And now for the health insurance piece: Let the games begin

    The medical files have arrived at the Really Famous Hospital, according to the FedEx website and my handy tracking number, but they haven't yet made it to the right desk, Dr. God's assistant tells me.  The mail clerk must still be out for a smoke.

    That doesn't mean that I've been obsessing about this delivery all day.  Oh no, I now have a whole new topic to fuss about: the health insurance authorization.

    I can't be the only person who's noticed that all the ads for health insurance portray people who look like they would never possibly need anything in the way of medical care, not even a teensy bit of antibiotic on a bandaid.  If you've forgotten the look of these ads, check out the pix here and here.  See what I mean?   The message here is that if you just buy this insurance, you'll never, ever get sick!  You'll be just like all these perky folks! 
   Sort of like the life insurance ads making you think that their policies buy you a free pass on the whole mortality thing.  
    Right.  
    Well, now that we're actually really using our health insurance, or trying to, I'm not feeling all that perky about it. 

    I knew our adventures were beginning last week, when the assistants of all three of our doctors (the PCP, the local neurosurgeon, and Dr. God) said that it had to be one of the other offices who was responsible for initiating the authorization.

   One person even suggested that I was the person who should do this.  Sure, why not??

Me: Hi, is this a representative from the Incredibly Large Insurance Company?

The ILIC Rep: Yes, it is.  How may I help you today?

Me: I'd like to order a few rounds of that Proton Beam Therapy stuff.

The ILIC Rep: A few rounds it is, ma'am.  I can supersize this for only $50k more, interested??

   Yeah, somehow don't think this is how it should go.  So I called up the Incredibly Large Insurance Company (ILIC) today on the phone, just to see how things are coming along, authorization-wise.  This is all sort of critical, since (1) we don't have any proton beam machines in our entire state, let alone in our insurance network, and (2) paying out of network costs would require me getting a second job.  As a bank robber.  Or maybe I could start my own Ponzi scheme...if Bernie could do it....

   But, no, I'd suck at a life of crime.  Knowing this, I turned to those ILIC reps.  I ended up speaking to two of them today, who BOTH assured me that the authorization process had been appropriately initiated and, no, there wasn't a single additional piece of information needed.

    However, when I got home--you guessed it--there was a fat envelope from my disgruntled-sounding insurance company, detailing at great length and in incomprehensible, bureaucratic prose all the other medical stuff that needs to be sent in before they'll consider the case.

    Maybe I should start thinking about the whole Ponzi thing...........

Still obsessing about those medical records

 

    A FedEx plane is currently winging its way between us and the Really Famous Hospital; in its hold is our exquisitely compiled encyclopedic history of P.'s medical history, beginning, as per Dr. God's instructions, with "P. was born...."  It goes on a bit from there, given that P. was born some time ago. 

    I'm assuming that the plane will land safely, that the dudes in the brown uniforms will read the address correctly (they better, the address taped to the box is written in 20-point font), and that they are capable of delivering said box on Monday morning at RFH as per the pricey deal I arranged on Saturday. 

    Actually, I would have been willing to pay even more if there were a guarantee that an especially handsome FedEx guy would be hired for this specific job (the better to get the RGH's clerks' attention) and that he would be trained to adopt a beseeching expression as he hands the box to Dr. God's assistant, saying, "Look, this is really important.  Could I implore you to see that the doctor reviews these records immediately?"  

    Instead, what I know will happen, despite the $44.30 I forked over at the FedEx store, is that the guys in the brown truck will pull up to a general mail room at RFH, and our box, along with a lot of other really important FedEx boxes, will just get tossed into the overall hospital mail system.  The box will eventually get loaded onto a squeaky cart that some bored guy will wheel in a desultory fashion around the medical complex, tossing boxes on various desks as he goes.  I picture him yakking on his cell phone as he walks the halls and parking the cart in the hall to sneak cigarette breaks when his supervisor isn't around.  Maybe he'll get around to lobbing our box on the right desk on Monday; maybe he won't.

    Or maybe I'm just fixated too much on these records, eh?  

    And, um, in case, you RFH representatives are reading this, I'm sure that each and every one of the mail room employees are fine people who would never thing of taking unauthorized breaks for a hit of nicotine!  And all of them are ok with being in a minimum wage job all day long!  Really!

My thesis for Dr. God

    Yes, yes, I'm grateful on this Thanksgiving evening for all the stuff you'd expect--my great family, a good job, a safe neighborhood--all this is true.

     But this year, I have new things to be thankful for.

     Here's one:  Finishing up the small encyclopedia of medical records that Dr. God wanted us to compile before he is willing to consider letting P. have some time on that super magic proton beam machine at the Really Famous Hospital.  Not only have I chased from clinic to clinic all week--dashing out between my own meetings in a rumpled, panicked mess--but I also had to write up a blow-by-blow account of every symptom, every scan, every consultation P.'s had for the last six months.  I've been typing so fast that wisps of smoke are still wafting from my laptop.  But it's done and ready to be Fed-Exed to Dr. God tomorrow.   I hope he likes it.

    In my fantasy, my phone rings:
Me:  Hello, this is Ms. McCruddy, who is speaking, please?

Dr. God:  My dear Ms. McCruddy, this is Dr. God calling from RFH.  I must say, your written account is genuinely compelling.   In fact, it is such an astonishing work that I've sent the RFH's medivac helicopter to pick you up right now so I may have the honor of meeting an accomplished writer like yourself.  It should be arriving outside your location as we speak.

     THWACK, THWACK, THWACK.

Me, shouting over the noise:  Why yes, it seems to be landing in my driveway!  Oh dear, too bad about the neighbor's dog....

Dr. God:   Please do climb aboard, Ms. McCruddy.  I am anticipating your arrival with such pleasure!

Me:  U'mm, ok....er, can my husband come, too?

Dr. God:  If you wish.  Anything else you'd like?  A red carpet upon your arrival?  Meeting the mayor, perhaps??   
Me:   Well, I was kinda hoping my husband could get some time on your space age proton beam gizmo device. 
Dr. God:    For an author of your stature, anything!

Sailing off into the blue

 We feel a bit like we're sailing off into the unknown.  I have to admit: there are moments when it seems like we may be headed off the edge of the map (Here Be Monsters).  But, mostly, we're thinking that there are blue, blue waters ahead.

Chondrosarcomas can be cured.   Our new mantra.

More than just a piece of crud

So we were wrong.

In our defense, the doctors were wrong, too.  For the first six months, they said, "That mass in your husband's brain?  It's a blood clot.  Annoying maybe, but no worries. Here's a prescription for some heavy-duty anticoagulant."

Then, months and many repeat scans later: "That mass in your husband's brain?  It's a benign tumor.  Tricky to remove, but nothing to worry about, really.  Well, not too much anyway."

Then, after more weeks--and the biopsy: "That mass in your husband's brain?  Well, it's not so benign.  In fact, it's a chondrosarcoma.  Really tricky to get out.  In fact, we can't even do it here--you'll need to go see Dr. God at the Really Famous Hospital out of state."

In the doctors' defense, new cases of skull-base chondrosarcomas are diagnosed only about 20 times per year in the U.S.

Ok, so my husband's special.

Not the way he'd prefer, I'm sure.