But no, he comes back a few minutes later and explains that he can't give my son's full strength of medicine, that has to come from a psychiatrist, and it's only for 1 month. If I come back next month, they can't do it again. "So, you know, get something sorted out soon."
Why didn't I think of that?! Thank you, fuckwit! Get something sorted! Duh! Oh, wait, no, THAT'S WHAT I WAS JUST RANTING ABOUT!
I'm just so relieved when doctors actually listen. Oh, that's right. THEY DON'T!