That dreaded 9 letter word

It hasn't even been a week. Me and everyone else is still adjusting to the fact that I really have breast cancer. As I reported yesterday, I spent Friday afternoon setting up appointments. These are not ordinary appointments. These are the kind that have to be coordinated like air traffic control, or like pairing the perfect meal with just the right diet soda.

It was tricky, but I arranged most of them and thought we had a plan, until those people got involved. Yes, the evil empire, the barbarians of the business world, the i-n-s-u-r-a-n-c-e people. As everyone knows, the goal of insurers is to not spend money or at least delay it until they have reduced you to a heap of jello encrusted with parrot droppings of course by then the patient has a) died, b) been shipped to Iraq, or c) turned to Christian Science. My whole house of cards so carefully arranged came tumbling down.

I actually wasn't even surprised and probably only mildly frustrated. I did decide to call the company myself and ask them why are they doing this to me, but after 5 minutes on hold, I realized the chances of me getting to speak to an actual human being who could actually do something was as remote as... well the insurance company paying claims without requiring your first born child.

So AvMed, Blue Cross, United, whatever, just tell us what we have to do and we'll do it, but PLEASE no more torture by insurance.