You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me!

Frustration can be a mean and ugly thing.

Today I was beyond frustrated, which means I was not only mean and ugly, I was also exasperated, pissy, and irritated.

Yeah, not a good combo.

Last week we took the Cheese to see an ophthalmalic plastic surgeon. He was born with the muscle in his right eye lid not fully developed, leaving him with a droopy eye lid. He’s seen ophthamologist since he was a wee little thing and even had surgery (twice) when he was 3-years-old.

Now it’s time for another surgery.

We knew that this was coming, so we shopped around a little for the best guy around. We got the necessary referrals to go and see him and now he wants to do a surgery to finally get his eye lid up to where it should be. We got it scheduled last Friday and all was good.

Until today when I received notice from our insurance company that the surgery was denied. Can they do that? Can they deny a surgery that a doctor is saying that he has to have? Uh, apparently so.

The surgery was scheduled a mere four days ago and we’ve already received a denial notice in the mail. They sure work pretty darn fast when they don’t want to pay for something.

Ah, yes. Our fabulous insurance system at its finest.

Without going into boring details, we’re in an appeal process. Yeah, that’s right people, I can work pretty darn fast too when I want something. Just ask my husband or my mom or my dad. When I want something, I’m going to bug the shit out of you until I get it. And when it’s something for my child’s health and wellfare? You’d better be wearing a helmet because I’m coming after you.

But I can’t help but continue to be frustrated about the situation even after a glass of wine. (“It’s 5 o’clock somewhere…”) Why does it have to be so damn hard? Why is insurance always such a pain in the butt? We pay good money every month so that when these things come up our insurance will do their part.

Somewhere in a big building made of metal and glass there is a nerdy little guy in a suit, his pockets full of cash, laughing and calling us all “suckers.”

It’s their job to make it hard on you. They’ve got to make you work for it. They’ve got to assign you a case worker and make you feel like you are being difficult just because you want to have the absolute best possible doctor to CUT ON YOUR SON’S FACE.

In the midst of my frustration, I surfed the web for something to take my mind off of the things that I can’t control, no matter how much I want to. I wound up visiting Kate over at sweet salty and was quickly reminded how much worse it could be.

Poor Kate lost a baby a few years ago and often writes about her difficulties with the loss. Why do I torture myself reading her blog, you ask? Mostly because I like her writing, and like a lot of bloggers who are strangers, you get drug into their story and feel compelled to check on them every once in a while to see how they are doing.

And often, reading her blog puts things into perspective for me, that maybe…just maybe…I don’t have it all that bad.

So after a quick read of her latest post, I calmed down. I was still feeling pretty mean and ugly about the whole insurance pain-in-my-ass situation, but the fact is that I have two healthy sons and that this surgery–although very important to my son’s vision and self-image–isn’t a life or death situation.

But it might become that if someone at our insurance company doesn’t approve this surgery because I might just have to kill the guy who’s doing all of this denying. Yeah, I’m gonna call up Sara Palin and ask to barrow one of the moose guns she’s not currently using. I’ll be like Denzel Washington in that movie where the insurance company won’t pay for his son’s heart transplant, except I’ll be toting a big ass moose gun and the rage that only a mother can bring.

To quote my mother’s famous rhetorical question: “Do you want some more wine? I do.”

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