Money Changes Everything

I love lists.

Brad the Tradie and I are both list-makers. We LOVE lists. Making lists that is. Things to do. Things to buy. Things to find. Things to throw out. People to call. Now that we both have the ultimate Bogan tech-tool (ie, the iPhone) we can make all sorts of lists. We can even send them to each other across the room if we want to. I can’t imagine ever being list-less. There’s always SOMETHING I can put on a list.

However, actually doing the things on the lists has been a different story at times.

But of late, BtT and I have had a little time up our sleeves to ‘get things done’. Those THINGS that need doing. ‘The Move’ has certainly forced us to pick up the pace in terms of seriously doing the stuff that we write on lists. We set reminders on our iPhones now. That's a pretty serious commitment. I even had a reminder ding up on my phone on the day we humanely euthanised the cat. Hmmm… Things to do today: pick up cheese for dinner, have coffee with Smurfette, have cat put down. Tick, tick and tick (oh, actually, on the iPhone it’s more like ‘blop’ ‘blop’ and …. ‘blop’).

We’re ploughing through our lists at a rate of knots, delighting in such jobs as transferring driver’s licenses and figuring out Internet Banking. So we were graciously appreciative when BtT recently was offered the opportunity to be bumped up the list to have his problematic wisdom teeth removed. These damn teeth have been playing up off and on for years and it got to the stage recently that the Boganvillea dentist growled a little and said harsh words like, “continued pain”, “nerves around the jaw” and “possible sinus cavity damage”.

Yeah, righto. We get it.

It was put on the bloody ‘list’. After The Move, before Phuket. On the list. Take out rancid wisdom teeth. We filled in some paperwork for the recommended surgeon etc, etc, in the West and left it at that. Worry about it later.

Being bumped up the list soon gets your arse into gear though doesn’t it? ‘T’ day came around quickly and amid sighs of sympathy and recommendations for Arnica pistules we typed the address of the hospital into the GPS.

And now, let’s pause for a moment to remember a recent Blossy Post regarding experiences with the public health system.

You remember, right? Me being scantily clad and left in a CT scan machine to ‘show myself out’. BtT left wailing for fried chicken in a Emergency Room hallway? Well. That’s NOT how ‘T’ day went. Ohhhh no. Because wisdom teeth are ‘private’. Money changes EVERYTHING.

Neither BtT or I have private health insurance so we don't know much about private hospitals. Yes, yes, I know. We probably should have it. We did indulge at one point, but were suddenly poor and decided to ditch the MBF in favour of keeping Foxtel. And private health insurance is bloody expensive! BtT gets free back care for life anyway (being an injured veteran and all) and I, frankly, (without bragging), just don’t really use it. Yeah, I could get a free pair of goggles and flippers and probably claim for a broken fingernail, but mostly when I get sick it’s just a big case of being a sook and I’m pretty sure that private health insurance doesn’t cover Lindt chocolate and wine. I’ve actually calculated that I can just about purchase my own hospital and doctor for the money we’ve saved in the last ten years. So every now and then we knew we’d be expected to fork out for elective medical procedures. We’ve done pretty well for this to be our first one I reckon.

Private’s a bit different to Public.

I kinda knew this already after visiting friends in ‘birthing suites’ versus ‘shoved in the corner’ maternity wards. But really, it was still a bit of a shock when we were greeted at the hospital desk by the bursar. Honestly. We were shuffled into a room, our account checked to see if we’d finished pre-paying (yes, we had… fortunately the house sold or we’d be shuffling right back out again…), then ‘Jacqui’ kindly took some credit card details for any ‘other’ expenses. Other expenses? Like BLOODY WHAT?

Seriously. You’d think for three grand they’d throw in a few extras. We were taken through a list of stuff that the dudes doing the operation might feel ‘are necessary for optimal oral care’. Like $18 worth of bone wax (ew), and an icepack to take home (bloody hell, should've packed our own...) So we pretty much had to authorise Jacqui to deduct any amount of extra ‘stuff’ deemed necessary to optimise BtT’s experience. Sure, why not Jacqui? Take the bloody lot! Sorry, were those BMW’s I saw in the driveway? That’s a fecking lot of BONE WAX!

BtT behaved himself very well during his ‘oral care experience’. We had a private ‘day room’ with gadgets and doovahs and a bed that whizzes up and down. Reading BtT’s chart, I learned that taking a leak (in his private loo) before the operation is called ‘voiding’. Sensing that I may break a fancy gadget or doovah one of the well-manicured nursies showed me the complimentary coffee suite. Ooo! Noice! More like a day spa than a hospital. There was lots of reading material and snackies (unlike ‘public’) including a brochure for Botox that promised to ‘answer all my questions’. Not that I had any, but it was free, so I took it. The leaflet might come in handy. Maybe BHG can use it for home schooling or something. She might have Botox questions. You just never know.

Even in Private you don’t actually get a peronalised visit from Master Oral Surgeon himself (Dr Moneybags), but the anaesthetist swung by for a well-rehearsed, potentially comforting chat. He promised BtT that he’d try not to mangle his hand with the cannula (unlike the non-English-Speaking learner at Boganvillea Public the day of the fried chicken debacle...blood spurts everywhere… eww!!!) He glanced at his clipboard and (seriously) said, “It appears you’ve settled my bill. Excellent. You’ll get a receipt in the mail from my secretary.” And left. I think at that point we just felt like stamping ‘PAID’ on BtT’s forehead.

My job, besides looking like a Bogan in a china store (ok, I didn’t think the wardrobe choices through properly OK? I didn’t think one had to ‘dress’ to have one’s husband’s teeth out), was to be the designated driver so that post-anaesthetic BtT wouldn’t be a danger to society. I thought I’d do the right wifey thing and be there when we was brought back, to ummm, mop up drool or something. But that still left me a while to mingle with the locals at the shops, ‘private hospital style’.

Honestly, it’s a guess as to what to wear in this new Western city. One day I feel overdressed in thongs and shorts at the Road Authority office and the next I’m waaaaay underdone for lunch at the shops. Eventually I did find somewhere to eat that cost under twenty bucks, although the dopey chick still couldn’t get my extra-hot-skim-chai-latte right. She gave me a LOOK when I asked her to nuke it. Cow. I browsed the shops for a new handbag, but couldn’t find anything under $500, so called off the search and went back to wait for BtT. Got to know the neighbours in Private. Poor old chook next door buggered her foot slipping on her marble spa bath. Gosh life's tough when you have money.

As expected, BtT was fine. Being a typical tradie you could nearly chop his arm off and he’d barely say ‘ouch’. He spat out some goop, clicked on the tele to check the sports results and ripped the gauze pouch thing off his head. The nursie shoved a banana milkshake into him to check if he'd spew and sent us on our way. Barely enough time for me to read the Women’s Weekly I’d bought! Hang on, I just need to grab some more free bikkies...Ooo, yes i think we might take that box of tissues with us actually...

I think the icing on the Private cake was the follow-up phone call from Jacqui today, not to check on BtT’s progress, but to mention that we’d incurred extra costs for a haemostat or something or other.

Ohh good, I exclaimed. A haemostat! Just what we wanted! I can’t imagine that it comes with a complimentary handbag though. Bugger.

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Money Changes Everything, Cyndi Lauper, 1983