Louella Learns the Limits of Medicare

It was 10:05, and there were six other people in the doctor's waiting room when Louella signed in for her father, filled out the paperwork and provided her father's Medicare information. Looks like it's going to be hurry-up-and-wait today, she thought, looking around for some decent magazines to read. She tossed aside Golf and Travel, Woodworker and Rod and Gun, digging for a recent People or Glamour. Looks like this doctor subscribes to what he likes, she thought, not what his patients like. Gets that tax write-off and we get bumpkus. She settled next to her father on a black vinyl chair and patted him on his arm. "Let's snooze a little while we wait, okay?" "Sure thing, Lou! You don't have to tell me twice to take a nap!"

A half hour passed before the receptionist called Louella up to her little window. "You know your Dad only has Part A, don't you?" she whispered. "What's that mean—'Only has Part A'?" The receptionist looked uncomfortable. "Well, it means this consultation won't be paid for by Medicare." "It won't? Why not?" "Because you need Part B coverage for that. Then you only have to pay 20 percent for an office visit. Well, except for the first $135 in a year, but don't let me confuse you!" "Well, how do you get this Part B?" "It's something your Dad should have signed up for when he was 65," she said. "He might still be able to sign up for it, but it'll probably cost extra, and they can exclude pre-existing conditions."

"Hold on a minute!" said Louella. She went over to her dozing father and nudged him awake. "Dad!" she said. "They're saying you don't have Part B Medicare! Is that right?"

"Sure, that's right! Don't have Part B for the same reason I didn't get any whatchacall gap policy. Because I can't afford ’em, that's why. That Part B was gonna nick nearly a hundred dollars out of my Social Security every month, and the gap stuff was going to cost more than a hundred more. I figured if I needed to have a doctor's office visit or whatever, I'd just pay as I go. Be cheaper, seein' as how I never need to see a doctor!"

Louella felt a cold knot form in her stomach. "Oh, Dad! I wished you'd told me! Candy and I would've helped you out to pay the extra!"

"You sayin' we have a problem?"

"Not yet, but we could if this thing today is serious," said Louella. "Let's sure hope it's not!" She went back to the receptionist and took out her checkbook. "How much for today's visit?"

"That'll be $150 for today," she responded. "That's not counting any extras like tests and medicines and all." She cocked her head. "He does have Part D, right?" Louella flipped through the cards in her father's wallet and found nothing about Part D. She shrugged. The receptionist said, "I'll check online." She clicked some keys and said, "Nope, he didn't sign up. Sorry." "Well, can he still get it?" asked Louella. "Well, he might be able to," said the receptionist. "That's better than for that supplemental gap insurance—they might not take him at all now. They don't have to insure everybody with no questions asked, see, except in the three months before and after you're 65. Listen, you need to talk to the hospital social worker about this. Maybe something can be worked out. It's really complicated. If you choose the wrong Part D or supplemental plan you can be in real hot water real fast. I'm just telling you because we went through this with my grandmother, and she lost her house."

The receptionist glanced behind her, then said in a conspiratorial voice, "Look, the best thing would probably be for the doctor to put your dad directly in the hospital right away. Then your Part A might cover you pretty much, except for that deductible."

"Deductible for being put in the hospital?" Louella asked, numb. "How much is that?"

The receptionist, whose name Louella finally noticed was Ernestine, rolled her eyes. "That's going to be a little over a thousand dollars," she said, nodding sadly. "And honey, that's not going to include TV or telephone, either!"

Candy should have looked into this! Louella fumed. She lives with Dad and should have been paying better attention! She hastily wrote out the $150 check and handed it through the window. She thanked Ernestine, stuffed the receipt into her handbag and sat back down with her father. He was tapping his right foot and humming under his breath. Oh no! thought Louella. He heard everything we said!

A few minutes later they were called to see the doctor.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Louella Tries To Muzzle Dun & Bradstreet

Louella tossed her battered Coach handback on the sofa in her condo and kicked off her orthopedic shoes. What a day! she thought. Six hours on my feet at the cash register, with a 15-minute break. Hardly matters that I've got these special nurse shoes. I can't believe I'm wearing these boats!

She thought about getting some white wine from the refrigerator, but her throbbing feet demanded attention first. She rubbed them hard. I really do have to get myself some other kind of job, she thought, but I really like the mindlessness of this one. She felt her cramped toes loosen up. "Aaaaah!" she said aloud. A few minutes later, she was back on the sofa with her chilled wine. Time for Oprah and a nap! she exulted.

