The Name Game

I'm back in physical therapy again, although this time it's at a different place with a different therapist for a different reason.

Because I'm such a prime candidate for lymphedema, MOSWO (aka my oh-so-wonderful oncologist) suggested that I see a lymphedema specialist to make sure that I'm doing everything possible on the prevention front.

Between the time we had this conversation and the time I called to make an appointment, I started to have a hard time getting my wedding and engagement rings off my finger. Unlike many (most?) people, I take my rings off every night, so I could tell right away that my ring finger was a little swollen.

This was not a good sign.

This was very likely an early indication that lymphedema had struck, if only slightly.

I spent the next week or so obsessively looking at my arms in the mirror, trying to discern whether the left one looked bigger than the right.

It didn't, at least to me. Or to Zach. (And let's just say that it was not exactly a self-confidence-boosting experience to be staring at my triceps, which have lost all muscle tone over the past few months and, if viewed alone, would likely lead one to think that they belonged to a woman approximately twice my age. But, as usual, I digress.)

In addition to the swollen finger(s), it also seemed to me that the sleeves of my short-sleeved shirts fit a little tighter on the left. Ditto my bra straps.

So I was both eager and anxious (which—as the punctilious grammarian in me feels the need to point out—are not, in fact, synonymous, despite common usage) to see the aforementioned lymphedema specialist.

Easier said than done.

I called for an appointment.

I faxed over the prescription, along with my name, rank, and serial number (aka name, date of birth, Social Security number, address, phone numbers, and insurance information).

I waited for a call back.

I gave up waiting and called to follow up.

I was asked for more information—dates and types of surgery, dates of radiation treatment.

I gave it.

I waited for a call back.

I gave up waiting and called to follow up.

I was told that they had no record of me.

I spelled my name slowly. "Knower. With a 'K.' K-N-O-W-E-R."

They found me.

They passed my file along to The Woman Who Deals With Insurance Companies.

I waited for a call back.

I actually got a call back.

The Woman Who Deals With Insurance Companies told me that I needed to get a referral and bring it with me to my first appointment. She told me that my co-pay would be $10. She told me that in a day or two, I'd get a call from the scheduling people to set up my first appointment.

I waited for a call from the scheduling people.

I gave up waiting and called to follow up.

I was told that they had no record of me.

I restrained myself.

I explained that they did, in fact, have a record of me. And that I knew this because I had been asked to give additional medical information. And because The Woman Who Deals With Insurance Companies had called me and told me that I had cleared all of the administrative hurdles and could now get an actual appointment.

The person I spoke with tried to find me "in the system" but failed. She hypothesized that The Woman Who Deals With Insurance Companies must have entered my name wrong, which meant I'd need to follow up with her. She transferred my call, but The Woman Who Deals With Insurance Companies did not answer.

I left a message.

I waited for a call back.

I gave up waiting and called to follow up.

I left a second message.

I waited for a call back.

I gave up waiting and called the people I had spoken to in the first place, after I had faxed over my prescription.

I explained that I was in that hellish place known as Bureaucratic Limbo, and I begged for help.

The very nice woman I spoke with found me in about two seconds flat.

Turns out I was "in the system" under Rosen.

I'm so glad that I took pains to write "Knower, Jody Rosen" under "Name" when I sent in my name, rank, and serial number. (I did that to avoid having my name recorded as Jody Rosen-Knower, which happens all the time.)

The very nice (and smart) woman I spoke with suggested that we check the rest of my records to make sure that there were no other errors. Good thinking! She rattled off all the fields, and everything sounded fine until she got to my secondary insurance.

"You're covered by your husband's plan?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"And his name is Zachary Rosen?"

Um, no.

I'm so glad that I took pains to write "Zachary S. Knower" under "Secondary Insurance" when I sent in my name, rank, and serial number.

OK then.

The very nice and smart woman said that she would correct Zach's name, but that she'd have to get someone in Medical Records to correct mine—she couldn't do it herself.

Fine, fine, fine. Can I please just make an appointment already??

I get back on the phone with the scheduler, I explain that she can find me (for now) under "Rosen," and I set up my first appointment for the following Wednesday.

Wednesday comes, and I arrive at the appointed place at the appointed hour, and I go to the registration desk, and I give my name.

I am met with a blank stare.

"Look under 'Rosen,'" I say.

She does, and there I am. I explain the problem, and she listens politely. Then she takes my insurance cards and gives me a bunch of forms to fill out, which I do. Starting with my name.

I return the completed forms, and she gives me a "pass" to take into the next room, where I will meet my physical therapist. I look at the pass, and it's made out to "Jody Rosen."

So I explain, once again, that that's not my name (anymore). And she apologizes, and gives me a new slip.

I take the new slip into the next room and hand it to the receptionist, who, of course, cannot find me "in the system."

So I explain. Again.

And then I sit down to wait. Moments later, my physical therapist walks into the waiting room and calls out, "Jody Rosen?"

So I explain. Again.

And then we have a very productive session. [Turns out that my left arm isn't swollen after all. Turns out that it's actually smaller than my right arm. (She measured.) I'm right-handed, so that's as it should be. In any event, it's not clear why my rings don't fit, but it has been hot and humid, and, well, I do weigh more than I have in my entire life.]

Before the session ends, I happen to catch sight of the label on the file she'd been holding. "Jody Nan Rosen," it says.

OK, now we're getting somewhere.

Because I most certainly did not write "Nan" anywhere on the sheet I faxed over or on the forms I was given to fill out.

Because I haven't used "Nan" since I got married 13 years ago, when I dropped it in favor of "Rosen" as my middle name.

But this particular rehab center just happens to be affiliated with the hospital in which I was born. And back then, my name was—and remained for 26 years and one day—Jody Nan Rosen.

It only took me three more tries to get it fixed.

I can't wait to see what my insurance companies make of all of this.

See, I happen to know that there are at least two other Jody Rosens in New York City, one of whom is a guy.

Maybe one of them will get my first couple of PT bills.

Somehow, that would actually make sense.