DO YOU TAKE BLUE CROSS?

I get it. I really do! But I also think it’s sad – almost to the point of being tragic. Here’s the call I got yesterday from someone looking for therapy. “Are you a psychologist?” he asked. “yes, I am.” I answered. “Do you take Blue Cross?” he said. I get this kind of call often, and this is not a complaint about me. I knew what I was doing to my potential income when I decided to refrain from becoming a provider for any managed care organizations once I moved to Minnesota. But here are a few things he might have said in the service of his own needs: I’d like to ask you a question about the kind of therapy you practice. Or, Are you still taking patients/clients? Or, I’m looking for someone who can help me with my depression/obsession/alcoholism/marital/child-rearing problems – whatever.

I told him I was not a Blue Cross provider, but that as a licensed psychologist my services are covered. I do not bill Blue Cross directly, however. I will provide a statement at the end of the month which you can submit. “OK, thank you,” he said, and hung up.

Now, here’s what strikes me as sad. The question had nothing to do with his health needs or with finding an appropriate provider for him. It wasn’t his health that was his primary question, it was his insurance company. Sometimes people stay on the phone long enough so I can help evaluate who – occasionally me – might be right for him, or whether the free initial consultation might be helpful, or whether I might have a sliding scale of charges, or even why I chose not to be a provider.

As I said. I understand it perfectly. People have to consider what they can afford. But if you go shopping for a blue shirt and find a pink one that doesn’t fit you well but costs half the price, does it make sense to make your purchase on the basis of price alone? Psychotherapy is nothing to fool around with.

On the other hand, maybe, once he had made contact with a Blue Cross provider, he would have explored further. I hope so, and I get it! But health care and insurance coverage are not the same thing. It’s that confusion that makes me sad.

MORPHING, MOLTING, CHANGING

Eda LeShan had the perfect metaphor many years ago. In order for the lobster to expand, it must leave its old shell behind and let another one grow that fits better, leaving itself vulnerable in the process. I guess snakes do basically the same thing. Those of us who’ve been around a while have probably experienced that vulnerability more than once. I know I have: when I left the full-time professor role to become a full-time therapist; again when I left part-time instruction, and now when the economy and my avoidance of managed-care have reduced my private practice.

There’s still writing, which I’ve tried, with moderate success; and my current tentative reaching out to doing personalized editorial proofreading http://forgivenessoptions.com/feeds/item/15/new-service-offered. Patricia Gitt gave me the idea and the opportunity, working on her new novel “ASAP.” It’s a good read. Check it out. If my work has really been effective, you won’t notice it, because your attention will be focused on her story. http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=Patricia+Gitt&x=8&y=14

And then there’s that vulnerability thing. When I moved to Minnesota I pictured myself enjoying the leisure of sitting around and reading. I’ve finally been doing that some, but I have to confess, it feels weird – vulnerable, really. I appreciate the encouragement of friends and family to go for it. I’m working on it.

WHAT A HURRICANE CAN DO!

I cried, I really did, when I saw the clip of one of Vermont’s wooden bridges being washed away. I was glued to CNN both in the anticipation and in the aftermath of Irene. I’m awestruck at the efficient activity that saved so many lives, and wonder about the person I saw interviewed who chose to stay behind to surf because he believed all the precautions were hype, or the two kayakers who chose to risk themselves and the first responders who recued them. I am so sad for the ones who did lose their lives or their family and friends.

Mostly, though, I must confess I’m still stressed at the thought of what might have happened – but didn’t – to my daughter, husband, and guest as they endured the blackness of the night with the evil of the storm trying to get in. Only their Sheltie seemed to think it was fun. Indeed, one of the four downed trees did take out the bedroom end of their home. Thank God the young woman had evacuated the upstairs bedroom before the killer tree fell on her bed.

The memory of that night still haunts them. As far as I know the roof is still a gaping hole; the cloud of insulation and ceiling dust is settled into a mess below; electric power is still off; and the insurance adjuster has not come. The stream of folks stopping to take photos has probably tapered off, and they know the kindness of sympathetic neighbors. The darkness of night still hides lurking evil, reflecting the insecurity of what comes next.

But they are alive and healthy!  The thought of what might have happened! How grateful we are for life. That’s when we know what really matters. 

FIVE REASONS WHY PEOPLE DON’T BUY “MRS. JOB,” and a p.s.

(1) I made the mistake of leaving the Ph.D. after my name, so people think it’s a heavy academic tome – or maybe a self-help book. It’s not. It’s a love story.  

(2) People think it’s a religious treatise because it’s about biblical Job. It’s not. Yes, it is true to the events that happened to him in the biblical story, but it’s fiction built around those events.

(3) Some people think it’s a “liberal” tome, calling into question some biblical beliefs. It’s not. See (2) above.

(4) Many apparently think it’s about working people, or maybe the wife of Steve Jobs, because they don’t pronounce “Job” right.

