Continuing the chronical of #cantmakethisshitup….
Phone calls ended at close of business on Friday without an insurance auth, and me weeping to a PA on the phone. I was in tears as I explained this sweet baby is getting more sick, and I don’t have numbers for you, and I never went to medical school, but I’m her mother, and I know.
The PA suggested having her reevaluated by our pediatrician to document worsening of symptoms for the inevitable insurance appeal. (That’s a thing folks, make sure we know just how sick she is, because we can’t actually believe you.)
The pediatrician was flabbergasted we were going through this. He basically said “tell me what you need me to write down.” Well, we didn’t have to get creative. This sweet girl has lost weight this month. (Tiny humans are not suppose to do that.) Her iron levels have dropped, again. I knew this because I’m her mama, and I know my tiny humans.
While she rocked out to the new Paramore album on the way home, I quietly cried with sunglasses because she is so not okay. I knew this, because I’m her mom.
Our surgeon personally called me twice to verify this mornings results, and to ask me what she needed to write for coverage. She is committed to healing our tiny human, and is equally flabbergasted at the insurance nightmare. She was kind and committed to helping. Our providers are in it with us, and that feels reassuring.
When your baby is sick, there is absolutely no force that can stop a mother. We will take an enormous financial risk on Wednesday morning, and have the procedure done. I’m living the American Dream on borrowed funds, anyway… what’s one more line on the spreadsheet? What’s one more line when your whole world is at risk?
I’m finding solace tonight in two things. First, Wednesday morning will begin the long road to healing for my sweet baby girl, and we will stumble through our new normal together, but only until we figure out how to be super badass at it. We got this, sweet Oo, we got this. Second, the insurance companies haven’t met me yet. Advocacy is my job. An appeal process doesn’t even scare me if I can actually enter one. And once my sweet little is healing I will be a force to reckon with. A dear friend coined the phrase “don’t fuck with Finn.” It’s not a wise choice to try. I will advocate for my tiny human until every resource in my privileged existence is exhausted, and then I will go find more resources, and try again.
I asked the authorization manager at the hospital today was this going to be a nightmare to go through. She assured me it would be, but was confident we would win. When I replied “bring on the nightmare.” She said with that attitude they don’t stand a chance.
Nope, no they don’t. My largest and most important job is to keep my tiny humans safe. They just don’t know how seriously I take my work.