Just as she was sinking into slumber, her land line phone rang. It took three rings before Louella was alert enough to answer it. She glanced at the caller ID, saw it was an 800 number, and thought hard about not answering. Well, it's already disturbed me anyhow, so I may as well see what it's about, she thought. "Hello?" she snapped.

"Hello," said a chipper male recorded voice. "We've got easy and simple credit solutions for you. Did you know there are government programs that can...." The voice droned on. There was no way to say you're on the Do Not Call Registry. Louella retaliated by letting the message continue until the end. Time is money, she thought grimly. Let them pay more for bothering me! I am so sick of these interruptions! she fumed. I'm going to re-register online to stop them. 

She opened her laptop and went to https://www.donotcall.gov/. My number's registered, all right! she thought. So how come these calls are getting through?

While online, she did what she often did: searched her own name using Google. Still eight mentions, she thought with a little satisfaction. Bet that's more than most grocery clerks have! She looked through them again and realized there was still one for Dun & Bradstreet. Now, why in the world is my name listed with them? she wondered for the first time. I never thought much about it, but maybe that has something to do with the calls. 

Tooling her way through the Dun & Bradstreet website, she found that her long-ago consulting firm was still listed as being an active business. Holy cow! she thought. I incorporated that eight years ago when I was unemployed the second or third time! The profile gave her home phone number. I'm going to fix this right away! she thought, finding her way to a phone number for a conversation with a human at Dun & Bradstreet. Wonder how long they'll be offering that? she mused.

A young woman answered on the seventh ring. Louella explained the problem and asked to be de-listed from Dun & Bradstreet's database. "I think this is where the telemarketers are getting my number, and I just do not want those calls," she said. "I don't publish my number anywhere."

"Ma'am, your number is part of a legal record, and Dun and Bradstreet isn't able to change that record."

"Well, how can I get my record taken off Dun and Bradstreet completely, just for starters? I never did do business using that number."

"Ma'am, there's nothing we can do. Your number is all over the place, not just with us. You'd have to file a formal affadavit to say you're completely out of business before we could make any change."

"But why? I never asked to be included in your database in the first place. It can't be hard to take me off—just a keystroke or two!"

"Ma'am, listen to me. We don't have anything to do with your records. We can't change them."

"But right here on your website it allows me to alter the profile. It just forces me to include a phone number, and I don't want to do that."

"I repeat, ma'am--you're not listening to me!—Dun and Bradstreet has nothing to do with that. Other companies that want to do business with you need that information, and so do people who might want to extend you credit."

"But I don't want any of that! This is my home number, and it's on the Do Not Call Registry, but apparently it's considered a business phone by people who use your database. I'm so sick of the telemarketing calls I could scream!" Louella tried to keep her voice calm, but it was getting difficult.

"Ma'am, calm down," said the woman on the other end of the line. "Please listen to me. We can't do anything to help you. You're in the official business records."

"But what about those calls? It's unbearable. Do I have to change my phone number? That would be a nuisance, and then somebody else who might get my number someday would be getting those stupid calls."

"Ma'am, I repeat: we publish your number, and so do a lot of other companies. There's nothing we can do."

"Well, there's no benefit to me to be on your list," snapped Louella. A light bulb went off. "I guess Dun and Bradstreet sells my information, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does. It's a service we provide."

"So you profit from giving out my phone number?"

"We're not the only ones doing it, ma'am. It's a service."

"Well, it's not a service to me," said Louella. "It's a dis-service. I can't believe you let this happen without giving people a chance to get off your list."

"Ma'am, I have to end this call now," said the woman. There was a click, then silence on the other end of the line.

Louella was trembling with rage. I can't believe it! Those dirtbags! Selling my information and causing me pain—and they don't even care! First thing tomorrow, I'm going to cancel my landline phone and get one of those throwaway cell phones.

The phone rang again. It was her father. "Hi Dad!" she said as civilly as she could manage.

"What's the matter, Lou?" he asked. "Bad day?"

"Not until I got home. Stupid telemarketing call just when I was starting to nap."

"Know whatcha mean! Those whatchacall charity people keep calling me—they can do that even if you're on that whatchacall registration thing not to get calls. And my bank keeps calling. Can't hardly get a nap myself, and these days I really need a nap."

"So what's up, Dad?"

"I have to go to the doctor again for another test," he said. "Tomorrow. They say it has to be done real soon."

"But I'm working tomorrow! Can't Candy take you?"

"Aw, you know Candy. She never knows where she'll be or what she'll be doin'. I thought maybe you'd be able to arrange it." Louella could hear the disappointment and fear in his voice.

"What time tomorrow?"

His voice brightened. "It's at ten o'clock. You think you can do it?"

