OP-ED: Diary of a Mad Health Insurance Applicant

by Bryan Kelly

Dec. 17, 2015

Twice, I’ve followed the government’s request—caved to its ransom notice—and applied for health insurance.

Twice, their reply has been the same: my case cannot be resolved at this time. It is being referred to another division. I should call the number below for further consultation.

“For the time being,” the message reads, “it sounds as though you’re healthy.” Implicit in a sinister remark like that is “…but for how long, exactly? A week? A month?”

Who can say? I’m young, hale, with no present or preexisting conditions. These make me a desirable candidate—since, without me, the swindle wouldn’t function.

“But,” the message reads, “sooner or later, circumstances could change.”

Oh, you’re good, healthcare.gov copywriters! You’re reee-alll good. Fortunately, I am disgustingly, filthily healthy. I exercise. I eat all the right foods: mixed chard, avocado, quinoa, kale. Whatever is vogue that comes along, I gorge on.

Above all, I don’t smoke—certainly not cigarettes. I limit milk and cheese—and when I don’t, I spend hours clutching my stomach and wishing I had.

I eat gluten-free. Especially, I eat gluten-free cookies. Ideally, a whole sleeve of them.

My trump card remains: that while my health is good-to-fair, my economic situation is dire—”Disadvantageous to the risk pool.”

Thank you for putting it so kindly! But there may be a way out. “The government”—that is, the people— “has offered to subsidize your premiums in whole or in part.”

For once, my poverty and I could be allies! But, there will be an investigation. “Responses to the portion of the application addressing income are inconclusive. More information needs to be gathered before moving forward with a decision.”

They’re on to me. Well, perhaps I shouldn’t have been so pessimistic about my prospective income in 2015. I would like to make more than someone who rifles through couches at the Salvation Army, I really would.

The economy is improving—or so claims the New York Times.

Here’s the final insult: “You may qualify for an extension on your application window.” If it could just be the final word on the matter! Give me until Dec. 31, 2015 to make up my mind. Likely, I won’t sign up, and you won’t fine—ahem, “tax”—me for my decision.

After all, I don’t want coverage. If I am well, there’s no harm, and if I get sick—let me die! Should anyone else agree, it could a windfall. Traffic on Main Street has been awful lately….

I am not a moral man. I am a knucklehead, knobby as knuckles get, dumb as the President’s wife believes me to me—and determined to starve the medical-industrial beast until it dies—or I do.

 

Jan. 4, 2015

 

Today, a letter arrived from the county branch of the department of health and human services.

“You may be eligible for coverage under Medicaid,” it reads. “However, the government must verify your income and holdings. Therefore, please send along paperwork that provides a record of all earned and unearned income in 2014, including any of the following: income statements, in the form of pay stubs; 1099-Cs; receipts for invoices; any self-employment income; bank statements; dividends; interest from savings…”

Well, this should be easy. But wait, just what is “unearned income,” anyway?

My mind begins to race. Sweat forms on my upper lip. Suppose that the income someone else earns qualifies as my un-earned income? Am I going to need a scanned version of every living person’s pay stubs? That could take time.

And what about the deceased? Income they earned while alive might qualify as income I unearned now that they’re dead, and in urns. And it will all be impossible to trace; everything they earned has been spent, or distributed elsewhere…

Ben Franklin’s words come floating back to me—”a penny saved is a penny earned.” So a penny spent is a penny unearned! Ah, so I’ll have to show what I’ve spent my money on…too bad, I never collect receipts—for the simple reason that I prefer to forget most of the things I buy….

Or, wait, is “unearned income” income I earned, but didn’t deserve? I recall being overpaid for a house-painting job I performed over the summer. The client was a widow with an expensive fortune and no children. She paid me in gold—pressed it into my hands—tears were in her eyes—I reminded her of the deceased—”he’s just upstairs, you should meet him “—shall I not qualify for Medicaid simply because of her munificent charity?

A response is due, and soon. I have five days. It will be difficult to clarify this question before then. I was provided a phone number in the letter; I have left a voicemail on it concerning the matter.

In the meantime, I will gather everything. Every penny, earned and unearned. Plug in the printer, put a pot of coffee on, and prepare for five miserable days.

 

Feb. 9, 2015

 

I am afraid I’ve fallen ill. I’ve gone days without restful sleep. This proof-gathering task has become a burden to me. My breathing, it seems, is more labored. I cough endlessly. When I do, another stack of papers drifts from the bed, and I fall to sorting it. To my horror, I’ve found something like a small cyst behind the left side of my jaw. My libido is down; suicidal thoughts are becoming more frequent.

I am still waiting on a final answer. In the meantime, sundry indignities. “More information must be gathered before moving forward,” a letter, received today, repeats. “In the meantime, please reply to the following: have you ever accepted home heating credits?”

On my tax statement, I said yes. TurboTax made it look easy—and advantageous. But according to this application, “heating credits cause cancer.”

I follow a footnote. “This information depends on the type of furnace you own. Please provide a photograph of your home’s heating system.”

I sigh, throw off my blankets, brandish a key and head to the basement. On the stairs, I become light-headed. I tumble forward—blackness, lost time—muffled voices, as through a blanket—huddled in fear—my wallet is being rifled through—

“Head’s cracked pretty good,” a man says, “but, no insurance card. Should we take him to the hospital?”

“You shouldn’t!” I cry out blindly. “Leave me! I haven’t qualified yet!”

“Suit yourself, fella.” Footsteps walking away. “Better hope Heaven adheres to the single-payer principle…”

Bryan Kelly writes regularly about politics for The Ann Arbor Independent.