10… 9… 8…

The insurance company has a left hand and a right hand, and nothing
in the middle. The call goes something like this:

Me: My surgeon’s secretary has faxed the claim form to you. The thing
is, we need to have a decision today as they want to do the surgery
tomorrow.

Him: Do you know what number it was faxed to?

Me: No, sorry. [Actually she did tell me but I didn’t write it
down; and Avaragado’s rules clearly state that he never memorises
phone numbers before 9am]

Him: Well, I recommend you get her to fax it through to the claims
department on blah-blah-blah with a covering note telling them to ring
you when they’ve made a decision.

So I ring the secretary back, and discover naturally that she’s
faxed it to the claims department number anyway. She’s going to fax it
through again with my contact details.

We decide to assume that they’ll approve it (well, we can’t hang
about!). She’s going to let the hospital know. I ask her if there’s
anything I should do or not do today – there’s bound to be some
restriction, like not standing on one foot after 3pm or not patting
chickens after dusk or something. She tells me not to eat anything
after midnight. I can do that.

She asks about allergies. The only one I know of is that all of a
sudden I seem to be allergic to elastoplast, and need to use
hypoallergenic plasters. She’ll tell the hospital, and I should remind
them tomorrow.

Then she tells me that I should check in (if that’s the right
phrase) to the hospital between 6:30 and 7am tomorrow. How
early? The surgery would be at about 8am. Blimey. This time
tomorrow…

I now feel like a prospective taikonaut on a shortlist.

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