Insurance Rates

Dear Farmers Insurance Group:

This note is to inform you that I will not be renewing my auto insurance policy with you, effective February 7, 2012.

The bill I recently received, for my six-month renewal, is $649.70. As I spent some time trying to wrap my head around this number, I did the math and discovered this is exactly 25% more than my previous bill. I did not understand at all how this could possibly be correct, so I called, and you indicated the rate increase was due to the fact that I had had a claim in 2010 and it (the consequences of the accident) had finally caught up with me. (Or words to that effect...)

Now, the claim I had in early 2010 (almost two full years ago!) was for a small fender-bender in my parking lot at work, and, yes, it was entirely my fault. However, my recollection is that this is the first claim I have ever had as a Farmers customer where the fault was mine. Yes, I have had comprehensive-coverage claims for cracked windshields and vandalized tires. And, yes, I once had a car totaled out, back in the 1980s, in the middle of the night (while I was upstairs in my house, sleeping) by a hit-and-run driver. BUT: I have not had an accident that was my fault since I’ve been insured by Farmers … and 

I started with you back in 1978.

Further, in all that time, I believe I have had only one moving violation: a speeding ticket in Lane County, Oregon, sometime in the late 1990s.

During our initial phone conversation about this rate increase, you offered to reduce my coverage limits so we could bring my premium payment into line with what it had been (up until now). At first, that seemed to be the way to go … but, really, I don’t WANT reduced coverage. I really desire some consideration as a long-standing Farmers customer, and to be assessed no penalty for having had one, yes one, accident in 34 years of continuous coverage (in Corvallis, Oregon; Bloomington, Indiana; Eugene, Oregon; Portland, Oregon; Roseburg, Oregon; and now, Larkspur, California).

But, after yet another consultation with you, Famers doesn’t seem to be able to offer me such consideration. I have now shopped around and AAA has written me a policy for the level of coverage I currently have with Farmers, for slightly less than I had paying with you. My new AAA policy is effective February 7 so you will not be receiving another premium payment from me for auto insurance. (My renter’s insurance will remain with Farmers, though I will be looking for other companies to ultimately fulfill that need as well.)

The question I leave you with is: am I not the kind of responsible person you WANT to be insuring?

Most respectfully yours,

TechnoMonk

Waking Up … Or Not

Well, as you learned from my last post, I finally decided to have the operation I’d been putting off for years. In the modern medical age it is quite easy to engage in such avoidance; drugs designed to alleviate the most problematic enlarged-prostate symptoms have enabled men to delay surgical intervention for a long time. In my case, I was on Flomax (I’m sure you’ve seen the ads on TV) for about a decade. The ultimate reason for my decision? — the number of trips to the bathroom per unit time was getting pretty damn ridiculous. And, really, I just didn’t feel well anymore.

I’m an academic; I work on a campus. So, given that this was an elective procedure, for a non-life-threatening condition, and in trying to be a most-responsible employee, I thought I should do the operation at the end of Fall semester. Things can be sort of frantic at the end of an academic term, but after that things slow way down and campus is totally closed between Christmas and New Year’s. So, in the middle of November, I scheduled this to happen during the first week of December.

Of course, being the perpetual worrier I am, as I entered the last few days prior to the big event, I became more and more anxious. I had never had a surgery before. And, wouldn’t you know? — I watch all the doctor shows on TV, always have (from Ben Casey and Dr. Kildare, to St. Elsewhere, ER, Chicago Hope, Grey’s Anatomy and House … I’ve always been fascinated). I had good reason to worry, I thought: Murphy’s Law seems to rule. If something can go wrong, it will. Right?

Oh my god, I said to myself. Here I am, 64 years old, and I am having this first-time experience … that could all go terribly, terribly wrong. What would happen if I went under anesthesia and the knife … and then stayed under? You know, like forever! What then?

I have neither a will nor an advanced healthcare directive. Further, there’s the fact that no one is present in my life to provide advocacy for me while I’m in the hospital, no one to make decisions if I don’t wake up, no one who knows what to do in case I die. Shit! Have I really lived this long? Do I really have no one? What the heck do I do NOW?

Well, in the absence of any paperwork, or even having ever talked out any of these issues with anybody, I thought maybe the most responsible thing to do was to let someone in on this particular bout of existential angst.

As it turned out, Katrina and I had been having a brief email exchange about my situation, and in one of her notes, she had asked me about the length of my hospital stay and the anesthesia for my procedure. So I wrote her back telling her what I knew about the spinal anesthesia that would be administered, and then I said…

Speaking of anesthesia … would you consider doing me a favor?

I don’t have a will or an advanced health care directive. If for some reason I don’t wake up from this, could you use this email as evidence of my last wishes? (OK, yes, morbid, I know…)

My last wishes, as of this afternoon, as I write this from a Starbucks in Mill Valley, would be to be cremated with the ashes spread on the top of Mt. Pisgah. If that’s legal up there, that is. So just in case: would you consider communicating this message to my blood relatives — and see if you could make that happen for me?

I will rest easier tonight having said this to someone. If that's too over-the-top a request, just say so, please.

-jim

Thankfully, amazingly, she agreed.

So, yes, thanks again, Katrina. I went into all of this with some peace of mind, imaging myself, in the worst-case scenario, spending eternity on one of my favorite hiking trails in Oregon

Soundtrack Suggestion

All that I know is I’m breathing
All I can do is keep breathing
All we can do is keep breathing

(“Keep Breathing” — Ingrid Michaelson)

[The story continues here.]

