• And the band played on

    “Hello, Mr. Kauffman? This is (censored) from (my HMO). I just wanted to give you a call to let you know that we’ve resolved the issue with your daughter’s PCP (primary care physician). The claim submitted in October 2004 will be resolved, and you will not be responsible for any charges previously billed by the PCP.”

    “You mean the 10/1, 10/2, 10/3, and 10/5 claims that I called about last week; I believe it was 11/28 of this year?”

    “I don’t have the exact dates in front of me. I just thought I would give you a call on my break to let you know the issue has been resolved.”

    “But you think ALL of the claims from October 2004 will be resolved? What about the other dates that I was billed for? Specifically, I’m referring to the claims denied for July 2002, March 2005 and May 2005?”

    “Sir, you didn’t ask us to check on any dates besides the October 2004 claim.”

    “Au contraire, mon fraire. Claim… S. That’s CLAIMS… as in plural. When I called on 11/28 I noticed, and was concerned, that the representative was focused on 10/04. I asked about four claims for October 2004; PLUS, on three separate occasions I clarified with your representative that the bill from the PCP listed three dates of service OTHER than October 2004 – specifically: July 2002, March 2005, and May 2005. I see that my efforts were in vain.”

    “Sir, my break is over. I’ve got to get back to the phones.”

    Click.

    Talking to my insurance company on the phone has proven to be an excellent source of energy. Now I just have to find a constructive outlet for that energy.

  • Christmas

    Every time I sit down at my computer to write our year-end, holiday greeting, I wonder how I’m going to REALLY tell you how we’re doing – without a multi-volume, gift box set. This year there’s even more pressure because we neglected all of you last year. That’s two years of catch-up, and I don’t even like tomatoes (sorry about that – I’m a sucker for a bad pun).

    As you may recall, Cheryl and I are the parents of a now EIGHT year old daughter, Beth. Before our eyes she has grown into a kind-hearted, giving person… who moonlights as a third grade “tweener” whose sole purpose is growing gray hair. One day she’s having a hard time with her homework, the next she’s scoring off the charts in testing. Then I notice a certain gleam in her eye when I’m growing frustrated with an assignment of hers, and I realize SHE’S not the one having a hard time with homework. It’s not always easy, but reconciled with her playful (if at times mischievous) spirit and sense of humor, she’s hard not to love.

    You may not recall that we have a one year old son, Adam. Born September 30th last year (2004), he’s part of the reason you didn’t hear from us last year. It’s so much easier to procrastinate with a newborn in the house (with matters not directly related to child rearing, that is). Adam is at that wonderful age when a child is first learning to get around on his (or her) own; where every nook, cranny, and crumb on the floor is an epic adventure of discovery… filled to overflowing with laughter, joy, and no small amount of curiosity. As evidence of his emerging personality, we’ve decided that his first discernable word is “‘sss-that.” O.k., it’s not really a word… but spoken as a question, in conjunction with a pointed finger, it’s a precious attempt at communication.

    On the grown-up front, Cheryl has made the perilous leap to management. She’s not just the boss at home anymore. Still with the Florida Department of Corrections (probation and parole), she says she’s made the transition just fine. She feels a little vulnerable, based on some of the high profile cases that her department has been involved with in the last year or so (you may have seen some of them on the news yourself), but she’s doing pretty good. Little has changed on the job front for me… I’m still a “Jack of all trades, master of none” with the Florida Child Support Enforcement Program. Dealing (directly or indirectly) with the issues of money, children, and love unrequited still isn’t the most glamorous job, but it keeps me on my toes. There isn’t a really good title for what I do, but the most succinct way to describe it would be “problem solver.” I get to do a little bit of staff training, a little bit of high level client complaint resolution, a little bit of policy interpretation and implementation… all without any of the red-tape associated with being in management. It’s been a really cool combination that I’ve enjoyed immensely.

  • Too bad they’re not blue jeans

    Since I already don’t think very much of myself, it is easy to say that I’ve led my children into a genetic minefield. The latest blow-up occurred last night, about the time we had hoped to get to bed (early) for Adam’s surgery the next morning. Adam was wheezing. Ten quality minutes in the family car brought us to the local ER, where the parking lot was filled to capacity with other people spending quality time with their loved ones. That was when we made the right decision… a bit of a departure for us… the decision to abandon the ER in favor of the soup du jour in pediatric care… the “urgent care” or “after-hours” Pediatric Medical Center.

    We were seen right away. The bad news: Adam was wheezing… the good news: Adam was wheezing (hey, if we’re going to subject ourselves to the trials and tribulations of urgent/after-hours medical care, the least we could do is do it with good cause). This diagnosis came with a two-pronged NAA (which in State Bureaucracy Speak translates to “next appropriate action”): nebulizer treatments and a chest x-ray. The nebulizer treatment went very poorly, primarily because Adam was terrified of the gurgling, steaming mask that his parents insisted on pinning to his face – despite his BEST efforts. After twenty minutes of heart-rending hell, we moved on to the x-ray. If you imagine what a medieval torture table and restraining device would look like if it were developed in the modern age, by the design team at Apple Computer, then you can imagine the device waiting for us in the x-ray room. Adam was strapped down on a clear acrylic board with cutouts for tastefully designed Velcro restraints. After he was secure, the tech gave me a lead vest to put on. “What’s this?” I asked. “A New Jersey life preserver?” (It turns out there is a bad time for bad humor.) The tech tersely asked me to stand still and “try to get your kid to look at you.” We finished up there, had Adam’s vitals taken, did another nebulizer treatment, calmed him down, had his vitals taken, did another nebulizer treatment, calmed him down, had his vitals taken, waited on the nurse to write three prescriptions, and were the last paying customers out the door when they closed the place up for the night.

    It was hard on me, but it was even harder on Adam; and either way, I’m partially to blame.