I have the rage. (Yes, again.)
Every year, my husband’s workplace signs us up for a new insurance company. We call it insurance company roulette. I spent several hours on the phone yesterday signing up for the new mail order pharmacy and trying to figure out what the cot of meds would be per quarter. (84o.00, if you’re wondering. Yes, that’s with insurance. Bastards.) Believe it or not, that’s not the cause of this rant.
Here’s why I’m pissed. In spending quality time with said insurance company, I discovered that my kids’ rescue inhalers are not on the list of “approved medications.” Thinking that surely there must be some sort of miscommunication, I must have asked the question five different ways. Same answer every time. I pointed out that I had a prescription from my doctor. Didn’t that mean that it had to be provided? Apparently not.
So I started asking questions. How about birth control – is that on the list of approved meds? Nope. It’s not. But wait! There’s more! Wanna know what is on the approved list? Viagra. Yeah. My insurance company feels that hard-ons are more important than breathing.
In other utter rage inducing news, there’s this. And also this. Here’s the upshot. If you’re in a gay relationship in this country, prepare to have your will, your power of attorney privileges and your medical directives ignored. Prepare to be separated from your partner when one of you is gravely ill and/or dying. Prepare to be relegated to the status of roommate or acquaintance by the medical and legal communities and denied all access to your partner.
Land of the free? Not so much.
(There’s a link to an important petition at the end of the first article. I urge you to sign it.)