"I don't know, Dad. I'll have to call my manager right away—he leaves in a few minutes. Maybe I can trade time with somebody. I'll have to hang up now, okay? I'll call you right back." 

"Okay. I'm waiting right here," said her father.

Louella dialed her work number. How in the world am I going to be able to get away from this phone? She wondered. Everybody I want to hear from has this number too.

Her boss picked up. "Yo, Louella! What's up?"

It took some doing, but Louella got him to agree to let her work later in the day. She could tell she'd have some payback to do for the favor.

If I get up real early tomorrow, before I get Dad, I can get this line disconnected. And then after I take him home, I'll get one of those throw-aways. The idea that nobody would be able to reach her by phone until she gave out the new number suddenly made her giddy with relief. Tomorrow can't come fast enough, she thought, as she took the receiver off the hook and stretched out on her sofa.

—TO BE CONTINUED—

Louella Considers the Meaning of 'Torture'

Helen at the next cash register was wiping down the conveyor belt while waiting for the next customer. Louella looked her over with a critical eye. I sure hope somebody makes me quit before I go out in public looking like such an old hag! she thought. But that's mean to even think that! I can't believe that thought even crossed my mind! I mean, I might have to work until I'm seventy years old too—no way I'll be able to retire earlier unless I win the Lottery again. As if to apologize for her thoughts, Louella finished up with her customer (organic juice, pepperoni pizza, barbecue potato chips, bologna). Bet customers think we don't notice what they buy, thought Louella. But we'd go nuts if we didn't have that distraction!).

"How's your arthritis?" she asked Helen, who was stiffly bending her back upright.

"Comes and goes," said Helen cheerfully. "Not much use complaining about it." She adjusted the device on her right wrist, designed to prevent carpal tunnel problems. 

"Don't you ever think it'd be nice not to have to come to work any more?" asked Louella, as she eyed another customer approaching her station. Good, he wants to do the self-checkout, she thought. Amazing that so many people haven't realized they're doing our work for free. Slavery isn't dead!

Helen gave Louella a look. "What? You think I'm too old to be here, is that what you're saying?"

Louella was taken aback. She wasn't accustomed to older people giving backtalk. "No, no. I don't mean anything about age. I just mean, don't you just wish—"

"Wishing don't make it so!" snapped Helen. "That's what my granddaddy always used to say, and he was right. You have to deal with what is, and stop any foolish wishful thinking."

Louella didn't know what to say next. Luckily a woman was unloading groceries onto Louella's conveyer belt. I notice Miss High and Mighty usually gets passed over for me when customers have to choose between us, she thought with annoyance and a little satisfaction, too. "How are you today?" she asked the customer.

"Could be better," said the woman. "I'm just so upset."

"Upset? Is something the matter here at the store? Because if you want, I could call the manager—"

"No, no," said the woman, making direct eye contact with Louella, something Louella avoided. She felt exposed. Uh oh, now I've gone and done it! I've invited something personal to be said! Louella steeled herself for what was to come. 

"I'm just so upset about this torture issue! I want to see somebody get punished for what was done in those Iraq prisons. I'm just sick about it, is all. I just heard another news report about it on the radio on my way over here. Public radio—not that they're telling us that much news these days, but at least it's better than TV."

"Yes, ma'am," said Louella, trying to stifle the woman. She might need antidepressants, she thought. She really does look kind of miserable.

The woman asked, "Have you complained to your congressperson about it? Because we all have to do that, you know."

Louella gulped. "Well, I haven't thought all that much about it, to tell you the truth," she evaded, scanning a package of fig newtons and reaching for the low-sodium soup cans, bagging as she went.

"Well, get to know about it!" snapped the woman. "It's tiresome to live in a country where so many people just don't seem to care about what's happening. You're paying taxes. Do you like it that your money's going for things like torturing people who haven't even been charged with a crime?"

"No ma'am—now that you put it that way, I see your point. Will this be cash or charge?"

"Charge," said the woman, slashing her credit card through the slot. Louella glanced at the woman's receipt. "You saved eight dollars and thirty-one cents on your order today," she said, smiling her best smile.

The woman snatched the receipt. "That was my plan," she said, as she stuffed it into one of the shopping bags she'd brought from home. She looked at Louella again. "You look like someone who can think," she said. "I suggest you do that." She pushed her cart away.

"Well, that was nice," said Helen. "Glad she didn't talk to me. I'd've told her what I think about that torture business. I'm all for it if it keeps those terrorists out of this country!"

Louella felt her stomach pitch. For the thousandth time, she thought, What in the world am I doing working in this place with people like her?

