My first day back at work already sucked. Just getting out of my car hurt. Ascending the flight of stairs to my office, I had to get both feet on a step and take a breath before attempting the next. My briefcase felt like it contained a bowling ball instead of a laptop. Though I’d spent five weeks at home recovering from bi-level lumbar spinal fusion, I suddenly wanted another month off. I had been proud of how quickly I’d reduced my Vicodin consumption; now, I might have to pop one just to make it up the stairs.
None of this, however, discouraged me as much as the task awaiting the instant I parked my convalescent fanny at my desk. I had to call a health insurance company.
Let’s see if I can give you the back story without breaking into tears or profanity or both. I’m a psychologist in private practice. It’s just me—no office staff, no partners, not even a goldfish. This is the primary reason I don’t bill insurance. Prying money from insurance companies is like wrenching red meat from the jaws of a pit bull. You waste entire hours filing claims, then more hours on hold when you call to ask why they denied the claims. If the insurance company agrees to pay, you can expect a check sometime next leap year.
Against my better judgment, I joined an insurance panel because a colleague said they paid well and on time. When they sent me a referral, I decided to take a chance and bill them directly. Big mistake. An avalanche of obfuscating minutia ensued as I begged for payment that never came. After a year, I stopped groveling and filed the experience under Life Lessons Resulting from Foolish Optimism.
My first day out of the hospital, I checked my voicemail at work. I listened with clenched teeth to three angry messages from a representative from the insurance company. She made menacing references to unapproved sessions and unfiled forms, though I’d faxed them enough to paper to turn Oregon brown. My outgoing message made it clear that I was on extended medical leave, but the woman was outraged that I hadn’t returned her call. “We must resolve this matter immediately,” she said. This, after a year of trying my patience. Though I’d been rendering my services for free, it felt like I was in trouble.
When I finally made it up to the stairs and into my office, I collapsed onto the couch, taking quick, shallow breaths. I looked at my desk and saw the blinking red beacon of despair on my answering machine. Putting all my weight on my arms, I heaved myself up and into the fray. Might as well get it over with.
I picked up the phone and started to dial.
“Oh, Lord …” I sighed.
Wait a minute, I thought. The Lord. What about praying first?
My cynicism whacked my spiritual naiveté on the knuckles with an aluminum ruler.
You’re not supposed to pray for stuff like this. It’s self-serving and silly. Do you want to be like on of those people who pray for parking spots at the mall?
Had I not been so desperate for a break, cynicism might have won.
Shut up, asshole, I snapped. I know it’s a long shot, but it can’t hurt to ask. If nothing else, I’m talking to God. I need to do that more, even if the reason is lame.
I said a quick prayer, apologizing in advance for the triviality of my request. Then I dialed. The agent picked up on the first ring. My stomach lurched forward. I had a spunky soliloquy ready for voicemail, but I wasn’t ready for live performance.
I told her who I was and gave her the name of the client.
