I H C

In my world, IHC now stands for I Hate the Custom wheelchair shop.  Why you ask?  Well, let me tell you.  Sometime in June, the power wheelchair Chris has broke.  It was seriously the umpteenth time the chair required service since it had been purchased.  Normally you can just call the wheelchair shop, and they will come and pick it up, and attempt to repair it.  Somewhere between the last time it had been serviced and June, Medicare decided to change guidelines regarding this particular benefit.
Now one is required to get a prescription for wheelchair repair explaining the medical necessity of the repair, verify the chair was purchased through the repair entity, and cross your fingers, arms, and legs while praying to the wheelchair gods that the chair will be repaired.  It's kind of like hoping the Utah Jazz will have a post-season.  Not ever gonna happen.  And, not to mention, how obvious would it be that a person who is wheelchair-bound needs a wheelchair?  (After you read the entire post, do you think Obamacare would be as bad as the health care system currently in place?  Think about it.)
Back to the story.  After trying to get the chair serviced for 3 months, my PT and OT friends convinced me it would be easier to get a new power chair than to repair the old chair, and then Chris would get a chair better designed for the consistent decline that comes with multiple sclerosis.  We met with the person from IHC that orders such things, and got things moving along.  Medicare now requires you to meet face to face with the doctor, in case you were faking so you could get cool durable medical equipment.  Due to a combination of factors, it did take a bit of time to get in to the doctor.  The doctor signed the paperwork, sent in a prescription, and the waiting period began.
After a while, it was suspiciously quiet on the wheelchair front.  Chris began to decline in some areas, due to having a wheelchair that isn't effective for the current conditions of the disability.  The home care nurse and I tried to reach the fancy pants wheelchair representative, without any returned calls.  Finally the home care nurse did reach someone, and they informed her the wheelchair had been denied, because the doctor hadn't explained the medical necessity of the specialized equipment that was being requested.  They did manage to exert enough energy to call Chris to say, "You've been denied."  When I finally spoke with a human, it turned out that the doctor note, and the physical therapist recommendation was insufficient to warrant the equipment according to Medicare guidelines.  We would have to go back to the doctor, get a new prescription, have the PT rewrite her letter, but then we'd be "golden."  Uh, ok.  So if we start over, rewrite everything, and re-submit the paperwork, then she could have a chair?  And you call that golden?  And for some reason, waiting from knowing this information in January, and telling us in April was sufficient customer service?  I don't think so.
At least this time, IHC faxed me the medical information that was required, so I could ensure the doctor addressed each area.  We left the doctor appointment with signed paperwork in hand, and I called the PT to ask her if she could rewrite her letter.  Now, to Chris's advantage, the PT had been fuming all week since she heard about the insult to her professional abilities, and was sufficiently outraged by the time I spoke with her.  Might I also mention that her Australian accent becomes incredibly strong when she's annoyed?  Redoing the letter was not an option, so I agreed to meet her at the IHC wheelchair shop in person the next day to resolve the situation.
I'm not going to explain everything that happened at the wheelchair shop, but I will tell you it involved more employees joining the shop's lobby, a supervisor, several business cards, some Kleenex, an immediate call to the doctor's cell, and some unpleasant things being said, none of which were said by myself, the doctor, or the PT.  I'm going to let you imagine what might have happened, and perhaps, just perhaps, in a few weeks I will have calmed down enough to relate the tale to you personally.
After I left the office and returned to work, I received two more phone calls from the custom wheelchair shop.  The first was to let me know that the prescription had arrived from the doctor, and that when the PT delivered the re-written note (which really only needed a date change)at 7 AM Monday morning, and when the rest of the paperwork was returned signed from the doctor, also on Monday morning, the paperwork would be submitted to the insurance company that day.  I will be waiting for the 7 AM call, and the call to tell me it has been transmitted to the insurance.
The second call was to tell me they had audited Chris's file, and would be mailing me the contact log between all parties related to the wheelchair, and also that a loaner power chair would be delivered on Wednesday.  Hmm.  Fascinating.
Well IHC, I'm just so glad you have the vision of "extraordinary care in all its dimensions", because it seems like you've got the extraordinary ability to screw up beyond any excuse that could be provided.  So, no, I won't click "like" for you on facebook.
















 

I'm still too pissed to blog about it.

What is the world coming to when the blind lady can't get a talking glucometer, and the non-ambulatory lady with MS can't get a wheelchair?  In the immortal words of Avril Lavigne, "What the hell."  And no, I do not ask you to pardon my French.

