Yesterday I woke and instantly called my pharmacy. I didn’t have enough tablets to take my morning dose of anti-seizure medicine. The end of the bottle had come a lot faster on six tablets a day than it had on four tablets a day, and therfore had caught me off guard. Luckily the pharmacist agreed to fill it fast so I raced out the door to pick it up.

When I got there he told me the insurance wouldn’t cover the refill for another two weeks.

What? Why not? This medication, the generic version, is THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS A BOTTLE. The insurance had damn well better cover it. I can’t afford to pay for it and the bottle is printed all over with statements proclaiming how dangerous it is to suddenly stop taking this shit. What on earth does the insurance company think is going to happen if they randomly stop paying for refills?

Then the kind pharmacist asked me why I was out of the most recent refill already. I explained to him that I am still in the ramp up cycle to my final dose, and am therefore taking six 25 mg tablets a day. So 70 of those tablets don’t really last that long. He asked how many I needed before I jumped to the next dose level. I did the math and told him, 18.

He got on the phone, and got it paid for.

I got home and took my pills, but not without a healthy dose of depression.

My lovely epilepsy pamphlet, websites, and friend have all warned me that my future will be filled with battles with insurance companies over coverage for routine things for my healthcare.

My life was so beautifully uncomplicated before all this.

I upped my medication last night because I couldn’t stand the constant low level muscle seizures anymore.

My hands twitch their steady low throb more often than not these days, yesterday and the day before they just didn’t bother stopping. Upping the dose seemed to help initially, but then I ended up with a relatively strong seizure in both hands for about an hour. They kind looked like one of those claw machines inside the Wal-Mart, where you can maneuver the pronged “hand” around to pick up a toy, my fingers twitching in and out like they were being operated by an impatient toddler. It tires out my muscles and makes my arms sore, but is kind of interesting to watch if I can detach myself from the whole “those hand belong to me” aspect of it.

Still, I guess I am happy that they aren’t just fluttering all damn day long. My face still twitches when I get too stressed, so my cheeks hurt all over as a result. I guess this will be a better anti-wrinkle treatment than those silly electric shock devices you can glue to your cheeks and zap yourself with, right? I will have amazing facial muscles by the time this is all through, be 30 pounds lighter, and still hate the taste of all things sugary. I guess there are worse ways to maintain one’s youthful vitality.

At my 20th high school reunion everyone will look at me and think “skinny, tight-skinned bitch” instead of “Oh! You poor epileptic thing you.”

That’s something.