The HitchLit Review, Vol. 2, Issue 2

I got the phone number of the HMO patient help line. I dialed and got a recorder. I waited for the “Your call is important to us, please leave a message after the tone…”

“This is Dr. Kroneman; my patient needs help. I have been trying to get cosmetic surgery for her for over a year. This AfricanAmerican woman needs surgery and you have denied her. You have two hours to call me back, or I will call the NAACP and see if they can help.”

Within minutes, the phone rang.

“Hello,” I said.

“Who am I speaking with?” the voice on the other end said.

“To whom am I speaking?” I asked.

“This is the medical director of the HMO.” “I’m Dr. Kroneman.”

“Did you just call threatening to involve the NAACP?” “That’s me.”

“I don’t like to be threatened.”

“It’s not a threat. It’s a courtesy call.”

“You’re angry.”

“Damn right I’m angry. I don’t like you jacking my patient around.”

“What you mean, ‘jacking the patient around’?”

“It’s an expression for making her fill out forms and making me write letters, knowing all along you won’t approve her surgery.

I’ve been trying for a year. She is horribly disfigured.”

“I have reviewed her policy. She is not covered for cosmetic procedures.”

“If you saw her. If you knew her before—if you had a heart, you would have approved this a year ago.”

“I have a heart.”

“If so, would you examine her?”

“I have reviewed her case. She is not covered.”

“Listen,” I said. “My friend is a plastic surgeon. He goes all over the world, fixing children with cleft palates in third-world countries. He said he would do her surgery for free.”

“No,” he said.

“I’m going to drop the dime on you.”

“What you mean, ‘drop the dime’?”

55.