Ay, there’s the Rub

I’ve been working with Genworth to process a claim for The Other Guy’s long term care insurance. The minimum condition needed to qualify for a claim is that he needs either “standby assistance” or “hands on assistance” with at least two of the Activities of Daily Living. ADLs include stuff like dressing, bathing, transferring (i.e. moving from bed to chair) eating. We don’t have the Cadillac plan that covers heartache or the thousand other natural shocks that flesh is heir to, so it’s a pretty high bar. For example, the ADL about eating doesn’t mean you can’t prepare your own meals. It means you can’t feed yourself. As it happens, we’re almost there. I filed a claim after evaluation by the facility assisted living nurse (D1) confirming that he needs (and will pay for) standby assistance with bathing and dressing.

After TOG starts getting assisted living, the Genworth claim process includes three components. First, we submit a statement by TOG’s primary care physician that he needs such assistance. I took care of that. Then, we need an exam by a nurse contracted by Genworth that he needs such assistance. I took care of that. We also need a statement by the facility where he lives that he needs such assistance. I asked him to take care of that. The last time I talked to a Genworth rep a week or so ago, the facility had yet to submit their forms and itemized bills.  

So the other day, we’re out to lunch.

Me:  Have you talked to D1, D2 (assisted living coordinator) or M (business and billing manager) about submitting the facility paperwork to Genworth?

TOG:  The what? Me? Do anything? At all? Ever? (Or words to that effect.)

Me:  Remember? I asked you to follow up to be sure they sent in their form. It’s the third part of the three-part claim process.

TOG:  (Truly expert look of clueless wonder on his face) I thought all things happened by magic without me having to do anything, let alone thank you for putting money in my pocket. (Ok, he probably didn’t say those exact words, but trust me, he said words that totally sounded like that.)

Me:  Please talk to one or more of the three facility employees who can follow up on this and ask them to give you copies of what they’ve sent so I can have them in my file.

WISIMH (or maybe I said it out loud):  Look sweetie, this is money that will go to you, so there’s absolutely no financial incentive for me to lift a finger. The one tiny piece of this process I’ve asked you to be responsible for is to follow up with the people who work where you live. It’s not terribly complicated.

WISIMH (for sure, not out loud):  And by now you should know which of the three women are responsible for this. I do. It’s M. But why do I bother? The likelihood of you following up is greater than the likelihood of me being attacked by a dozen zombies on surfboards while I’m surfing off the coast of San Diego in a snowstorm. And I don’t even surf. But it gives us something to talk about when we’re together.

***

Last Week.

TOG:  Talked to D1 and D2 today. If the word Genworth crosses their paths in association with me they will alert me with copies. I will leave a message at the front desk for M so that she will do same as well as send Genworth a receipt every month. (Remember, M is the go-to person here, so by pure coincidence, he’s managed to avoid her).

WISIMH:  Yes he said that. Even when he’s attempting to use words, he doesn’t use good ones.

Me:  I’ll check w Genworth. Residence HAS rec’d something from Genworth.

WISIMH:  Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished for. Not sleep, aka death, but getting this claim processed. Ay, therein lies the fucking rub. And by rub, I mean ay, there’s the tiresome game he plays. He’s punishing me for kicking him out of his house and selling off his precious hoard piece by piece by not cooperating with anything I ask him to do, regardless of whether it’s in his interest or not. So I end up doing it anyway, but not before I first suffer the slings and arrows of his outrageous passive aggression. Eventually, inevitably, I take arms against a sea of troubles, which, by opposing, is my only hope of ending them.

Meanwhile, TOG and I have texted and it turns out he needs actual hands on assistance in bathing. This would, of course, probably be another wrench in the LTC claim process because even though it wouldn’t change the cost of the assisted living services, it would probably require re-examination and re-certification by doctors et. al. So I’ve asked him to wait on that. Which is as likely as a pod of killer whales suddenly appearing and attacking the zombie surfers, thereby allowing me to slip away unharmed into the increasingly blinding blizzard. (I'm wearing a wetsuit, so I'll be ok).

***

Yesterday:

TOG:  For your edification. As I drive through the facility Deana whispering Genworth Genworth…

WISIMH:  WTF?

Then, the cryptic text: “Wait”.

Turns out there was an “episode” where he couldn’t breathe, and couldn’t stay in dining room to finish lunch, and panicked, and almost barfed, and they had to assist him to his room, and monitor his O2 saturation rate, which bottomed out at 82 before increasing back to low 90s where he usually is.  Which clearly means he needs even more assisted living. Much suspenseful texting and waiting happened while this drama played out. I was working in the vegetable garden, so not particularly caring about this act of the play.

However, as Hamlet ruminated, conscience does make cowards of us all. I know I have to do this, even if I end up like Ophelia  - who put her head in the oven or something halfway through the play. As Hamlet ended his monologue when Ophelia showed up “The fair Ophelia!  Nymph, in they orisons/ Be all my sins remembered.” Which is as likely as that killer whale pod being ignominiously defeated by the zombie surfers and turned into zombie whales, and eventually catching up with me and turning me into a zombie surfer.