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Blogs by Robert A. Mills
PLS 7/13/2013 9:11:07 AM
The Numero Uno neurologist, my favorite of the bunch, decided he no longer wants Medicare subscribers as patients, so he tossed me to the wolves. A call several months ago from his secretary informed me to seek out another provider. Too bad. I really liked this fellow; he diagnosed my Primary Lateral Sclerosis with one MRI reading (by a neuro-radiologist) and just two visits.
The least he could have done is made a referral. But he did not.
One practioner I went to on my own told me rather bluntly, I have no clue what ails you, fella. I think you had best go see someone smarter than me.
He recommended a particular doctor in another county; he too did not accept Medicare, but he was formerly head neurologist at Emory U., so I bit the bullet and went to him anyway. It cost me a small fortune, after driving 6 hundred thousand miles.
Even so, what a relief it was, after five neurologists, to finally find one who knew what my malady was. And then he temporarily dumped me rather than bill my case through Medicare! He apparently changed his mind; I was told that his secretary misunderstood; he would still see me but he would avoid all NEW patients with Medicare!
You understand, I was told during my last visit with Numero Uno, there is no treatment and no cure. It is not fatal and it is not painful, but it is progressive and you have it permanently. If you want to, go to the Mayo Clinic, he said.
Will it help? I asked, naively.
No, he replied. But they will corroborate my diagnoses. And Medicare will pay for it. (The insurance people were proud when I declined his suggestion!).
My good wife promptly made contact with various PLS groups, both live and through the Internet; she came away without a medical degree but fully educated as a quasi-neurologist. She too does not honor my dependency on Medicare, her own reliance on its value notwithstanding.
(Incidentally, if I should ever be asked to become a participant in a Neighborhood Watch program (highly unlikely), I will decline the honor unless ALL brother officers are announced publicly as armed and in possession of documentation affording us the right to a concealed weapon. Otherwise, included me out.)
After my Numero Uno neurologist diagnosed me, the company, which acted as a PPO and carried my Medicare coverage, informed me they would, in 2013, no longer represent me so long as I resided in Cobb County. My insurance lady, Sherry Berry, subsequently placed our business with another Medicare supplement.
I am glad she did. The new company seems to have my interests at heart, plus they require no additional premium – in fact, none at all! Hell of a deal! And over all, their co-pays are better!
On top of that, they provided me with a host of Day-Care therapists who called on me with all sorts of exercises and other innovations, including blood pressure, temperature and vital sign analysis — not to mention, the offer of various aids such as walkers, wheelchairs, canes, scooters, etc.
I assured them that my appreciation knew no bounds, so long as Medicare covered it all. They assured me that it did. But they too had limited interest in me; once I had achieved their standard benchmarks of successful performance; despite the chronic elements of my progressively on-going and developing ailment, United Home Care dropped me, finally.
While I am about it, let me tip me tam-o-shanter toward Rev. Chip Faucette, the deacon at Sts. Peter & Paul’s in Marietta (and his crew) for providing us with a workable Stair/Chair/Lift for our rear staircase. Without this innovation, the ancient mother-in-law, and I might as well be homeless (when it stopped working for a few days, I thought we were).
My good wife, whose constant care supervision is unlimited, has taken it upon herself the inquire of the Unite Home Care people if more visits can be obtained through Medicare for certain assistance that may be available for dressing bathing and assisting patients who can no longer fend for themselves. Hopefully, this will be the case.
She tolerates more than should be expected; my tone and harshness often leaves her (and me) distraught over my lack of decorum and concern, but that is the nature of my illness rather than a sincere reaction.
Luckily, my Numero Uno Neurologist is, after all, someone I can see a few times a year, who is amenable to working with a Medicare and 82- year-old patient afflicted with a handicap for which there is no remedy and no known cure. For now, I am somewhat chained to this chair, in this office, at this keyboard, in front of this computer — where I can manufacture reams of deathless prose from the shattered brain of a writer whose mental functions are as sharp, docile and aware as they ever were — in fact, if they ever were — once upon a time.
There was a time, not long ago, when I would dangle a sham Handicap Sign from my auto rear-view mirror to protect myself from distant parking spaces and allow me shorter access to places of commercial enterprise — I should have known better.
Live and learn; I recently was forced to sell the car. Driving is now out of the question.
