...when I was in knee pants, my momma done tol' me, listen, son.... ("Blues in the Night", Harold Arlen / Johnny Mercer, 1941)
Insurance bureaucracy sucks. And, for once, I'm not talking about the insurance companies. I have no complaints with my insurance company. They've taken care of everything I need to have done to me, and they've done it with no fuss, no muss and no bother. They are perfectly competent and functional.
Now, The Boy's doctor's office, on the other hand, has stupid insurance people. Let me backtrack.
The Wife and I have our own insurance, through our teaching jobs. When The Boy was born, she put him on her insurance - figuring that there was a fairly high likelihood of me leaving my job. (...which I have; my resignation takes effect on Wednesday; more on that at a later date.) Because of that, I never bothered to put him on my insurance, figuring that the transference, at a later date, would be a monstrous headache. One does not enter into the wheels of the corporate giant without sufficient reason.
Enter the mental giants.
So, when you're given the wife's insurance card as the primary, and the husband's insurance card as the secondary insurance, what do you do? Of course. Husband's insurance as the primary, wife's as the secondary. But, wait... husband has no child on his insurance... after submitting the claims to the insurance company, now the wife's insurance won't take them, leaving $546 in the air.
Fat chance I'm going to pay it. It's their screwup. Let 'em come after me. I'll win.
Mind you, I've been on the phone with them a half-dozen times about this same problem. I've told them the reason that they've having this issue, given them multiple copies of The Wife's insurance card, and they're still having this issue. I'm torn between writing them a letter along the lines of, "It's your problem, your screwup, stop bothering me" and just calling them and screaming to high heaven. Likely, I'll call them and explain it, then follow up with a letter.
Still, it's amazingly frustrating. Let's see... telephone call, fifteen minutes on hold (if I'm lucky), another fifteen to explain it to the lackwit that's running things... that's a half hour of my life on Monday that I'm not going to get back.