Oh Tricare, Let Me Count The Ways...

...the ways that I do not care for you. Ask anyone who gets their medical coverage through Tricare and they will tell you it's total garbage. But welcome to military healthcare, where quality is definitely not their priority. Don't like it? Well if you are active duty you are SOL, Tricare is what you are stuck with. Crappy coverage and all.

So what exactly has triggered this rant? Aside from my usual distaste for military medicine, today was just so much of an unnecessary ordeal. It started when I called to set up my 6-week postpartum visit only to be told that I couldn't be seen because I was still listed under Tricare North (back when I was temporarily stationed in MI). Sure I had switched it months and months ago back to Texas, had been going to see a doctor all through my pregnancy, but somehow I wasn't in the system anymore.

And naturally the only way to remedy the situation if I ever wanted to book an appointment was to go to the Tricare office in Wilford Hall. The lady might as well have told me I would have to go to Narnia to get my crap switched. Parking on base is always a mess and I ended up having to park about a mile away from the hospital. Factor in the heat, a heavy stroller and cranky baby, and you have a recipe for a moody mama.

So I stood in line, eventually got it all sorted out and headed to the records office to make sure everything was squared away there (did I mention that nothing in the military is ever a simple one-step process?). Well that was when it really hit the fan. Rose dropped her binky on the floor and was absolutely inconsolable.

At that point, I was starving, she was pissed and we were both on our last thread of patience. So finally, we finish up at the records office. I try to find a bathroom to change her diaper and THERE ISN'T A CHANGING TABLE ANYWHERE. In the entire hospital floor. Defeated, I made my long journey back to the car with a screaming baby.

I change her, I feed her, and just as I get the stroller packed away and her quiet in the backseat I get a phonecall. It's the records office. The man apologizes, having forgotten to give me my ID back. That's right. I almost told him just to keep it, I was that frustrated.

If walking across the searing hot mile-long parking lot was like Narnia the first time, the second journey was about as pleasant as going to Mordor. Two hours later we finally made our way home.

Now I'm just ready to curl up on the sofa and watch Project Runway, except homework is a calling me...