NOVEMBER 21, 2024 – Today I had to turn inward, away from the public square back to the workbench of my figurative second floor shop with its windows overlooking the public space. Of course, except for a few characters who reside in the public zone every waking moment—engaged in various forms of theater and theatrics—most of us are focused on the demands and distractions of our daily lives above the fray that occupies the village center; away from the fire-eaters, the sword-swallowers, the jugglers, the jesters—and the clowns and their clown show. Each of us has a dragon or two to slay or at least for a while, to keep at bay.
I had several dragons to confront today: these were of two kinds—one being law work and the other being urgent medical matters concerning our oldest son.
The first dragon was benign, even friendly; no fire or smoke, teeth or claws. But the monster laid persistent demands at my feet throughout the day, like a big dog continually fetching a ball and running back to drop it at my feet for another toss. It was impossible to drain the beast of its energy.
The second dragon started out breathing fire and roaring in my ears. After fighting the scaly creature all morning, I enlisted an ally, whose sharper sword worked magic—for about five minutes. The ally’s apparent help then went pffft. I was back to my solo struggle against the dragon until . . . the ally returned, sword and spear in hand. So effective was this unexpected turn, that almost instantly I was able to slay the dragon and unlock the heavy barrier to freedom.
In reality, this is what happened . . .
. . . At yesterday’s medical appointment, we learned that Cory would have to undergo a PET scan (“Positron Emission Tomography”), something I’ve had three times in conjunction with my multiple myeloma. In his case it’s to provide critical information regarding nodules on his lung, said nodules having been revealed on an earlier CAT or CT scan (“Computed Tomography”). The PET scan, however, was to be scheduled with a provider outside the health system into which Cory has been accepted. Without insurance, the PET scan would cost $9,000.
The problem with the insurance is that Cory has none! He’d been trying in vain for months to procure it, but each of multiple attempts had led down the same black hole: after completing an online form, he’d hit “submit,” but was then faced with the prompt, “Your file has been flagged. Call 651-222-3333 to speak with a representative.” He’d call, only to be put on interminable hold and eventually cut off. While he was in the hospital, the social worker experienced the same frustration. When Cory was discharged from the hospital, the social worker called me and said the business office would “take it from here.” They would call me and straighten out everything on the insurance front.
So I was told. A week later, no call and no number to call. I was at a complete dead end and in despair, given the necessity of the PET scan coupled with my inability to schedule it until the insurance was straightened out.
I resolved to “shake things up.” I was prepared to drive to the offices of the Department of Human Services and create a scene. Except . . . nowhere and no way could I find an address where I could create a public spectacle, until . . . I finally stumbled upon a street address hidden well in the weeds. Along the way I happened to read some unvarnished reviews of the department’s horrible (so it was consistently described) customer service. This contrasted with my years of positive interactions with other Minnesota state agencies and offices.
Before going to “headquarters,” however, I drove the short distance to our local public library, where the department has a crew of “navigators” to help guide people through the opaque and labyrinthian system.
I waited patiently for three other “customers” to present their problems. My turn came shortly after noon. The young and conscientious “navigator,” one Plykue, listened carefully to my tale of woe, then got down to brass tacks. After dancing his hands across his computer keyboard as if he were hammering out Rimsky-Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumblebee on the piano, he advised me to have Cory complete a new form online. He also gave me a “PMI number,” which, apparently, had already been assigned to Cory. If nothing else, I thought, I will walk out with a number, and with all fingers crossed, maybe this “number” will turn the lock on the PET scan.
Ecstatic, I drove home and told Cory I’d hit “pay dirt.” When I told him what Plykue had advised, Cory threw up his hands. “No!” he said in exasperation. ” That’s exactly what I’ve been told for months, now. It won’t work. I’ll go online, complete the form, and at the end, I’ll get a prompt telling me that my case is flagged and to call a number, except no one will ever answer. What needs to happen is someone in that place simply needs to ‘unflag’ my case so that the application will go through.”
What I’d thought was a win, it turned out, was no victory. I was back to square one. Like a sleuth I embarked on a convoluted effort to locate a social worker within the large hospital system who could give me guidance in my effort to beat the system. After a time I lost track of the number of times I was placed on interminable hold, transferred to the wrong area, or shunted full circle. With the scintilla of hope that remained, I managed to leave a VM message with a social worker. (She hasn’t yet returned the call.)
Moments after I left the message, Plykue called me. I was about to convey what Cory had told me: completing an online application would result in the same old “flag” on his account, when this amazing new friend of mine—the earnest early 30-something (if even that) Navigator named Plykue—beat me to the punch. Flight of the Bumblebee, as it turned out, had been a detailed inquiry about Cory’s unsuccessful online attempts, which inquiry Plykue had sent to a knowledgeable person within the department. The response explained that some software glitch was holding up the insurance system that was tied to the state application process. The simple solution was to complete and submit a paper application. In fact, Plykue explained, nothing was “flagged,” and there was nothing for anyone to “unflag.” The problem was purely a snag in the software.
Ecstatic for the second time, I thanked Plykue profusely and immediately phoned the PET scan scheduler. I gave her the “PMI number” that I’d obtained earlier from my now close new friend, and VOILA! The 10-ton stone door to the Land of Magic opened on command. “When would you like to schedule?” she asked. “We have an opening tomorrow at 12:45 and another at 1:45.”
“We’ll grab 12:45,” I said.
Before leaving the “Navigator” office at the library, I’d asked Plykue for his manager’s contact information so that I could put in a good word for him. He gave me the manager’s direct phone number. As I rose to leave, I told him I’d definitely call the manager. “Meanwhile,” I said, “just know that this world is a better place because of you.” I love saying this to people who go out of their way on my account; who provide top-flight service clothed in good cheer and delivered in a spirit of genuine caring. Invariably, it prompts a positive response. I’m convinced that in some small way it helps make the world a kinder, brighter place.
So thrilled and impressed was I by this young guy’s efforts and follow-up, I left a long effusive tribute on the manager’s VM. The extraordinary service I received today in my inward-facing shop went a long way to counter the nonsense that occupied the public square.
Now for the PET scan itself. May the cosmic forces grant a favorable result.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