Words for Wednesday

As my usual oppositional self, I've decided to do the exact opposite of my SIL.  She does a wordless Wednesday blog, and sometimes I'm lucky enough to have her forget it is supposed to be wordless.  Of course my motivation comes from my niece, who has already blogged more this year than I have, and she just started a blog.  Oh, did I mention she's only 10 years old?  Man, I'm a slacker.

Today's words come from the student teacher I've had in my classroom.  After her first day taking over the classroom, she said, "I didn't know teaching children was this exhausting."  Yup.  Just like my blog title, it's true!

The fish are starving.

When you visit my blog, you are supposed to feed the fish.  They are starving, and it's all your fault.

I'm not trying to be awesome...

I finally took enough classes that I became burned into their memory...
UEN Teacher Feature

The Toaster

The toaster, like the coffee maker, and the cereal boxes are somewhat of novelty items I keep in the kitchen. I keep the toaster and the coffee maker unplugged to save energy, and to avoid the possibility that the urban tale of a house fire caused by an unattended coffee maker is actually reality. I'm pretty sure the lack of use of these items on my counter stem from my lifelong hate-hate relationship with mornings.

Yes, I said hate, and I really mean it. I have never found myself waking up before noon and being happy to be awake, let alone alive. My first words uttered at least 3 days of the week are, "Mornings suck." I'm certain I hear myself say, "Shut up!" to the alarm clock at least twice this week. I really make an effort when traveling to avoid east-facing windows at all costs. I don't desire to see the sun rise, and I have some very creative and tortured thoughts about what should happen to the songbirds outside my windows when I wake.

And to make matters worse, I didn't bother to take into account what hours I would be required to function when choosing a career that requires me to be at work early in the morning, and to be functional as well. If I were smarter, I would have focused on a career that allowed me to sleep until noon, or at least fake it until then. While it rarely happens, I do harbor a wee bit of jealousy at my brother as he was smart enough to go with a company the offers the swing shift.

I also think, on a deep psychological level, my hate of mornings relates to that idea that we reject what we need the most. You see, I have seasonal affective disorder, that thing you've heard of when people don't get enough sunlight. Like the people in Alaska, Portland, and Seattle. Yep, it's true, and therefore ruling out any possibility that I am a zombie, or a vampire. The whole adoption possibility is still wide open.

I only bring this up since fall is arriving, and it has been on my mind lately. No, not being an adopted zombie. While taking medication helps, medication does not create any actual sunlight, therefore still requiring me to be hyper-aware of how much time I spend outside as the light changes. And while most people don't really care, the federal government decision to adjust the times of Daylight Saving Time has really made life more difficult. Just as I get used to the light changes, the time changes, leaving my best months of the year to be May, June, July, and August.

And I'm sure you are wondering, how exactly did we get to this discussion from a toaster? Well, because the last time I used the toaster, to make BLT sandwiches for dinner, the toaster smelled like something was burning deep inside. I buy bread with assorted grains and seeds inside and on top of each slice, and I always wonder where the little seeds go when they fall off. But I digress. Due to an unfortunate miscalculation, which I will save for another post, I have 20 eggs still in the refrigerator, and I happened to be hungry at 10 A.M. I determined that toast and eggs were a logical solution to this problem, but I was wary of making toast.

Then I discovered something amazing. There's a little flap on the bottom of the toaster that can be opened, and you can get all the little crumbs and missing seeds back, if you still want them. If not, you can put them in the trash. And while I am sure I may have known about this secret compartment before, I found it incredible that at 36 I finally learned how to clean out a toaster. And then I thought about the coffee maker and the cereal boxes, and well, I needed something to do while my bread was toasting. And good morning to you too.

Dear Comcast,

For the past 3 months I have been experiencing difficulties with my high-speed internet service. You claim it is my home network, which you don't support, and suggest that I just plug my modem directly into my computer and bypass the network. The last time we spoke about my problem, you were quite delighted to tell me that I was getting much better quality than what I pay for, leading me to question if I actually want to pay real money for what you call "quality". I can't wait until the next time we talk, because I know you weren't counting on me learning more about the website you used to share how great the "quality" is of my line, and using it to track my internet service so at some point I could prove it is indeed you that sucks. I am looking to your fascinating explanation of my service, since each time I tested it I did bypass the home network, and now, dear Comcast, you look like the ridiculous over-priced lazy fools you really are. Have a great day, and I'm hoping that very soon, I will be spending my hard-earned money with another company that sucks less than you.

From,
Me

PS I highly recommend Speedtest for those of you who want to check your service to see if you get what you pay for.