We had some trouble with the chemo drug approval process. It was torturous. Literally (yes, in the original meaning of the word), it took more than 3 weeks to get his chemo pill approved. Toward the end of the process, the oncology nurse called, “Your drug copay is $3,000/month.” The radiation oncologist said we shouldn’t pay it, that Ken should just go on the pump.  That’s an issue, though. Ken hates that pump. I was worried too, about the whole process: home health nurses visiting twice a week, the pump sound every 1 minute and 17 seconds, no showers.

Trying to move things forward, I called the specialty pharmacy. They said they couldn’t talk to me because Ken hadn’t given permission. Here’s another learning since this Hell all started: it is possible to break through their bureaucracy. It serves them rather than the patient and it is flimsy.

I said, “I know everything about his care. You can’t possibly tell me anything that I don’t already know. So, why don’t you ask me questions and I’ll just tell you the answers.” She said something about policy and I said something respectful about being Ken’s primary support. She said, “What do you know?”  So, I told her what medicine he had to take, what his diagnosis was. I gave her his birth date, his street address and his phone number. She said, “Hold please.” When she got back on the phone, she was very nice and apologetic for putting me through “so much.”

Then she told me that the pills were $3,000/month, which, of course, I already knew. “Move ahead with it,” I told her. “We’re prepared to pay.”  I reminded her though that we needed the pills quickly as the delay was impacting Ken’s treatment.

And then we come to the clincher:  When she processed the medication for payment, I heard her say. “Huh.” I asked her what was up.  “The pills have a $0 copay. You don’t owe $3,000.”

Yes, that’s right. We almost put Ken through 6 weeks of pump HELL for an insurance mistake.  I logged in to the insurance website to check on the claim and saw that there was another one in process. It was the June chemo bill and it was $84,000. We don’t owe it. We’ve already hit the new deductible and all but $800 of the new out of pocket maximum. But when I thought about what it could mean if we DID owe it, I just sat there on the back porch on that beautiful, sunny morning and cried.

Ken’s been through nearly two weeks of radiation. He says that he can feel the beginning of the sunburn-like pain. The worst part right now is that he has to go to the hospital every day at 3PM for treatment. I hated the weekly Thursday chemo sessions but the daily radiation trip is far worse.

Going to a hospital every day for treatment is an exhausting ritual. We drive into the parking garage and I say “Hey there, how are you today?” to the man who gives us the ticket (yes, there is a guy standing at the gate who gives us a ticket and I have no idea why a guy has to do that but he’s really friendly). Then we ride the garage elevator down to floor 1 and take a meandering walk through the hospital to elevator A (down the hall with the memorabilia on your right to the coffee shop on your left, turn left at the red Security sign, and walk all the way down the corridor until you’re sure you’ve gone too far). We take elevator A down 2 flights to a sub-basement. When the elevator doors open, first we go to the desk and get our parking ticket stamped. After that, we walk to the radiation treatment area and the techs take Ken back for his radiation while I sit in the waiting room.

Funny story – last week, I was reading an e-book in that waiting room with my back to the TV (some terrible “daytime drama” was playing). Gradually, I realized that I was the topic of conversation. The women putting together a puzzle at the table near me were debating my gender. The discussion went on for a bit. “What’s she doing?” “You mean him?” “That’s a she.” “Are you SURE that’s a girl? I thought it was a guy.”

Anyway, Ken’s treatment is currently about 20 minutes long, focused only on the primary tumor but now that he’s on the chemo pill, the electron beam radiation will be added, another 20 minutes of radiation daily.

We lost someone dear last night and our hearts are broken all over again. I didn’t know that there could be grief strong enough to push cancer aside. Rest in Peace, lovely girl.