Health Insurance and Humanity

What comes to mind when you envision a health insurance representative? 

I have spent a lot of time on the phone with them recently. Figuring out how to update my insurance information with a new company was one of those tasks that remained on my to-do list for weeks, repeatedly getting pushed to the bottom and rewritten on the next list, nagging at me to just bite the bullet and get it done. 

It’s one of those menial tasks we all simply dread undertaking. Sure, it’s as simple as dialing a number — but then comes the hold music, anywhere from zero to one million minutes, and the endless bureaucracy of whatever tiny issue needs sorting. I know health insurance matters. But somehow, it never gets any easier to deal with.

Eventually, I carved out time to dig into the little mystery I’d been putting off for weeks…and really needed professional help with. I called, listened to the staticky music, chatted with someone who transferred me to someone else who thought they could help, then proceeded to transfer me to someone else who I waited on hold for again before finally hearing the voice that would be the end of this chain reaction. 

“Hello, my name is Allison, thank you for calling Blue Cross Blue Shield. Who may I be speaking with today?”

And from there the image was planted in my head — Allison, sitting in a tiny white-walled cubicle with a headset and starched polo on, two computer screens in front of her and neatly organized filing cabinets along the walls. Her voice wasn’t necessarily pleasant, but steady and practiced. She didn’t sound like she was smiling, but not snarling either. It was not her job to convince me of the cheer and joy inherent in insurance support, but to get me the answers I needed. 

“Hi, my name is Victoria, thanks.” 

“Thank you, Victoria. Can you please verify your date of birth?” In that same flat tone she continued with the verification, confirming that I am indeed me, and then allowed me to start rambling about my confusion and what I needed help with regarding my policy. I could almost hear her eyes glazing over her screen, scanning my account without missing a beat of what I was saying at the same time, likely filtering out the ignorant nonsense I’m sure I spewed. She’s good at what she does; I’m sure she does it hundreds of times a day for hopeless customers like me. 

Then, while I was still in the middle of talking, dogs started barking through the line — not just faintly in the background, but loudly, messily — real dogs with real problems. My words got caught when Allison started yelling, “Tina! Milo! Hey! Hush, hush, hush stop that!” There was a confused rustling, and an instant of total silence before she spoke to me, suddenly sounding like an entirely different person, “Sorry about that. They normally stay in the other room. Just a crazy Monday so far.” I laughed in solidarity and said it was no problem. 

Really though, I was completely thrown off. Allison was not in a cubicle or a collared shirt. She was at home, wherever home may be, probably in comfy pajamas, with at least two dogs and maybe children and maybe a cat, too. 

That moment of insight into her life was over as quickly as it happened. Next thing I knew, she picked up the monotone script again, saying “Your account does say it’s active through the end of the year, so you can continue using this as your primary insurance card. Are you familiar with where your deductable level is?” 

I wondered if insurance agents could turn off parts of themselves when repeating these conversations over and over, day after day. Allison seemed to. She was a very real human — I had an inside glimpse — but she could revert to trained indifference on command. I don’t want to assume that because someone answers insurance support calls all day every day, they are inherently sad and worn down. I’m sure there’s a lot of joy in their lives and I would never devalue the work — I believe that work in general is fundamentally good, no matter what exactly it is. But there was something about Allison’s silent resignation, the unuttered sigh, on her way back from “crazy Monday” to standard operating procedures that whispered, life is hard and I don’t want to be on this phone call. I don’t know if that’s true, of course. I’m projecting. Life is hard for us all at some point, and we carry that hardness quietly through our daily work, whether it shows or not.

By the end of the call though, Allison did what she does best — she answered my questions, left me with greater peace of mind, and told me to let her know if there was anything else she could do for me. I thanked her sincerely and we both went about with our days. I wonder whose Monday ended up being crazier.