With all of my recent health complications, the issue of fighting my insurance appeal has been relegated to nuisance status. Although I remain annoyed that I was denied, and even more outraged by my conversation with Elsie (my insurance adjustor), I simply haven't had the reserves to invest a lot of mental energy into fueling my ire. The fact that I haven't spent a lot of time stewing over the issue is in no way a reflection on my willingness to fight the battle. We prepared a textbook appeal providing Elsie with ironclad rebuttals to all of her denial points. Once the paperwork was submitted, I was able to put the denial out of my mind and began to focus on more pressing issues.
Of course, much of my ability to put the prosthetic denial on the back burner of my worry-list lies with the benevolence of Elliot, my prosthetist. Knowing that I was uncomfortable, he went ahead and built me a socket to fit my new pregnancy shape. If I had spent the past few weeks trying to make due with a painful socket, I'm sure that my insurance battle would have remained at the forefront of my thoughts. I am grateful that he provided me with the tools that I need to continue to live a pain-free existence, but the fact that he had to proceed without authorization is a sign that the system is broken.
Yesterday afternoon I received a call from Elsie. Seeing the caller ID, I took a deep breath and vowed to remain calm. Our last exchange did not end constructively with my responding to her request that I abstain from procreating with a not-so-polite suggestion that she refrain from being a heartless b*tch. Don't get me wrong, I don't regret my suggestion. But I do wish that I had remained some level of professionalism during our exchange. Resorting to juvenile name calling is never productive although sometimes it is cathartic!
When I answered the phone and I heard my forced and overly enthusiastic "hello" I realized that I needed to tone it down a bit. I needed to convey myself in cordial professional voice, not a fake Mary Poppins "I want to be your best friend" tone. I really detest this woman, and I find speaking to her in a natural voice almost impossible. After all, how do you converse with somebody whom you wish a lifetime of misery? At that moment, I decided that brevity would be my salvation.
Immediately I could tell that she was more annoyed at having to make the call than I was having to answer the phone. I was quickly informed that my appeal has been accepted and that the new leg was approved. She was sending the paperwork to the facility echoing her verbal approval. She even complimented the thorough appeal which was submitted.
My heart wanted to gleefully scream "in your face b*tch" but this time I maintained my composure. I thanked her for the information and hung up the phone before she overheard my happy dance tapping through the receiver. Dealing with Elsie is a bear, but I have learned to relish each and every victory. I am not ashamed to admit that envisioning her sitting in her little barren cubicle, alone and slumped over in defeat as she was overwhelmed with feeling the despair which only comes from living a solitary existence, brought me a great deal of pleasure.
In the battle of the pregnancy leg, victory was mine!