“I brought you a present,” Mark says, as he sits down beside me on the sofa with a huge sheaf of papers.
“That looks delish,” I say. Then I glance at the papers and see the letterhead. My stomach twists. “Crap. Is that the new insurance stuff?”
“Yep.”
He settles in and begins to explain our options, showing me charts, numbers, options that don’t feel like choices, but prison sentences. My shoulders creep toward my ears and I twist the plush throw between my fingers, trying to block out the roar in my head.
I will not panic. I will not panic.
“So, either way, we end up paying a lot. It’s a wash, really. But if you fall in this certain zone, you’d do better to have chosen the first plan. There’s no way to predict it,” he says. His eyes have faint smudges underneath, and I feel guilty for the weight I place on him with all my medical needs.
“What about the prescription coverage? Is there anything about that?” I ask. He hands me a list of covered medications, saying, “They cover preventative medication and maintenance medications.”
And yet, none of mine are on the list. Who wants to prevent depression? Or anxiety? Or migraines? I need a Xanax, which makes me want to laugh hysterically in the true sense of the word “hysteria,” because of course, Xanax isn’t covered.
“It will be ok,” he says quietly. “We’ll have to pay a lot of money, but it will be ok.”
I take a deep breath and decide to believe him; to trust him. I’ve been doing it over ten years, and there’s no reason to stop now.
