No insurance. No respect.

To the Medical Establishment:

I have noticed yet another disturbing trend, which I am less than pleased about, as it:

• affects me,
• is unjustified, and
• pisses me off.

Let me tell you about it.

With a mere three weeks to go until my brand-spankin’-new medical coverage kicks in, thanks to Heather’s regular employment and the city of Minneapolis’ still fairly-liberal politics (it’s a holdout to the rest of the state) regarding domestic partnership, I was forced to drag my reluctant ass to the doctor’s office today, and pay somewhere in the neighborhood of $200 to pee in a cup. Which I can do at home for free, but there’s no convenient little door to place it in when I’m finished, not to mention a basket of antiseptic towelettes. Hence the expense.

So, when I called to make the appointment, it was all going swimmingly until the receptionist asked if I still had HealthPartners. I told her I did not, that I had no insurance to speak of. There was a long pause. Then she told me with the ‘self-pay’ option, they required a $50 copay, and they’d bill me for the rest. I said that was fine, but she still sounded wary.

Then I decided that since I had a day off work and was going to have to spend money on things I really didn’t want to anyway, I might as well give in and go to the dentist. There’s no way I’m getting dental insurance anytime in the forseeable future, and this missing filling has become a deep, dark cavern in which entire meals like to hide until rooted out with dental floss¹. So I called, and the receptionist there was even more suspicious of my lack of insurance, which is kind of funny since people are much less likely to have that than medical. I was suddenly aware that I had become a second-class medical citizen, because I had to pay for myself, rather than having some evil, cheating corporation do it and take it out of my hide later. Is that right? Shouldn’t they be happier that they’re getting money up front? Whatever.

I went to the doctor, paid my $50, and she was nice enough to give me Cipro samples. My sister pointed out that it will also take care of that lingering case of anthrax, which is awesome, since that’s been troubling me since way back in aught-two. Later on, I went to the dentist. The closest Park Dental with open appointments was in Eagan, the outer-ring suburban home of my parents, way over yonder on the other side of the Mall. The receptionist was an older lady with a perfect coif, tiny glasses on a chain, and a blue dress with giant gold buttons. Her name was Midge. Of course. I sat down in the overdone lobby and dug through piles of ‘Fortune’, ‘Golf Digest’, ‘Golf’, ‘Golf Magazine’, ‘GQ’, and ‘AARP’ before I found my reading material of choice: ‘Woodworking Magazine’. I read about band saws, because I am that kind of girl.

One good thing came out of my medical experiences today, though: I met my new dentist. He sat with me and analyzed my professed fear of novocaine, ever since I had all those tooth problems recently. We talked about my claustrophobia, and how I wanted to run away as soon as they started drilling. How I’m not scared of needles or discomfort or the doctor, but for some reason I have this newly-acquired terror regarding the dentist. He reassured me that I have nothing to fear, and with that, I became a new loyal patient. So if someday I’m actually able to afford it, I’ll go see him again. Until then, I’m one of those slackers without the appropriate coverage to command respect.

Sometimes Canada looks really good to me.
Jenni