Remember that movie from the 1960s where, in order to save the life of a nearly-assasinated diplomat, a submarine and it’s crew is shrunk down to microscopic size and injected in his bloodstream? No?
Does this refresh your memory?
Well, this morning, I’m having a microscopic submarine and it’s crew injected into my bloodstream. Metaphorically speaking.
My gastroenterologist, who is nine shades of awesome, wants to sort of front-load me with a whole, whole lot of the TNF blocker drug that I am about to start taking, and in order to get the go-ahead from my insurance company, he must provide them with photographs of my small intestine.
Since the small intestine is 20 feet long, the only way to get those pictures is for me to swallow a camera the size of a (very large) pill. The aptly named PillCam will spend 24 hours in my body, taking a picture every 3 seconds and sending it to a hard drive I’m wearing on the world’s ugliest belt. It will take a total of 870,000 images of my insides, like some kind of relentless, digestive tract paparazzi.
This technology is just fascinating, really.
It is also really, really, really expensive. But not quite as expensive as the drug injections themselves, which is why the insurance company is requiring the additional testing before they pony up the money for the medication which will add up to a staggering total over the rest of my lifetime. Staggering. Scientist could probably come up with the technology to shrink a submarine and it’s crew to microscopic size for less money than this drug is going to cost my insurance company.
I have to say, I am incredibly grateful that I have health insurance right now. I’m even incredibly grateful to my insurance company. I strongly suspect those words have never been typed in one sentence before. I probably just set off an alarm at Google HQ for screwing up the internet with a brand-new, never-to-be-used-again search term. But it is absolutely true. They have been much more Santa Claus than Grinch during this process, and approving this drug protocol is huge.
You can read this blog from now until doomsday and you will never, ever find me saying that I am grateful for getting sick. I know a few cancer survivors who can honestly say that, but they are better people than I. I have hated every single millisecond of this experience. If I could wave a wand and make all of this go away, I would do it in less time than it took you to read this sentence.
But.
But being sick, and feeling miserable and tired for six months has mellowed me a bit. I am less reluctant to allow people to see my vulnerabilities. I am less quick to turn down offers of help.
I have also developed a depth of empathy that I am embarrassed to say I was sorely lacking. Before I got sick, I had all the empathy of a group of 6th grade boys, which is to say, none. I saw people who allowed illness slow them down as weak or just sort of unambitious. I am mortified that it took getting ill myself to see my own absurd attitude. I was dismissive of other people’s pain, even if it was only in my head.
This disease has humbled me and made me a better person. I am grateful for that.
