Ariel came down with the flu. And, aside from the whole swine flu hysteria, it wouldn’t be a big deal except that she has a Calculus 2 final exam on Monday. So, we had the option of treating it with Tamiflu. It’s supposed to cut down on the number of days you’re sick with the flu.
Being the responsible mother/wife that I am and knowing how little our insurance decides to cover, I called the pharmacy to find out how much this jewel of modern medicine costs.
The pharmacist said, “I can’t tell you without a prescription.”
Now, I’m confused. Then I thought, “Maybe it’s because he can’t be sure how much it will cost us with our particular insurance.” I said, “Can you tell me what the cost price is without insurance?”
Pharmacist: “No.”
Me: “Okay.” I can’t imagine there is a law preventing him from disclosing the cost of medications—so, maybe he doesn’t want me to comparison shop pharmacies. I mean, I completely ignorant of how pharmacies decide what price you pay for things, but comparisons are clearly out of the question. I said, “Thank you.”
Pharmacist: “Yep.”
I called all the numbers listed on the back of my health plan card. Apparently, every office closes at 5 pm, even the call this number before you are admitted to the hospital number. So, I check the insurance formulary on-line. According to the formulary the medication should run $80. In very fine print at the bottom of the page it said, “These prices are only averages and may not reflect the actual price.” Hmm. This does not bode well. What does “reflect” mean? Is it like “mirror twins”—close, but not exactly the same?
I call back the pharmacist, who now had the prescription. He informed me the cost was $120. One hundred and twenty dollars definitely does not reflect $80. Not only are they not “mirror twins,” they’re not even “kissin’ cousins.” They’re more like obscure “second cousins, twice removed.”
We decide not to purchase the medical marvel. And Ariel’s feeling much better today—last night we gave her vitamin C, Tylenol, and raspberry soda. I wonder if we could bottle a mixture of those products, call it Super-Deluxe-Get-Better-In-Time-For-Your-Final-Exam-Miracle-Cure, and market it. No, that’s name too hokey. How about Ariflu? And we could charge $10 and make a killing. No, you’d have to charge at least $80. The more people pay, the more they’re convinced it’ll work—and it’s that whole placebo thing we’re after.
Showing posts with label flu. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flu. Show all posts
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Insanity Chez Keller
Luke and Jacob have the stomach flu. And that’s sad for them—they curl up under blankets, eat saltines, and try to get to the toilet “on time.” You’d think that Luke and Jake would be my biggest hassle. They’re not. It’s Matt and Ariel. They are obsessed with not getting the flu.
Once the first puke happened, Ar and Matt grabbed my dust masks (I’m horribly allergic to dust) and slapped them over their noses and mouths. Then, Matt proceeded to clean the entire house, including books and the dust masks, with Lysol wipes. He’s a walking advertisement for virus-killing. He even covered his face with the wipes.
When Luke walked through the living room to get from the master bedroom to his bedroom, Ariel and Matt started screaming, and Matt attacked Luke with (you guessed it) Lysol wipes. Luke retaliated by breathing on the computer keys. It took Matt quite a while to clean each and every key.
Matt will no longer use the boys’ bathroom—he has to use ours. Ariel has told the boys to hold their breath when they walk through her room. (You have to go through Ariel’s room to get to the master bedroom.) She had banished them from the room earlier—they had to walk by way of the deck, but a nasty thunderstorm precluded her arrangements.
Matt has made plans to move a trundle from Ariel’s room into the living room so he doesn’t have to breathe the same air that Jacob does (they share a room).
Ariel’s excuse is that she has a Calculus 2 exam tomorrow. I don’t know why she’s so concerned—I’ve saved one of those airsickness bags. She can take it with her and puke her way through the test.
Matt says he just hates vomiting. Before I realized what he was doing, he ingested 2300 % of the recommended daily dose of vitamin C. Now I’m pushing fluids into him, too.
Yep. Insanity reigns chez Keller. Y’all pray for me.
Here are pictures.
Once the first puke happened, Ar and Matt grabbed my dust masks (I’m horribly allergic to dust) and slapped them over their noses and mouths. Then, Matt proceeded to clean the entire house, including books and the dust masks, with Lysol wipes. He’s a walking advertisement for virus-killing. He even covered his face with the wipes.
When Luke walked through the living room to get from the master bedroom to his bedroom, Ariel and Matt started screaming, and Matt attacked Luke with (you guessed it) Lysol wipes. Luke retaliated by breathing on the computer keys. It took Matt quite a while to clean each and every key.
Matt will no longer use the boys’ bathroom—he has to use ours. Ariel has told the boys to hold their breath when they walk through her room. (You have to go through Ariel’s room to get to the master bedroom.) She had banished them from the room earlier—they had to walk by way of the deck, but a nasty thunderstorm precluded her arrangements.
Matt has made plans to move a trundle from Ariel’s room into the living room so he doesn’t have to breathe the same air that Jacob does (they share a room).
Ariel’s excuse is that she has a Calculus 2 exam tomorrow. I don’t know why she’s so concerned—I’ve saved one of those airsickness bags. She can take it with her and puke her way through the test.
Matt says he just hates vomiting. Before I realized what he was doing, he ingested 2300 % of the recommended daily dose of vitamin C. Now I’m pushing fluids into him, too.
Yep. Insanity reigns chez Keller. Y’all pray for me.
Here are pictures.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Poached Eggs
Okay, so here’s a vacation update. Friday evening I was out working in the yard, and Cal said, “Is everything packed?” I pull another weed that had the audacity to grow in MY yard and said, “Yep. Everything’s locked and loaded.” Cal’s face took on the pondering look, a combination of a faraway gaze and a rubbing of the chin. “Why don’t we just leave now? We’ll get there by 1:30am.” I bagged my weeds. “Sounds good. Let’s do it.” So we filled the van, brought our pets to their temporary homes, packed the kids in, and left. Little did I know that this was going to be an amazingly providential decision.
