Life Insurance Woes

At the end of last year, Debra and I put on our adult pants and went to a financial advisor. Said advisor also sells life insurance policies which is how my extended family came into a relationship with him, rather than actually having money. Any constant reader could probably sum up my distaste for doctors in one or two bits of profanity, but for you folks new to the scene or perhaps just wearing those handy rose-colored glasses, I have a lifelong struggle with anxiety and medical practitioners. In fact, should that person even have access to a blood pressure cuff (acupuncturist and dentist, I’m looking at you), I have access to a panic attack which I’m only able to avoid most of the time.

The nurse came to the house and did a comprehensive medical questionnaire as well as gathering blood and urine, weighing us, etc. The questionnaire covered our physical and mental health and we provided every last piece of information, including all of the doctors’ contact information. For all the build up here, you won’t be surprised to learn Debra’s was approved several months ago and mine has needed extensive follow-up.

My PCP sent my records four times. The underwriters failed to for university hospital records. They sent me, by email, another extensive set of questions about my mental health, all of which I’d answered with the nurse. Frankly, I’d have been happy to do the whole thing via email but apparently that’s only not allowed the first time. Then they decided they’d need those records from the university. Now, six months later, they are complaining because the university is slow. I mean, yes, I’m sure their medical records department is slow. But I don’t have a lot of sympathy for the underwriters who lost records, didn’t read the ones they had, and delayed in making the records request.

It was so hard to go through with it the first time, to be confronted with my litany of medical failings. The brain surgery (not cancer), the suspicious breast lump (not cancer), the steel ankle rod (not cancer), the mental health suite of fun (not cancer though!), and the melanoma (actually cancer). I feel like I’m a wreck and every time I have to talk to the insurance company or the underwriters I get closer to breaking down in tears. I’m worried they’ll have to do the exam part again and I’m trying not to imagine what that will feel like. Honestly, if it were Debra, I’d be okay if she gave up at this point. But I don’t want to leave them without money to live on and the longer I wait, the more difficult this is going to get.

Being a grown-up is too hard some days.

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One Response

  1. I feel you. My life insurance process was pretty straightforward – they asked a few questions about my mental health but on the whole it was just a case of filling in the forms. My wife, however. My wife is complex. My wife is also dyslexic, so realistically the only way the forms are going to get done is if I do them. And I, the queen of paperwork, the spreadsheet hobbyist, am balking. On paper, she is pretty well uninsurable – we’re not even trying for critical illness and disability insurance. That ship has saaaaaaailed, from the insurers’ perspective. But I really do need to get her some life insurance. Sigh. I wish you smooth sailing for the rest of your journey with this, and I will shortly be wading back into the waters to restart my own because you’re right, the longer it’s left, the harder it’ll become (and the more hospital admissions for sepsis we’ll have to disclose!).

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