I hate to be all “Poor little Insured Girl” while the self-employed of the world play a Shostakovich concerto on teeny tiny violins… but MAN, no one told me that health insurance would be such a gigantically painful hassle! I would almost prefer to sit for hours on end at a public health clinic. Sure snotty kids got their sticky sick fingers all over me… and the screaming… ohgodthescreaming… but I’d pay my 15 bucks, and as soon as I stepped out the door I could begin forgetting the whole awful experience.
Having health insurance is like a PTSD flashback of hassle. Three months after my initial visit with my internist, the claim rejection letters start rolling in. Then the phone calls… and the hours of hold time with customer care. After spending 47 years of my life that I’ll never get back, it all turned out to be a simple misunderstanding. My doctor’s office had erroneously attached me to my husband’s policy . . . also Pacificare thought I was a man.
“Not a big deal,” said Ms. Customer Care. “At least not till you try filing a claim at a gynecologist, or try to receive prenatal care.” Just the same, I’d kind of like my pharmacist to stop looking at me funny.
When it’s all said and done, Pacificare . . . I love you baby. I didn’t mean to say all those hateful things about you. I really love how, out of all my prescriptions, it was the $450 2oz bottle of lotion that you decided to cover instead of all those cheap generics… and I love you for that. Don’t ever go.