Recently, I became a 100% unmedicated cancer patient who doesn’t have cancer anymore, specifically the stage 3 progesterone and estrogen positive invasive ductal carcinoma with lymphovascular invasion I was diagnosed with at 41. I am elated! For the first time in nearly 15 years, I am not taking any form of cancer treatment side effect elimination drug, any estrogen blocker, or any aromatase inhibitor. So, why am I still classifying myself as a cancer patient, you may wonder? Easy. After you’ve gone into remission, after your visits are limited to yearly, after they’ve poked and prodded and scoped you as much as they can, you become Al Pacino in The Godfather: Part III. “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.” Truth is, you never fully get to close that chapter of your life. There will always be checkups and blood draws and x-rays and such, like what I’m attempting to schedule now. My oncology doctor has ordered an updated BRCA gene screening. I passed BRCA 1 & BRCA 2 with flying colors! But, that was back in 2008, when BRCA was a wee babe. Big BRCA is so much smarter and can analyze so much better than the limited technology available in the early aughts. It could be important to my future, that new test that could more accurately determine whether or not I stand an 80% chance for a recurrence of cancer. So, just go and get the test, right? Oh, what tangled web of bureaucracy we weave when first the insurance companies try to deceive.
I was perusing the candle aisle at Walmart when the genetics department at Baylor finally called me. This is an extremely difficult department to infiltrate, so I dared not allow the call to go unanswered, even thought I was in a stare down contest with another shopper over the very last Better Homes & Gardens vanilla bean and pumpkin candle in the crackle glass container. Spoiler alert, I won. Someone named Glenda announced, in a humdrum/don’t wanna be here voice, that she was going to assist me in making an appointment for an updated BRCA gene test. She informed me that there is but one appointment available this calendar year, on Halloween day. Rather than pay attention to Glenda’s words, I make it my new job to get her to laugh. Turns out, asking her if I get extra genes for dressing as Morticia Addams was not a good idea. She tells me there are multiple emails coming my way, some to print and some with rules and some with links. The links are the crucial ones, because I am required to complete an in-depth family history questionnaire within the next few days. The genetic doc brainiacs will evaluate the info in my questionnaire to determine which genetic test will best suit me. Who knew there were multiple versions? As the conversation comes to a close, I think of a super-duper important question. “Glenda, so, umm, regarding the out-of-pocket fee, when do I find out that information? See, my doctor has ordered this before, but insurance refused to cover the test because they have this silly one per lifetime rule, and I know these tests are quite pricey.” Glenda responds, “Ma’am, that’s between you and your insurance company. That does not involve me.” Click. I took it in stride. After all, the War & Peace sized wad of paperwork being emailed to me would probably iron out all those details. It did not.
It took me 3 days to complete the questionnaire. I needed health info for each and every parent, grandparent, child, grandchild, aunt, uncle, and first cousin on both sides of my family tree. I needed specific cultural, religious, and even origin/ immigration related facts. And, I needed an astronomic amount of diagnosis paper work from 2008. Enter Glenda, again. “Hello, Glenda! Hey, I spoke to you last week. Remem ber? I was at Walmart and I was telling you about the Anthropologie candle dupe? You don’t remember? Ok, well, I just completed the questionnaire paperwork and it asked for me to upload copies of my original diagnosis and treatment paperwork, but you guys probably have that already since everything is at Baylor, right?” Glenda shut me down. “No ma’am, you have to get that for us. We cannot get that. I can tell you that right now.” I try and decipher the logic in a system that cannot access the information within the system of that system, but she redirects me toward the medical records department. So, I called a 3rd party company where no one answers, and you cannot leave a message, to follow their voicemail prompts to submit a records request. Then, I did the old scan, upload, attach, & send trick. Miraculously, everything seemed to go according to plan. But, that out-of-pocket fee thing kept bothering me. So, yesterday, I called back and talked to Glenda for the 3rd time in as many weeks. She still did not remember me, but I pressed on. “Glenda, so, I am still not understanding this whole ‘Dina comes in for a test’ thing we’re doing. If you don’t deal with my insurance company, how do you know what to charge me when I get there?” Glenda sighs and claps back. “Ma’am, we don’t. You come in. You get the test. We bill your insurance. You pay what they don’t.” It’s suddenly my calling in life to show her the error in this logic. “You mean, you allow me to do something that could potentially cost me thousands of dollars without knowing how much money I’m going to need?” Glenda says that is exactly what she means. Next, I get super-duper smart. “Glenda, I think I have the best idea ever. You tell me the secret squirrel medical billing code and I’ll call my own insurance company and find out if they will cover the test.” I am dashed again. “No ma’am. I have no idea what kinda test they’re gonna give you. That’s not up to me. The genetics doctor will make that determination after he reviews your family history.” I’m totally showing up dressed like Morticia Addams. Glenda deserves that much.
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