EastGirlsWest

Her departure from the city of Chula Vista sounds like a pretty sweet deal. And it does seem as if Laurie Madigan and her husband have a history of borderline professional ethics issues. But despite all that, I do have some sympathy for the woman.

Madigan is a (now former) assistant city manager of Chula Vista. Her recent sick leave and resignation have been well chronicled by The San Diego Union-Tribune over the past week. Why? Well, turns out that in addition to a golden parachute, Madigan also had an extremely generous sick leave policy while still employed. She began an extended sick leave in early February, but since then has continued to teach one class at UCSD in partnership with her husband.

Madigan was able to take her sick leave with full pay, you see. And the UT is cheesed off that she was “double dipping” and earning money from her teaching job while taking advantage of a boffo benefits plan with the city. This was all reported before Madigan revealed exactly what precipitated her sick leave. She has since confirmed that she has rheumatoid arthritis.

As someone with RA, I can definitely support the idea that there is a HUGE difference between working a stressful, full-time job and co-teaching a class once a week.

When I was first diagnosed, I worked at home, part-time, which was all I could handle. Luckily, I was (and remain) in a stable financial situation, with an employed partner and enough breathing room in our budget to allow me to take it a bit easier than usual for a couple of months. Unable to remain in any seated position for more than ten minutes, in chronic pain, and frankly rather depressed - going into an office five days a week would have killed me.

I can definitely sympathize with the idea that Madigan may have found going into an office every day, to throw herself into what sounds like a fast-paced and stressful job, to be detrimental to her health during an arthritic flare up. But leaving the house for three hours once a week to co-teach a class with a supportive partner? Come on. Let’s assume that teaching this class is something she enjoys. That sharing her knowledge with eager, smart students is a relaxing and rewarding break from the Blackberry wielding bureaucrats she’s dealing with on a daily basis. Oh, and the pay for teaching this class? $1,447.00 - compared to her city salary of $184,000.00. I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that she’s not doing it for the money.

I think the UT was too zealous in covering kind of a non-story. The real story here? Someone in this country (and one could assume, her coworkers) has a kick ass sick leave plan! And probably good health insurance! Must be one of those “gold plated” health plans Bush keeps referring to. To be fair, this might be expected due to her income bracket and lifestyle. But the way health care and worker benefits are headed these days, I don’t think that’s safe to assume anymore.

Message to the UT: how about more stories on the prevalence of auto-immune diseases and the growing legions of the uninsured. Want something to investigate? Look into why my HMO makes it nearly impossible for one to receive actual health care. Now that’s a story.

UPDATE: Kelly Davis at CityBeat has also weighed in - read here.

I’m in Cape Cod. I just did an extremely satisfying and much-needed shot of Enbrel. Before that I drank two glasses of cabernet. Before that I spent the entire day driving around Massachusetts to retrieve our lost luggage. And prior to that I spent a day getting from the Pacific to the Atlantic. And in the beginning? There was shopping. Lots and lots of Christmas shopping.

The first few shopping trips are actually fun. I’m filled holiday cheer and the giving spirit. I buy beautiful and thoughtful gifts. I treat myself to an eggnog latte at the mall, and smile at my fellow shoppers.

Then quickly, it all goes to hell. By the last week before Christmas I’m a bitter, broken woman. I’m filled with stress, hate the mall, hate everyone, have no time for lattes and actual nightmares about people not getting presents. I think this photo that Aaryn took of the two of us at Fascist Valley a few days ago says it all.

But somehow the shopping gets done. And briefly, relief. It’s fleeting though, because mere hours after buying my last present I have to start packing all of my purchases into a too-small suitcase for transport to the east coast. (Here’s Tay, lying on a luggage conveyor at Boston’s Logan Airport. The same conveyor that did not deliver any of our bags, all containing gifts.)

Yet despite the shopping, and traveling and the stress, there is still some real Christmas joy. Yesterday afternoon my sister and I walked through the middle of Boston, arms linked, past the Macy’s Christmas windows, eating warm, roasted peanuts. I was wearing a hat, scarf and gloves, smelling the winter air, and listening to Jingle Bells play over the loudspeaker for all the pedestrians in Downtown Crossing.

And just tonight, in Provincetown, with my family, we found a Christmas tree made of lobster traps. The tree topper was a bunch of buoys. Only in New England, people. Only in New England.

Finally, there’s this. The most honest, hearwarming and real holiday video I’ve seen so far on The Internet. It’s two EastGirlsEast, my dear friend Mary and the love of her life, who completely charmed me with this wish:

I would like to erase abstinence-only funding on the federal level, as a stocking stuffer.

Watch it. It’s the best of Christmas and it will make you smile.

And any minute now, I will have come full circle back to that eggnog latte.

