Holding a paycheck in my hand, I solemnly weigh the alternatives. I can have my nails done - they are in sad shape and this is very tempting - or I can pay the yard man who cut the grass. Last week. My responsible side wins and with a final, sorrowful glance at my neglected nails, I put three new $10 bills into an envelope and slip then under his door.
I find consolation in the fact that this is a minor struggle and a nuisance but not an impossible decision like, choosing between groceries and the light bill, say. Or between medicine and fuel to get to a job so you can choose between groceries and the light bill. These are no easy times and the changes I had hoped for are still in the category of hoped for. I spend an entire day battling with insurance companies on behalf of patients on fixed incomes - trying to coax some semblance of reason out of so called customer advocates who are taught to deny, delay, obstruct and under no circumstances to actually think. Well into the third journey through the automated system, I finally reach a human being to whom I patiently repeat everything I have already told the non-human system - the doctor's name and address, id number, tax id number, the patient's name, date of birth, social security number, insurance id number, date of service, amount billed. Once she has all this information, she thanks me for calling and transfers me to a second human being who asks me each question all over again. I give her all the identical information, a little less patiently this time, time is money, after all and I've become a little weary by the sound of my own voice. When she asks if I'm calling for benefits or claims, I have a brief moment of hope that she might be able to handle both, but no, when I confess to needing claim details, she transfers me yet again.
In retrospect, suggesting ESL courses to the insurance rep on the other end of the line probably wasn't the most diplomatic approach and if I had it to do over again I might try and find an alternative to snarling that I'd had more intelligent conversations with broccoli. However, after two hours of being shuffled around from department to department, of listening to the same, bored, useless voices reading from their scripts and repeating the same, bored, useless answers, none of which related to the actual questions I was asking, after realizing once again that to deal with a health insurance company is to deal with people who are intentionally trained not to think - well, the words were out and it was still a notch above screaming or letting loose a stream of most unladylike profanity. There had been a short lived glimmer of hope when one of these illiterates had suggested that the answers I sought could be found in THE CLAIMS REVIEW DEPARTMENT. This thin ray of optimism had been immediately extinguished when, after asking to be connected with the aforementioned department, I was informed that they had no telephones. I honestly didn't mean to laugh out loud at this priceless piece of fairy tale but the image of a pony express rider, saddle bags filled with insurance claims destined never to be paid, leapt unsummoned into my head.
The main problem with script readers is that anything outside the script throws them off balance and without the resource of reason, they have nowhere to go. I take a breath, determined to be calm but unwilling to let him off. Ok, I tell him, Let me get this straight. This plan covers xrays. This claim is for an xray. Therefore you should pay the claim. Where exactly is this wrong? There is a long silence before he finally offers to resubmit the claim for a second review, conceding the highly remote possibility that it might have been denied in error. The battle is won but the war continues and after eight hours of similar exchanges, I long for the simple financial decisions between my nails and the yard man - insignificant, trivial, and harmless to anyone's health.
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