A Most Un-Ladylike Rant

there was no urge she could not suppress
From Anne Taintor

Why I am I not writing about my Lap-Band? Um, well, it’s because I’m FURIOUS. You see, I’m not so good at being furious. Even here on the internet, where the harshest yelling is just CAPS LOCK, I have a bit of trouble showing my anger. See, I was raised to be quiet, polite and unobtrusive. Even though it was okay for my dad to explode on a regular-yet-unpredictable basis, that kind of behavior was totally unacceptable from my pretty little head. I’ve worked through this with humor and with lots of therapy, but I still feel quite a bit uncomfortable about being angry. It isn’t ladylike. It isn’t prudent. It isn’t logical. Of course, if I had learned to yell or vent or anything instead of stuff my emotions I’d be a much healthier individual.

But since I still often try to tap-dance around the rage thing, I’ve tried to be nice here - to see the ways that I’m failing (and yes, there is always room to look at that area and make improvements). But I can no longer escape the reality of my overwhelming feelings. I’m absolutely furious at my clinic. My insurance claim was rejected again (remember the first 2 times it was rejected out of hand because my clinic NEVER BOTHERED TO SEND THE INFORMATION TO MY INSURANCE, even though I was told repeatedly they had). Now my clinic sent them 70 pages of faxes, but it’s not what my insurance needed, and from my review, much of what they sent was incorrect. For example, they say I have diabetes and hypertension. Um, huh? I have no idea where they pulled that information out of. Maybe all their clients develop diabetes from how incredibly sweet they are BEFORE surgery and then develop hypertension from how incompetent and unhelpful they are AFTER surgery?

I have spent HOURS on the phone and have gotten virtually nowhere. Now I’m being billed by the clinic AND the facility and everyone is treating me like I have leprosy. (Perhaps I do? Perhaps I should shower more often?) My clinic claims they’ve never had this much trouble with my insurance before. I find that incredibly hard to believe, seeing as how their incompetence so far has been stunning.

Add to the insurance woes the fact that I STILL DO NOT HAVE SUFFICIENT RESTRICTION and I’m a very very unhappy little girl. Yes, I’ve lost another few pounds. The scale is now bouncing between 276-279 and it’s that time of the month, so I’ll commit to a real number next Friday when things balance out with hormones and bloating and all that other TMI. I’ve also been under an incredible amount of emotional stress, so I should be glad that I’ve been able to lose weight under the circumstances (instead of gaining 20 pounds + like I have before). Unfortunately, the lack of restriction and inability to get in for fills in a timely fashion, combined with the possibility that I may end up with a $20,000 bill partly due to the incompetence of my clinic is only adding to my stress level.

So, 2 pounds in 6 weeks. I’m unhappy. I’m very frustrated. And I put off writing about it because it’s not very ladylike to rage and fume.

Here’s what I want to say: RUN. Don’t go to my clinic. They are so sweet and supportive BEFORE you have your surgery. THEN they jerk you around. You can’t get in for fills. When you do, they are way too conservative. It will take you 6 months to get to the right restriction, and they will lecture you on alternate visits about things you already know – one time they will commiserate with you and promise to get you at the right fill level, and the next visit they will shame you for creating all your own issues and tell you that you have to do all the work, not the Band. They will not file the proper documents with your insurance. They will write erroneous information in your file, causing your insurance to distrust you for being late, and for lying. They will tell you that every other insurance claim goes just fine and only you are being difficult. They will make you regret you ever bought their lies, had surgery, and got a freaking Lap-Band in the first place.