At the end of June, my boyfriend and I took our cat, Frogger, to the vet. We adopted him from the Delaware County SPCA a week after we moved in, and from the moment we brought him home, he’s been our “Little Guy”. He’s the loyal cat who greets us when we come home, pines for us when we’re gone, loves hugs and kisses and scritches and belly rubs, even with yorked-up furballs, stinky litter boxes, grey and white cat fur tumbleweeds rolling down the hallway in the breeze and even the occasional dead mouse-as-gift, he’s the “Best Cat Ever”.
“Look what I got for ya, Momcat! Look what I did while you were out! Aren’t you proud of me? Look at that! Look at me again while I pull my claws down your jeans! Let me do that figure 8 thingy around your legs again while you trip over the kitchen rug where the dead mouse is!”
So, I found out today that my insurance plans are all taken care of and I’ll be covered on September 1st. Now, that’s a long time for someone to sit around wondering if she’s going to be okay, but they won’t move up your coverage date unless it’s a life-threatening situation, which I entirely understand.
I’m just nervous…I don’t need an organ transplant. Is there such a thing as a nervous transplant? I didn’t think so.
This is the first weekend since my diagnosis that I feel I have a handle on things. All of the paperwork is in order, health insurance done, Fox Chase has both…it’s going to be a good weekend to take a page out of Frogger’s book and nap a lot because all of that stuff I’ve been fretting about for the past 2 weeks has been taken care of for now. And there’s nothing else I can do until next week.
Yep, that looks about right.