Just read this and am so excited! Michael Moore is returning to the screen, this time with a look at our fantastic health care industry here in America.

On a related health note, several people have written to inquire about how my new medication is working, so I think it’s time for a report:

First things first - I’ve gotten used to stabbing myself in the thigh with a needle! The first few times I did it were a little traumatizing. I’d pump myself up to put the needle in, do it fairly easily, and then think “holy shit, I just stuck a needle in my thigh” and start freaking out. Then my hand would begin shaking which made it difficult to inject the medication. Now, a few weeks later, I’m much less dramatic about it. Also, I have an Enbrel buddy system! My sister, who now lives with us, is on the same medication. Last week, we sat down together and ate popsicles while we administered our weekly dosage. The Betrothed says, “It’s like goddamn Trainspotting around here.”

So is it working? Well, it’s definitely doing something. After what I put my body through on the Ireland trip (15 hours on planes, not enough sleep, all day on my feet - stomping around on 500 year old stone floors), I really should have felt like crap. But, I didn’t. Instead, I maintained my standard level of feeling mildly uncomfortable.

Since then, I’ve gradually started to improve. Swelling has diminished to the point where I can frequently see the outline of the bone structure in my hands (this is big!), and my ankles are visible as such. I’m noticably less tired, and feeling less stiffness joint pain. It’s helping, but I still have a ways to go before I feel more like my pre-RA self. Of course, part of what I need to continue to work on is accepting that I will never feel exactly like my pre-RA self…

My rheumatologist said it could take anywhere from one to eight weeks for this to really kick in - and I’ve heard stories of it taking even longer. So I’m trying to focus on the positive changes so far, and be patient. In the meantime, my sister has me on an incredibly healthy meal plan, a course of supplements so extensive it required a chart, and an exercise regime that is nothing short of cruel. I have no doubt her (attentive, loving) bossiness is having a positive impact, as well.

So basically I’ve spent the last year feeling like I was trapped in the body of an 80-year-old woman. And now I’m feeling more like a 55-year-old woman. And as soon as I get back to 35 you will DEFINITELY hear about it.

And finally, I have one. It arrived today, packed in ice, with some fun accessories to boot.

I’m still too afraid to take off the cap and look at the needle, but I go to the doctor tomorrow for my first injection/training session, so that will happen soon enough. Hopefully, my rheumatoid arthritis won’t know what hit it!

Have to keep this medication in the fridge. The Betrothed says, “Gee, I hope I don’t accidentally put it on my sandwich.”

East Girl blogging from Sausalito right now, taking advantage of the free wi-fi at Cafe Trieste. We drove up last night, and are staying with The Future Sister-in-Law and her family in Santa Rosa. It’s lovely here today - sunny, breezy, and NOT hot.

Just spent some time at the Heath Ceramics factory/store where we picked out new shower tile and bought some dishes (much needed since we only have four). Then we came here and The Betrothed ate a meatball sandwich bigger than my head.

I’ll provide a full road trip report when we return home on Monday, but I’m writing now because I wanted to share an exciting bit of news: my medication has finally been approved by Pacificare!!! I’m just waiting for the pharmacy to ship it to me, and I should be able to get started sometime next week. Joy and elation.

It just never ends with the goddamn health insurance. Which, as previously established here at EGW, tends to make me EVEN MORE SICK.

I pulled my head out from under the pillow this morning - after dropping it there is a fit of frustrated tears inspired by dear Pacificare - long enough to read Dooce. And she’s apparently having her own issues with the rat bastards who are running health care in this country like a totalitarian regime. Which inspired me to air my own grievances…again.

In this particular case, I am trying, hoping, crossing my fingers, praying, pleading, cajoling and harassing in order to get my insurance provider to approve an expensive medication I really, really need (I’d add “threaten” to the list, but they are unafraid). I’m pretty sure they’re going to approve it, but it is clearly in the Pacificare manual and mission statement that they must TORTURE ME first. With a maze of beaurocracy and circular logic and an immensely long wait time.

I can’t possibly hear the words approve, authorize or verify ever, ever again.

Are they hoping I’ll just give up? Is the plan to make me die of sheer frustration and utter hopelessness before I get to fill the prescription? One thing is clear: they are definitely not in the business of caring for my health.

If there is an upside, it’s been the erosion of my fear of taking this drug. You see, I have to self-inject it into my thigh once a week. I am weak-kneed and fussy when it comes to things like this, and I had been dreading the moment when I came face-to-face with that needle for the first time. But now? Now that I’ve been BEGGING for it for months, feeling physically even worse (thanks to the wait), and filled with vengenance towards Pacificare - now I can’t wait to stick myself with that needle. HA! THAT WILL SHOW THEM!

Oh my god. Do you see what they’ve done to me?