So I went to see my GP with my blood test results and they told me they were not going to up my HRT dosage. I mean, I was prepared just in case--with notes about informed consent, upper limits, standards of care, and my GP just dismissed it all by saying, "I'm not comfortable with it. Get someone else."
Damn. So I really just spent an hour in the waiting room and 80 bucks for you to tell me "no".
Anyway, I had some vaccine issues I wanted to follow up on, since as an immigrant I missed out on quite a bit due to the timing of moving countries. I was told that I wasn't covered for those vaccines because I wasn't a child anymore, and that to fill up on those I would need to pay out of pocket 500 bucks.
Five hundred human New Zealand dollars.
They also put me through another blood test, which they said would cost 30 bucks. The nurse who did mine stabbed me rather deep in the arm and caused me a great deal of pain. I asked her if she was doing it right and she looked at me as if I shouldn't question her at all. After she drew blood, she looked at my form and said, "Oh, I didn't even read it. I did it wrong."
Thank you. I appreciate your candor.
She stabbed me again. This time, I bled quite profusely. In fact, my right arm was in so much pain I could not move it afterwards. I wonder if she hit a nerve. And instead of 30 bucks, they charged me double; an additional 30 for the 'processing fee'. I drove home one-handed. You do not want me to drive to begin with; there is nothing that embodies my hatred more than the idea of a car-based society. Forcing me to drive home with my non-dominant hand is probably as bad as me driving drunk.
I am in so much pain that typing and using a mouse with my right hand is unbearable.
I went out again since I forgot my prescription. My old pharmacy was not very trans-friendly. The person behind the counter had gotten very rude and almost confrontational once they noticed my gender change; they tried to catch me out by quizzing on my personal details, and because my old address hadn't been updated, they almost succeeded. Reluctantly, I had swapped to a nearby Chemist Warehouse. My friend who works at one recounts to me often the abuse and overwork behind the scenes.
For this particular Chemist Warehouse, it's always twenty minutes waiting in line to be seen, and another twenty minutes before you actually get it. After forty minutes, they told me they were out of stock.
"3 years ago, NZ used around 1 million patches," they said. "Now we're up to 3.5 million patches a year. Of course there's a shortage."
Forty minutes to go home empty-handed. I mean, I try to be funny no matter what, but this is when I almost had a breakdown.
My right arm being in a state of incredible pain, I grabbed a takeaway so I wouldn't have to cook. The person who served me didn't clip the lid on properly, so it spilled out into my bag. My phone and wallet is covered in a delicious, sticky ponzu sauce. Yum, yum, yum. I think my wallet is permanently ruined.
After I got home, I spent an hour fighting claims with my medical insurance on their website. With no luck, I called them and they told me the reason I couldn't file claims was because my insurance was listed under my partner. Only she could prevent forest fires. Great!
I called my partner. Over the phone, she broke some bad news: she just scratched the car.
🙂I told her it was okay. I literally don't care about anything anymore.
)