A Woman Scorned

The Insurance Man. He has filled my law firm’s, and my personal, insurance needs for the past 24 years, but I hadn’t seen him, face to face, for nine years.

Though he is upon first impression a typical, run-of-the-mill Insurance Man with a rather annoying stutter, I hold an active grudge against and thoroughly despise him. For one thing, he’s smaller than I am, which always annoys me in any man. He’s very bland looking, tries to use a salesman’s smooth repertoire, but, mostly due to the stutter, it really doesn’t work for him. He’s a smart enough guy, good at what he does, an honest guy. No one could understand at first glance why I would disdain this man as much as I do, but I do indeed despise him because of something he unknowingly did nine years ago. Something which I have never forgotten, and which I will never forget.

At the age of 47, I was in the process of a divorce and had been covered under my husband’s health insurance. The divorce was finalizing and I needed a new policy.

Given the health care system in this country, my firm, which is just my boss and me, does not qualify for group health care. My boss uses his wife’s employer’s insurance, and he provides a private policy for me. As the policy I have is not a group policy, but is rather a "private" policy, I am not privy to the privacy policies that those who have group insurance enjoy. This is interesting to me. The monthly premium for a private policy is at least twice that of a group policy, yet one of the main features of a private policy is that it strips any element of privacy out of the policy. During the application process, my life is an open book, and I have to reveal everything that’s ever happened to, in, outside of and/or around my body.

So, indulge me and picture it: law office, downtown Denver, April, 2000. I’m under pressure to get the new health insurance policy in place before the divorce is final, and I am in the throes of an early menopause which started when I was about 42. I am more than a little bit stressed and more than a little bit hormonal. I’m with the Insurance Man in the “fish bowl” glassed-in conference room in my offices, engaging in an intrusive interview with him about my medical history. He has brought a scale with him that I have to stand on, in front of him, in the conference room. This is when the first blush of hate begins to spike.

In that first meeting, I was asked to list all the medications I was taking. I gave the Insurance Man the list, which included the hormone medication I was taking - the routine estrogen supplement that almost every gracefully aging woman in the US was taking at this time in history.

The Insurance Man returned the next week with the completed, final application, ready for my signature. Prior to signing, I reviewed the application thoroughly. To my utter amazement and outraged disgust, in the “Preexisting Conditions” column, this jackass had neatly penned “genital disorder”. As my vision focused on those words, I could feel a flush starting at my belly button and climbing to my cheekbones. A fine perspiration broke out all over me. I was hot and cold at the same time. I could feel my pulse throbbing in my wrists and temples and my heart pounding against my chest.

“Genital disorder,” I hissed at the Insurance Man. “What in the world would possess you to say that I have a genital disorder?”

“W-well,” he stuttered, “I had to code that-t-t hormonal prescription in as something, so I used the “g-g-genital disorder” code.”

I sat with my lips clamped together, my nostrils flared, trying to center myself and trying to stay in control. I held up a hand, palm facing out, signaling him to give me a moment, left the conference room, and stomped into my boss’s office. He is about my age and we’ve been together in this two-person firm for 24 years. I shut the door to his office, sat down in the chair across from his desk and managed to croak, in a trembling voice: “(The Insurance Man) has prepared an insurance application for me in which he falsely discloses that I have a genital disorder, and you need to go straighten him out, or I will kill him and throw his bloody limbs into your office on your carpet in front of your desk.”

I rose, regally I like to think, and made my way back to my desk, where I sat, catatonic for the remainder of the afternoon, staring at my computer screen, doing no work.

Amazingly, though a man himself, my boss managed to step up and really shine. I don’t have any idea what went on between him and the Insurance Man. I do remember that a few days later, my boss brought the application to me, pointed out the corrected “Preexisting Conditions” section, and I signed it. I received an insurance card and benefits booklet in the mail. Until this week, nine years later, I had not laid eyes on the Insurance Man since the more than distasteful application process.

Of course, my boss makes a point of periodically reminding me of this incident in my life. There are times when I am at my desk, brow furrowed, worrying over some file, and he will walk by and ask, sympathetically, “What’s wrong - your genital disorder acting up?” I narrow my eyes at him, he walks off laughing, and nothing else is said about it.

Earlier this week, my boss was kind enough to give me notice that the Insurance Man would be coming in. Given the bizarre economic climate, my boss has decided to explore life insurance investment vehicles, so he wanted to discuss what’s available with the Insurance Man. My boss, ever mindful of my feelings, said, “You might want to be ready with an update on your genital disorder, because the Insurance Man is coming in.”

I have to admit that I gave the upcoming reunion some thought; I wanted to be sure I was prepared. I can tell you with authority that it is very difficult to conduct small talk with a man while the words “genital disorder” are whirling through your head. I managed to do it, he proceeded to his meeting with my boss and was soon on his way back out of my office. I did not turn to watch him walk out the door. On his way out, he called, over his shoulder, “Good to see you, too, Linda,” as the door swung shut behind him.

“...How’s that genital disorder treating you?” my boss finished for him, winking at me with a mocking grin.

As I continued on with my work, ignoring my boss, I was somewhat surprised to realize that even now, nine years later, I could still gleefully slit the Insurance Man’s throat. I can’t imagine that I will feel any different, even when I’m 95 years old. But in actuality, I should probably just let it go. After all, I had used the term “hormone” during the application interview. I should just consider myself lucky that he didn’t insert “howling prostitute” in the “Occupation” section.