A Twist in the Path

I have written before about my old-geezer struggles with benign prostatic hyperplasia (BPH, i.e., “enlarged prostate”), PSA tests, biopsies — and intense discussions with my physicians about interpreting the numbers. August 1999 was the month when a routine blood test yielded a distinctly- elevated PSA, resulting in a referral to a urologist. As it turned out, that appointment was merely the first of many over the intervening years, resulting, so far, in 29 blood tests for PSA, two prostate biopsies, a decade of taking Flomax, and a November 2009 emergency room visit for urinary retention that resulted in catheterization for six days. (Now, that was a memorable Thanksgiving!)

Over 15 years of testing, my PSA numbers have risen steadily (sometimes dramatically), my prostate gland has continued to grow, and my symptoms have become progressively worse. In the course of all those doctor visits, one fact became increasingly evident: should I be so fortunate to keep on living, I would eventually need surgical intervention for my condition.

And, so, that time finally came. During the summer and fall of last year, living with this condition became more and more problematic, and even a double-dose of my medication didn’t provide adequate relief. Reluctantly, very reluctantly, I came to acknowledge that the procedure known as a “TURP” (transurethral resection of the prostate) was imminent.

On December 6, 2011, almost six weeks ago now, I entered Marin General Hospital to have the operation. So, dear reader, be on guard. I’ll be writing more about this journey in coming posts.

[The story continues here.]

existential, adj.

Teller got home from work about 5:00 on Friday. He put down his stuff by the front door, sighed heavily, plopped onto a chair in the bedroom…

…and immediately starting weeping.

His body was achy all over and he was bone-tired. Although it had been a mostly-manageable week, given that it was spring break and campus was very quiet, fatigue and depression seemed to permeate every cell of his being.

Teller had taken two vacation days during the week, though, and for a little while there, he felt almost human. On Wednesday, he spent some time in the morning at his favorite Starbucks reading a dissertation proposal in preparation for an upcoming conference-call committee meeting. While immersed in this academic pursuit, he felt as relaxed as he had for a long time, perhaps several months. Alas, the feeling disappeared when he packed up and moved on to other activities. Even when he went to a movie during that same afternoon, he realized his free-floating anxiety was back and that he was not breathing well, his gut all tightened-up.

On Thursday, his anxiety took a break again for a couple of hours while engaged in a FaceTime conversation with one of his favorite people in the world: the Ph.D. student from Portlandia whose committee meeting was imminent. But, then, it was back to the feeling of off-centeredness, tense body, and problematic bladder.

Friday morning, Teller went back to work, wondering how can this possibly be my life?

Injury, Recovery, Fitness, Health & Change

The Fourth of July this year promised to be a good-weather day for the entire Bay Area, so I took advantage of this prediction and hopped on the 11:40 ferry into the city to spend a few hours doing my walkabout-photography thing. It was a very nice day to do this, as it turned out, so I was feeling pretty pleased with myself (for both the photos and the exercise) as I boarded the 4:30 back to Larkspur. However, despite the incredible, sunny, 70-degree downtown weather, the water in the bay was very choppy, and it was offering up a lot of sea spray as I sat in the back of the boat during the first few minutes of the trip. I decided I didn’t want to endure this for the entire ride and got up to change seats. Just as I stood, the boat took a particularly big jump in the water, and I was tossed onto my backside: my right shoulder hitting one of the solid plastic benches that are permanently affixed to the deck.

As I clumsily pulled myself up, I was in agony. I thought that I’d probably pulled a muscle (or something); I could barely move my arm. I sat there in over-the-top pain for the remainder of the trip, not knowing much except that I’d be making a stop at the emergency room right away. At the ferry landing, I filed an incident report with the ship’s captain, then drove myself, one-armed, to the hospital. Upon examination, and x-ray, the ER staff determined that I had broken my scapula (shoulder blade). Yikes!

I drove home with my arm immobilized in a sling. I endured some pretty incredible, constant pain for the first couple weeks or so. I hibernated for awhile, and stayed away from work, but eventually I started moving again. Within ten days of the incident, I had seen an orthopedist, had a CT and MRI to gather more information (and determined that my shoulder didn’t need surgery), and had kept my first appointment with a physical therapist.

It took about thirteen weeks, a quarter of a year, to get mostly back to “normal.” To facilitate the healing process, I was a model physical-therapy patient, doing my routines at least 2 or 3 times every day. My recovery was “uneventful”, as the orthopedist said, and I feel fine now.

Well, mostly.

The side effect that I didn’t anticipate seems to have been due to my greatly reduced level of physical activity during the recovery period. (At least this is my current working hypothesis.) I have been feeling more and more anxious for several weeks now, including dealing with some pain in my chest (a long-standing anxiety symptom for me). I think the longer I was inactive due to my injury, the less able I was to cope with my myriad, underlying anxiety issues. Of course, the worry haunted me for a quite awhile that this pain wasn’t merely anxiety, but indicative of a heart problem. Hence, I went to see a cardiologist and took a stress EKG test (the one involving a treadmill), along with a stress heart echo (sonogram). According to these procedures, my cardiac function is fine. Whew!

I just joined a local fitness center, and I have my first appointment with a personal trainer this week. I need to get more active, and it seems this would be good way, what with winter coming on and all. (My walking routine typically suffers in bad weather.) Exercise has always been the best way for me to cope with my anxiety and depression woes.

It really is time for a change. Wish me luck.

Soundtrack Suggestion

If you knew that you would be alone,
Knowing right, being wrong,
Would you change?
Would you change?

If you knew that you would find a truth
That brings up pain that can't be soothed
Would you change?
Would you change?

(“Change” - Tracy Chapman)