About two hours from Orlando, the van seemed to get amazingly cold. I was driving at the time, and I kept switching from the heater to the air conditioner. You would think that I would realize something was up. But I didn’t. When Cal took over the driving, he cranked the air conditioner. I shivered. But I didn’t say anything because I know he drives better at night when the van’s cool.
It wasn’t until I climbed into bed at 2:30am that it occurred to me that my eyes were hot. Eyes are part of my internal thermometer system. Low fevers achieve the status of unimportant—they can be ignored and worked through, i.e. we-laugh-at-sickness stage. Then, comes the 100 to 101. While this frequently can be worked through, it occasionally forces me to lie down on the couch. But this is the ideal stage of sickness because I can actually read through this kind of illness. This is fun sick, although I have to make up for it later with tons of housework. But, still if you have to be sick this is the way to do it.
The next stage of sickness involves hot eyes. This stage has a fever that ranges from 101 to 103. The problem with an illness of this range is that the eyes begin to feel like poached eggs. (For those of you who are ignorant of poached eggs, which would include my children, poached eggs are a pre-progeny food delicacy associated with Eggs Benedict, and it involves bringing water to a gentle boil, cracking the egg and carefully placing it into the water so that the yolk stays whole and the egg is cooked.) But back to being sick. At this stage of illness, it’s too hard to read because the eyes feel like they are being boiled.
Of course, the nastiest stage is from 103 on up. Not long after Cal and I got married, he went to work and I stayed home because I was sick. When he got home, he said, “How are you feeling?” I said, “Not good. My fever’s 105.5” His eyebrows drew together, his nose wrinkled, and his lips pinched. It would not be an understatement to say that his face took on the look usually reserved for someone trying to pass off heresy as orthodox theology. He picked me up, held me under a cold shower, muttered what sounded close to imprecations upon my lack of health sense, and then drove me to the hospital. (And Cal wonders why Luke can have an ulcer for months without complaining—it’s my fault. I take full responsibility.) At this stage of illness, my eyes pour fluids. Cal is sure it must be cerebrospinal fluid—in his mind nothing except leaking brain fluid explains why I’d be so calm about the whole thing.
But thankfully, my sickness didn’t reached the poached-eggs-boiled-dry stage. Just the poached stage. Apparently, I contracted the 72 hour Florida Upper Respiratory ‘Flu. Now that the 72 hours are over, I’m feeling much better and very, very thankful that we drove on Friday just as I was getting sick. (Yeah, I know it can’t be the Florida Flu if I contracted it on the way down—but since I got it on Florida soil…) I can’t imagine a nine hours car drive with poached egg eyes. My eyes are now happy, hen eggs in their chilled shells. Good health is a tremendous blessing!
About two hours from Orlando, the van seemed to get amazingly cold. I was driving at the time, and I kept switching from the heater to the air conditioner. You would think that I would realize something was up. But I didn’t. When Cal took over the driving, he cranked the air conditioner. I shivered. But I didn’t say anything because I know he drives better at night when the van’s cool.
It wasn’t until I climbed into bed at 2:30am that it occurred to me that my eyes were hot. Eyes are part of my internal thermometer system. Low fevers achieve the status of unimportant—they can be ignored and worked through, i.e. we-laugh-at-sickness stage. Then, comes the 100 to 101. While this frequently can be worked through, it occasionally forces me to lie down on the couch. But this is the ideal stage of sickness because I can actually read through this kind of illness. This is fun sick, although I have to make up for it later with tons of housework. But, still if you have to be sick this is the way to do it.
The next stage of sickness involves hot eyes. This stage has a fever that ranges from 101 to 103. The problem with an illness of this range is that the eyes begin to feel like poached eggs. (For those of you who are ignorant of poached eggs, which would include my children, poached eggs are a pre-progeny food delicacy associated with Eggs Benedict, and it involves bringing water to a gentle boil, cracking the egg and carefully placing it into the water so that the yolk stays whole and the egg is cooked.) But back to being sick. At this stage of illness, it’s too hard to read because the eyes feel like they are being boiled.
Of course, the nastiest stage is from 103 on up. Not long after Cal and I got married, he went to work and I stayed home because I was sick. When he got home, he said, “How are you feeling?” I said, “Not good. My fever’s 105.5” His eyebrows drew together, his nose wrinkled, and his lips pinched. It would not be an understatement to say that his face took on the look usually reserved for someone trying to pass off heresy as orthodox theology. He picked me up, held me under a cold shower, muttered what sounded close to imprecations upon my lack of health sense, and then drove me to the hospital. (And Cal wonders why Luke can have an ulcer for months without complaining—it’s my fault. I take full responsibility.) At this stage of illness, my eyes pour fluids. Cal is sure it must be cerebrospinal fluid—in his mind nothing except leaking brain fluid explains why I’d be so calm about the whole thing.
But thankfully, my sickness didn’t reached the poached-eggs-boiled-dry stage. Just the poached stage. Apparently, I contracted the 72 hour Florida Upper Respiratory ‘Flu. Now that the 72 hours are over, I’m feeling much better and very, very thankful that we drove on Friday just as I was getting sick. (Yeah, I know it can’t be the Florida Flu if I contracted it on the way down—but since I got it on Florida soil…) I can’t imagine a nine hours car drive with poached egg eyes. My eyes are now happy, hen eggs in their chilled shells. Good health is a tremendous blessing!
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