Post Surgery Week 11: This Is Not A Rant

Tuesday., August 6

This is not a rant, not really.  Because, really:  who am I to complain?

In the world of health care in the grand old United States of America in the year 2019, I have it pretty darn good.  I happen to work for a Swedish company, and coincident with the Swedish values, we have exceptional health insurance.  I knew the deal was great back when we got absorbed by this company in an acquisition several years ago, and I learned that my portion of my health insurance bill would be zero.  That’s right:  a goose egg.  A big fat donut.  Zilch.  Nada.  Health insurance for free?  Who doesn’t love that?

And then a few years later, when Ed and I were planning to get married, I suggested that we put him on my plan at work.  Ed has been free-lance for pretty much his entire career, so he has always had to provide his own health insurance.  He loved, loved, loved the early years of Obamacare.  He loved his health insurance, and the premiums were finally reasonable.  So he said he wouldn’t switch over to my insurance unless the premiums were a lot cheaper.  It took me some digging to find the answer to “how much will it cost to add a spouse to my insurance”, and when I found out, we both fell off our chairs.  The answer was, again:  zero.  Nada.  Nil.  Zilch.

Who ever heard of that?  Health insurance for your entire family, and no premiums?

So, really, who am I to complain?  I have great coverage for my knee surgery.  The downside of the free premium is that there’s a high deductible and high out of pocket limit, but in the big picture, what is seven grand for a new knee?

I looked at the hospital bill the other day, and decided I really should not complain.  Between the hospital and the surgeon and the anesthesia and all the attendant charges, this bionic knee carries a price tag of somewhere around $84,000.  The knee itself, listed as “other supplies”, was $32,000.  My part of all that is done, paid, complete.  When I find myself grousing about the fact that I’m paying for my PT now out of pocket, well, big deal.  In the grand scheme of things, it’s really not so much, especially when you consider the people who lose their life savings, and their homes, and their jobs because they don’t have health insurance.

And speaking of people losing their jobs, well, why don’t I just shut my trap right now?  I have incredibly good disability insurance, and the company pays for that, too.  I moaned and bitched (a little) (well, maybe more than a little) about the process of getting my short term disability claim filed, but once it was in motion:  wow.  The STD coordinator checked in with me once a week or so, and kept approving the time I was out of work.  My doc’s office was great about responding to the insurance, also, so I didn’t miss any pay at all.  In fact, I was out of work for six weeks full time, and then two more weeks at half time, and I could have stayed out much longer if I had needed to.  I may moan and bitch (a little) (well, maybe a bit more than a little) about my job from time to time, but holy gee-whizzakers.  Unless you’re in the CEO racket, it doesn’t get much better than getting paid to heal.

So, really, who am I to complain?

I mean, really:  I had a surgery that will, hopefully, at some time in the next year, allow me to return to all my activities, and to do so pain free.  So what if my freaking knee hurts.  A little sometimes.  A lot at other times.  It’s getting better, little by little, even if I am slow to admit that because I become Debbie Downer and complain all the time.  So what if I miss a little sleep?  I have a doctor and all of his staff who are intent on getting me through this, and they will keep prescribing treatments and drugs until I can get through the night.  And slowly, slowly, day by day, and week by week, I will have less pain and walk more normally and eventually ride a bike outside again.  I’m learning to shelve the expectation that I’ll run again.   Who knows?  Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.  But there’s no use complaining about any of that just now.

I mean, why should I complain when one of my best friends is going through treatment for Stage 2 breast cancer?  I still have all my hair, and none of the scare of all those nasty chemo drugs.  My surgery is behind me, and hers is yet to come, and then there is still radiation and immunotherapy, and, you know what?  She is handling this with such grace that I am humbled every day.  Why should I complain when my sister-in-law’s brother is in a hospital today, awaiting double bypass and lung transplant surgery?  His lung has been deteriorating fast;  he’s been turned down twice already for transplants;  now he’s just waiting for an available lung.  Why should I complain?  Why should I complain when a good friend is dealing with the scare of a return of prostate cancer?  Strike that:  I have TWO good friends going through this scare right now.  And another friend just wrote to tell me that her dad - early 80s - just died, suddenly, unexpectedly, in the richness of a full and active life.  And this same friend’s mum has early Alzheimer’s, and what do they all do now?

I mean, really:  today I got up for an early morning meeting, and was able to sit outside later while it was still deliciously cool out and have breakfast with my husband (his yummy French toast, with fresh berries, and real maple syrup that a friend brought us from the family trees in upstate New York).  I had some meetings, filed some emails, ran some reports, created some spreadsheets and updated others.  Then I went for a walk outside, being careful not to limp.  I took some mild drugs, and iced my knee, and hooked it up to the TENS machine.  I’ll finish up some other work, and then I’ll be off.  Off to PT, with a therapist I like and trust.  And then to Pilates!  Yes, yes, yes - approved for Pilates and looking forward to the soreness I am sure to have in my abs, my arms, my whatever tomorrow morning.  Then Ed and I will struggle with the decision of where we go for our vacation later this year:  both of us praying that I’ll be mobile enough to have at least something of the adventure we’ve come to love.

And then we’ll sit down with a glass of wine and an old episode of M*A*S*H on TV.  I’ll hook up the ice machine, and take a gabapentin so I can sleep through the night.  And I promise - for this one moment in time - that I will have absolutely nothing to complain about.