TO BE CONTINUED.

Louella Can't Find The Sun

Louella wandered through the condo lobby, trying not to be too obvious as she foraged for a discarded issue of the morning paper. She spotted on on a low table by a fake Norfolk pine. The Baltimore Sun, pitifully thin, was folded to the obituary section. Well now, that's appropriate, thought Louella, running her polished nail across the lines of type telling the life story of someone she didn't know. The obits are the only real news in here any more.

She tucked the paper under her arm while pretending to dust the plant, in case anyone was looking. She looked around. The concierge was joking with the mailman. Louella walked to the elevator and pushed the button for her floor. I guess I really should subscribe to this again, she thought. It's our hometown paper, but really, it's got nothing much in it. Glad I never went into journalism—what a loser career!

She emerged from the elevator and tottered on three-inch heels to her door and let herself in. I think this will be the last job interview I go out on, she thought, kicking off the expensive torture devices and wriggling her toes on the white carpet. I mean, what's the point? The pain didn't go away. The arches were cramped. Oh no, she thought. I'd better not need to go see a podiatrist! She kicked herself again, metaphorically speaking, for not having medical insurance. But then she reminded herself that it probably wouldn't cover a podiatrist anyway. There's no way to win in this society any more, she thought, flipping the paper and her purse onto the sofa and walking in circles to work out the cramps. Except for winning the Lottery.

Pouring a glass of cheap white wine from the refrigerator, she limped back to the sofa, rummaged in her handbag, and produced her Lottery ticket stub. Then she flipped through the Sun to find the winning numbers from the day before. Rats! she thought. Another loser! Maybe I'll start buying five a day instead of one. I mean, I hit it once. Some people hit more than that. Why not me?

It was six o'clock. She reached for the TV remote and turned on the news. She watched for a couple of minutes, then clicked it off. Losers! she thought.

Her cell phone sang its little tune. She glanced at the Caller ID and saw that it was her father. She sighed, let it ring a couple more times for effect, and answered. "Hi, Dad!"

"Lou, why d'ya have to do that—why d'ya have to take away my thunder? Why can't ya let me surprise you, let me say, 'Hi, Lou!' first?"

It was a familiar complaint. "Daaaaad," she scolded. "Get with the program. If I didn't know it was you, I might not answer the phone."

"Humph! Ya might not answer it if ya know it's me, too! Think I haven't figured it out, huh? I wasn't born yesterday, got that?"

He's right about that, thought Louella with a twinge of guilt. "Well, all right then, Dad. What's up?"

"Well, you remember when I had that little medical thing happen last—what was it, in September?"

"Yes, Dad—how could I forget? It scared me to death!"

"Well, it's back."

"The bleeding's back. In your urine."

"Yeah. I didn't know what to do. I mean, it weren't nothin' before, so I thought maybe I should ignore it and it'd go away, but it's still there. Coupla weeks now."

"Do you have any of those antibiotics left from before, Dad?"

"Hey, now—I followed their directions last time, and took ’em all."

"Oh." Rats—he'll need a new prescription. Good thing it's only March, and he's not in the donut hole yet. "Well, okay, then. Have you called that doctor to renew?"

"Thought you could handle it for me, Lou. I might not understand what she tells me on the phone. You know—my bad hearing and all!"

This caretaking thing is really getting to be a drag, thought Louella. "Okay, Dad, let me give the doctor a call and see what she says, and I'll get the prescription for you if she says that's what you need."

"Thanks, Lou! Don't know what I'd do without ya!" They hung up, and Louella called the doctor's office.

"I'm sorry," said the receptionist, "but if you need a prescription refill, your Dad will have to come in  to see the doctor."

"But why? It's the same problem as before!"

"Well, maybe it is, and maybe it isn't," said the receptionist. "But no matter what, that's the new rule. We can't afford to take these kind of calls for free any more. We need to charge you for the visit."

Louella took a deep breath, trying not to let her annoyance show in her voice. "Well, then, how soon can we come in?"

"Let me see.....okay, we have an opening in three weeks, at 3 o'clock on the 31st. Is that good for you?"

When is a doctor's time frame ever good for me? Louella groused inwardly. "That'll be fine," she said. "We'll see you then."

She hung up. This had better not be something worse than an infection this time. Because if it is, Dad will have lost three months of potential treatment time.

She considered whether she should just drive across town to pick up her Dad and take him to the E.R. at Hopkins. The ploy had worked the last time. She picked up the Sun and located the TV listings for the night. "E.R." was on. What a coincidence, she thought. I don't want to miss that. Dad can wait another day. I'm beat.

--TO BE CONTINUED--