(5) There are those who don’t buy it because they already have, and liked it so much they’ve been lending it to their friends. And that’s why their friends don’t buy it.

p.s. In reference to the previous blog: I've been getting messages from friends who smilingly complain they can't answer the questions. Thanks. That's the point.

p

X-WORD PUZZLES AND THOUGHTS OF FAME

 X-Word puzzles keep me company in my last minutes before sleep at night, but still I can’t stop my mind from humming. About what? How brief is fame. The thought actually cheers me up when I get bummed because I can’t manage to push any of my books into best-sellership.

Age and good memory (if one has one) help some. Try some of the recent examples from Will Shortz Ed. (2002). Monday through Friday Easy to Tough Crossword Puzzles. New York: St. Martin’s Griffin. By the way, I’m happy with Monday through Thursday – they leave me feeling moderately good about myself. But Fridays?! Sometimes I don’t know the answers even after I see them.

Try these. I gave some help with a few of them.

You’ll find the answers below. It’s up to you whether you want to cheat.

1) 1950’s Wally Cox sitcom

2) Anne Bancroft role of 1967

3) Clinton Cabinet Member – 4 letters

4) Mohawk sporting actor

5) Chuck of “Code of Silence.”

6) Flappers’ Hairdos – 4 letters

7) He sang of Alice – 4 letters

8) Sportscaster John – 6 letters

9) Adlai’s 1956 running mate

10) “I’ll Be Around” composer Wilder – 4 letters

11) “Gaslight” Oscar winner, 1944 – 7 letters

12) Noted traitor – 6 letters

11) Peace Nobelist Bunche – 5 letters

12) Kenton of jazz – 4 letters

13) Show for which Bob Fosse won a 1978 Tony – 6 letters

Okay, so you got them all right. My point still holds. One way or another it comes to an end.

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

(1) Mr. Peepers; (2) (Mrs. Robinson; (3) Reno; (4) Mr. T; (5) Norris; (6) Bobs; (7) Arlo; (8) Madden;

(9) Estes; (10) Alec; (11) Bergman; (12) Arnold; (11) Ralph; (12) Stan; (13) Dancin

RECORD HEAT - COURTESY MY NIECE

My niece in Connecticut gave me permission to pass this on in my blog. I think you'll enjoy it.  

"I understand that you are planning to send us potentially record heat.  Please don't. Heat makes me want to cry. It pushes down on me and makes me feel as if I will never go outside again.  It swells my hands, makes me feel like I am not "up to things", or that I cannot possibly endure the challenges of the day. It alters my plans, encourages me to further procrastinate, makes me worry about my ability to make it in the world, suggests that I should give up on plans, makes it hard to think of any reason to actually open my door. I can't shovel it, throw salt on it, add clothing to make me more comfortable (and, lord knows there is a limit to how much I can take off), drive more skillfully, make creative structures from it or wage friendly battles with others, complain about the landscaping service and their plowing skills or those of the town, tell stories about past adventures, put on special foot covering to be comfortable and safer, alter my work plans to fit in with safety warnings, light a fire, bake or cook. And this with central air for which I am eternally grateful and paying dearly.

Heat makes me want to cry

Cold makes me search for a sweater or blanket."

REMEMBERING JENNIE

July 12 was the anniversary of my mother’s 1895 birth, the year before Sigmund Freud published The Aetiology of Hysteria. The fifth child of seven in her immigrant Swedish family, she was the first born in the United States and the only one to finish High School. She searched Titles for the City of Bristol, Connecticut until the birth of my brother when, ‘of course,’ she gave it up because she was now a mother. Fifty years after her retirement her work was remembered in the Bristol Press. I believe her bouts of depression were related to Betty Friedan’s “problem that has no name.”

Jean, my cousin once removed (or something like that) shared this memory, “I can still clearly picture your proud looking Dad and meticulously dressed Mother walking down the aisle at Bethesda Lutheran on a Sunday morning,” That basically says it all. From the beginning when they dated in horse and buggy, the church was the center of their lives. On the days when mother wasn’t sitting by her bedroom’s upstairs window sewing or mending, watching for my homecoming, she was greeting me as I joined her at one of the women’s circle meetings.

Mother’s day was predictable: breakfast ready for us when we got up – orange juice, coffee, toast and cereal or eggs and, for me, a spoonful of cod liver oil followed by a chocolate candy kiss to kill the taste. Lunch ready for my father when he came home for his midday break from the office, followed by clean-up and a nap. She was bathed, refreshed (as if she needed it – always clothed in a pretty dress and apron) when he got home after work. So was I when I was little – toys stashed, hands washed, clothes tidied.

Hallie and I picked violets for our mothers on Mother’s Day. My father frequently picked Lillies of the Valley for her from his beautifully kept gardens. Mother picked herself up when she was needed, like the time we went to the 1939 World’s Fair, carrying our packed lunch, and enjoying it, even though she had a terrible cold. Or when she came for a week to help Lou and me with our firstborn, or home-schooled me when I missed three months of third grade, homebound with chicken box and then whooping cough. Or when she brought me food and treats the weekend I hibernated in their study, finishing my thesis.

Mother achieved the end in 1975, but she’s been looking back at me in the mirror regularly for some time.