We're Here to Help

From the moment I began my Lap-Band journey, it felt like someone was trying to kick my ass so that I couldn't possibly get down that road. Like a carrot dangling over my head, I was promised good health, a thinner me. Yet, at my every turn, there was someone ready to bludgeon me for trying.

After I went to the surgeon's seminar, and lined up the insurance, I was set up with appointments all in one day for my meetings with a shrink, an internist and the surgeon. Things seemed like they were going along swimmingly. I mean, the insurance specialist had assured me that my type of insurance was a snap for approval, as long as I jumped through all the hoops of appointments etc.

Easy enough. Hell, it only took my brother, Bruce, a few weeks from start to finish with the same people and he had the same insurance company as me.

"I see you've been on a lot of different diet plans," said the shrink, as she shuffled though my paperwork. "We've got Weight Watchers, South Beach and Hollywood diets, even the Shick Center. "What was the most successful one?"

"The divorce diet," I said flatly. "That was worth a good 30 pounds. All I did was ride my bike and cry all day."

She gave me a look and then proceeded through the gamut of questions. I told her what I thought she wanted to hear. She finally pronounced me fit to have the surgery. It was time to see the internist.

I was scared about this part. I'd been eating everything in sight in order to weigh in at the necessary BMI, but was a little shaky because I'd weighed a little shy of the requirement before leaving the house.

"Put rolls of quarters in your pockets," advised someone from the online user group. "Lots of people do that to get around the weigh-in." I decided to wear the heaviest shoes I could find, instead, hoping they'd be one of those places that lets you wear them on the scale.

"Those are cute shoes. Take them off." said the assistant to the doctor. Dammit, here goes nothing, I thought, and stepped on, completely quarterless. Apparently,I was weighty enough.

"I don't like your blood pressure," said the internist.

"Flatterer," I thought.

I was told that I'd hear from them once all the tests were in. I waited. I called, and was sternly told to be patient. Ha. Very funny.

I found out only by accident a few weeks later that I had been approved for surgery by this doctor, but that my insurance had denied me. They wanted me to prove that I had attended a Weight Watchers or other costly program for a continuous six month period during the last two years.

By the time you reach my age, you've long since given up on this kind of thing, and I had no proof. My insurance ran out at about the same time. I signed up for COBRA benefits, an extension given in California where you can pay an arm and a leg for up to eighteen months, but maintain the same coverage.

I was beginning to wonder exactly what coverage when I received a bill for $400 from the internist.

"Write an affidavit to the insurance company," wrote a good friend. "Swear that you've already tried all this stuff and it doesn't work. Cite the study that they did in Australia. They can't dispute it. They'll have to cover the surgery." She was writing this from prison, after having failed her own appeals.

And, just like her courtroom drama, I could almost hear the insurance company say, "Nyah, Nyaaahh!" as they completely ignored my affidavit and denied me a second time. Then, I got a letter from a representative of the insurance company, telling me that they were there to help, and to just call with any questions.

Oh, I had questions, alright. But the representative assigned to my account told me she was just available to help me with medical issues, not denials or billing problems.

I feel so much better now.