By Fritz
                                                                                                    Unmanaged Care

Two weeks ago, my husband was informed by our health insurance company that he if he didn’t have a physical, our co-pays would catapult like the War on Terror budget. He had not yet subjected his anatomy to probing; we had just rented Michael Moore's Sicko, and had become chronically frightened by insurance companies. However, the chipper representative of Healthy Blue Living had called for several days and in a moment of weakness, I answered the phone. The representative informed me in conciliatory fashion of the consequences if we did not live a Healthy Blue Lifestyle. Apart from the disgrace we would bear for being overweight, my husband and I would also be charged extra money for going to the doctor on routine exams. Our deductibles would triple and our lives would fall into the depraved and immoral shadows of the uninsured.

"Wait," I said whilst sucking on a cigarette, "if we don't do these physicals, does that mean we're not covered?"

"No!" said Miss Healthy Blue. "You'll be covered! You'll have insurance! You'll just pay twice to three times the amount as our other Healthy Blue members!"

"Isn't that, um, like, discriminatory?"

"We believe that healthy people should not have to pay as much as people who are unhealthy," stated the meat robot.

"So, aren't you really saying that your coverage is based on what Blue Cross wants to pay? I mean, versus paying for people's well-being, regardless of their individual health?"

"Are you smoking?" she asked. "If you're smoking, you have to sign up for the smoking cessation class."

I hung up.

But Fate is a real bitch, and my husband started feeling unwell. We went to the doctor and deposited several kinds of specimens for him to analyze. We left, feeling dehydrated and hungry for cholesterol. A week later, the doctor called us back. He casually suggested I go back on psychotropics, and after a long-winded speech about nicotine and hormones, informed me I was most likely infertile. After clapping my hands in glee, I threw the phone at my husband for his batch of good news. As it turns out, he was not as ecstatic with the doctor's news. Hanging up the phone, my husband stated he would be dead in a year.

"Crap," I said, "it's a hell of a good thing I got life insurance on you."

Since then, my husband has been to five different doctors, all of whom have requested three or four more appointments. I called Miss Healthy Blue Living back.

"We can't keep up with the co-pays," I told her, "so what can you do to help us?"

"Oh, dear! Seems like you two aren't so healthy blue!"

"Look, my husband may or may not have a heart murmur, endometriosis, cervical cancer, and hepatitis. It's taking the gastrointestinal specialist and the pediatrician some time to figure this out. Meanwhile, he's giving himself palsy by looking all of these symptoms up on the Internet. Between him and the doctors, he's at death's door. Can you cut us some slack?"

"Have you quit smoking yet?" she asked in a tart tone.

"What does my smoking have to do with his liver?" I asked.

"Wait...how much does he drink?" she inquired. "If he drinks a lot, he can't be considered Healthy Blue!"

Today, nothing is resolved. My husband may or may not be very ill. I haven't quit smoking, and my husband hasn't started drinking (much to his credit). The doctors are no closer to understanding the anatomy of a 39-year-old man with a history of hockey injuries. We're just a couple of hundred bucks in the hole, thanks to our co-pays, and we're welcoming in the New Year with more appointments on the way. BlueCross/BlueShield of Michigan hasn't revoked all of our insurance privileges yet; we figure they are saving that caveat for the day we get a real diagnosis.

So, what would I do over? That's easy. For every day I forgot to tell my husband how much I love him, I would rent him a stripper. I would certainly do over Miss Healthy Blue Living, and made sure she remained in whatever small, flammable container in which she was packed. Ultimately, I would have been born anywhere that values human health over money and discrimination, and where insurance is a birthright, not a profitable industry.

But I don't think I'd ever not smoke.

Bio: Fritz is a frustrated writer and a frustrated woman. She still smokes and is a passionate advocate for fellow smokers. Mostly, she's planning her next diatribe or her next knitting project. She lives and works in the Detroit Metro area, but she dreams in red. Her home includes one saintly husband and one demonic cat.