The Insurance Is Free — You Pay Only Shipping And Handling

Today I received my annual greeting from my health insurance carrier, Bob’s Insurance and Live Bait Emporium. Bob hasn’t heard a peep from me this past year, although he expresses no remorse over that fact. Bob has lots of correspondents, and he’s happy that I don’t burden him with inconsequential inquiries, claims and invoices.

Bob has offered to extend my insurance against doctors for yet another year at a modest 39% increase in premium. All of this is subject to underwriting approval, of course. Bob will need to conduct a thorough review of my empty file if I should decide to pursue his gracious renewal offering.

Bob’s been my buddy for two years now, and I haven’t contributed any clutter to his file room. I have kept my nose clean since partnering with Bob. I learned my lesson two years ago when I applied for health insurance from Blue Cross. Blue Cross didn’t want to be my friend because I went to the doctor too often. I didn’t go to the doctor because I was sick or injured. I went to the doctor because my doctor told me I should go to the doctor. The manila folder bearing my name at my doctor’s office is bereft of anything remotely related to medical treatment. It is simply a repository for copies of invoices related to our semi-annual chit-chats.

You see, my doctor also conducted regular reviews of my file. When he reviewed my file in light of his current mortgage payment, travel needs, club dues and the new Lexus model year offerings, he determined that my checkbook and I needed to visit him twice each year.

The visits consisted of a 30-minute wait in the waiting room. When I was practicing as a certified public accountant, my office had a reception area. When the client arrived for his appointment, I was typically there waiting to receive him. If I was delayed for some reason, the receptionist greeted the client by name, apologized for the delay, and offered him a refreshment. Not so at the doctor’s office. The doctor has a waiting room where you wait until 9 o’clock for your 8:30 appointment. Doctor Standard Time is unrelated to Greenwich Mean Time or any arrangement of the moon and stars. Your appointment may be based on Central Standard Time, but that appointment is with the waiting room. Doctors are bent on the efficient utilization of all of their service offerings, and the waiting room is always fully utilized. Not only is it comfortably appointed in steel and vinyl, but it’s also a great place to build your immune system via exposure to the flying snot produced by the hacking and coughing of fellow waiters.

Once my medically-prescribed wait had been completed, a "technician" would appear from the hallowed halls to summon me with a mispronunciation of my name. The "technician" became a "technician" by rigorous response to a help-wanted advertisement and purchase of floral scrubs. The "technician" would perform the weigh-in, then take my blood pressure and pulse just to make sure I had some. She would ask me if I were taking any prescription medications. Grabbing the invoice file bearing my name from the armpit of her floral scrubs, I would peruse it with furrowed brow and declare, "it doesn’t appear so."

This confirmation of my vital signs and drug use was followed by a 15-minute wait in the examining room. The examining room is a private waiting room that is customized to the individual patient’s needs. Mine was always furnished with six-year-old copies of Arthritis Today and a mint on the examining table. I think it was a mint. It may have been a suppository spilled by the old lady whose butt cheeks unclenched when the doc administered a breast exam here a half-hour ago. I never ate the mint.

The doctor would enter, glance distractedly at my file, and press his stethoscope to my heart and lungs just to make sure I had some. He would ask me if I were taking any prescription medications.

Another self-serve consult with my invoice file. "It doesn’t appear so, doc. It also doesn’t appear that I have cancer, heart disease, tuberculosis, bird flu, genital warts, AIDS, Alzheimer’s, Crohn’s Disease or dyspepsia. At least not as of my most recent invoicing."

I felt offended that my doctor would even think that I could be cheating on him. After all, I loved waiting in his waiting room and I couldn’t live with the guilt if I entertained any other doctor’s waiting room. I would assure the doc that his invoice file is the only file that I have penetrated and filled with my seed. Sure, I have occasionally closed the bathroom door behind me and auto-medicated with ibuprofen, but only because the urgency of my need preempted waiting in his waiting room. I had to take my throbbing head into my own hands, but I was fantasizing about him when I did it. The Medical Gods are disdainful of this activity, but don’t kid yourself — everybody does it.

My semi-annual rendezvous with the doctor ended two years ago when Blue Cross told me to go pack sand in my ass. Imagine being declined for automobile insurance because you get too many oil changes. We regret to inform you that the frequency of your automobile maintenance indicates that you are actually driving your car. Driven automobiles do not meet our underwriting standards. Should you desire to purchase hypothetical insurance for a hypothetical automobile, we welcome your reapplication.

When I joint-ventured with Bob two years ago, we agreed with a wink and a nod that I would stop juicing myself on doctor visits and live a clean life, free of any medical-related fixes. I would steer clear of the bad influences peddled by that gang in white coats. Now that I know the dangers of visiting the doctor, I just say no. Scared straight. And Bob’s life is easier, too, because his file bearing my name consists solely of a Post-It note reminding him of my annual coverage renewal date.

Bob is benefiting from my education at the school of hard knocks. I now have hypothetical health insurance. I have insured myself against doctors that I dare not visit. Yes, hypothetical health insurance is expensive. But if it can deter but one wayward soul from the evils of preventive medicine, the greater social good has been served.

Could be worse. I could live in Canada, where the government meddles in health care and doctors live in your crappy neighborhood.