Private health insurance is a big problem. It incentivizes doctors to recommend expensive, elective procedures to their patients in order to recoup more of the coverage costs.
Take what happened to me over winter break, for instance.
I was at home, trying to look sharp for Mr. Claus by getting a pre-Christmas mani-pedi and dental cleaning. Moseying into the dentist, I told the receptionist that I was there for a routine checkup. The moment I said routine, she quivered in her chair. Her condition worsened, becoming progressively more ill, convulsing on the floor and muttering nonsensical expressions about fluoride like a madwoman. She murmured one almost inaudible phrase to me: “routine is death,” before she died right there on that cheaply-carpeted floor that stank of mothballs.
Was I hallucinating or had this horror really transpired before my very eyes?
I played Wordle in the waiting room for 20 minutes to occupy myself. Finally the hygienist escorted me into the dentist’s office, letting me know with a cackle that the dentist would see me momentarily.
The dentist rushed into his office, exclaiming “I hear you’re in for a routine checkup, eh?” I told him I was. “Yes,” I replied. “Well, it’s your lucky day” he said “because we just checked your vitals, and due to your small heart rate we’ll have to operate on you right away.”
I was confused by this shocking revelation. “I’m confused by this shocking revelation,” I told the dentist.
“Just last week I went to the doctor, and she told me that everything looked normal.” “That so?” the dentist replied. “Well in any case I have to operate. Open your mouth so I can coat your teeth with mud-tinted fluoride polish. That way I’ll cure your heart rate issue.”
I was appalled at what I just heard. “I’m appalled at what I just heard,” I said.
“You should be sued for malpractice, you quack. You never even tested my vitals in the first place, and further a heart rate can’t be small, it can only be fast or slow.” “You don’t think I know that,” the doctor replied. “I did graduate from a reputable academic institution after all” he said with a chuckle and then pointed to the diploma on his wall on which was printed, in chicken scratch, “Graduate of the Phoenix University Cosmetic Institute. Major with distinction: Root Canals. Minor: Root Beer Floats.”
Scrambling out of my chair, I sprinted past the dentist who was busy sharpening his serrated steak knife in preparation for the operation. Watching me exit the building, he called out “you can run, but you can’t hide” in a blood-curling chuckle.
The next week I got slapped with a bill from my insurance company for $1000. They said they wouldn’t pay for a full teeth-removal elective procedure because the FDA hadn’t yet finished its study analyzing the long-term effects of this operation.
