Ya'll, the tentacles of the great and almighty Anthem Blue Cross are still wrapped around me. As some of you know, our relationship is rocky at best, a desolate wasteland, at worst. I have been trying to extricate Sophie from the grasp of the beast for nearly two months -- via telephone, regular mail and then certified mail. I resorted to calling that other beast -- The Bank -- to cancel automatic payments to Anthem. Still, the bills came and today's even had $50 of interest tacked on to the warning that coverage would be terminated after interest and premiums were paid.
What the hey?
The Anthem Computer Man led me through the labyrinthine halls and into a windowless room where I was told that my wait time would be twenty minutes and the sweet, sweet strains of Bach played. I started typing. An Anthem Human Man came on, lo and behold, after twelve minutes and spoke gently. I don't see any letter stating cancellation, he said. Of course you don't, I said good-humoredly. The Anthem Human Man made some gentle entreaty about HIPPO laws (and yes, I know they're not really hippo laws) and I explained that my daughter, the said Sophie, the MEMBER, was my severely disabled daughter and that I spoke for her as she couldn't speak. At all? the Anthem Man asked. That's right, I answered. You'll notice that all communication regarding her account has my name on it as well, I added. He went to check the hippo pond, gentle strains of Bach came through the speaker, I tapped my red fingers, wondered how deep the mud was in the Anthem hippo pond and contemplated the universe.
The Anthem Computer Man is taking care of things right this very moment, as I type. Bach is still playing.
Thank you for your patience, he whispered in his reed-thin voice, and I slithered out from under his arm, the last sucker -- pop.
