I wrote the following story as humor therapy for my wife after we were rejected for health insurance. In 2003 I was let go by WJMK, and Bridget and I applied for private health insurance with Blue Cross/Blue Shield. They rejected us because my oldest son Tommy had gone to a psychologist for "educational support." The school had recommended to us that we get him help, because he had been identified as "highly gifted intellectually." Apparently, insurance companies consider this kind of child as high risk--because even though we supplied Blue Cross with a letter from the psychologist saying "he has no mental disabilities of any kind--this was just for educational support"--they rejected him again because his condition wasn't considered "Curable." Once you're rejected by one insurance company, no one will touch you. That led Bridget to return to the workforce full-time so that we could get family insurance coverage.
As you might suspect, we found this incredibly irritating. I decided to use that rage and write a satire. That's the background and explanation for the following story....
INCURABLE
By Rick Kaempfer
There was no doubt about the diagnosis. And there was no cure.
Sean Harrison’s little boy was going to have to live with his condition for the rest of his life….however long that may be. The 8-year old boy in the Spiderman pajamas was blissfully ignorant of his fate. Sean leaned over and gave him a kiss on his cheek.
“Good night, Peter,” he said.
“Good night, Dad. Can I read my ecology book in the morning?”
“We’ll talk about it when you wake up,” Sean replied.
“Awww, Dad,” Peter whined.
This was heartbreaking. Sean knew that it wouldn’t have come to this if he hadn’t lost his job. He had to get private insurance for his family, and that’s when he found out about his son Peter’s condition. The skilled underwriters and actuaries at the insurance company were the first to translate the “doctor-speak” in Peter’s medical records, and when they pointed it out to Sean, he felt like such a fool. The diagnosis was right there in black and white.
Peter Harrison has a pre-existing condition.
Peter Harrison is high risk.
Peter Harrison is a genius.
The insurance company had no choice to but reject Peter. The psychologist who tested his IQ had to admit that Peter was incurably gifted. This was a chronic condition. But insurance companies had never before encountered a man with the sort of interminable spirit that Peter’s father Sean Harrison possessed deep within himself. Incurable wasn’t in his dictionary. Sean Harrison was determined to cure his boy. After his wife left for work in the morning, Sean began enacting his plan.
“Up and at ‘em,” Sean said, opening the curtains in Peter’s room.
“Is it time for school already?” Peter asked.
“No school today, young man.”
“Is it Saturday?” he asked.
“No, you’ve gone to school for the last time,” Sean said. He was grinning from ear to ear.
“WHAT?” Peter screamed.
“Calm down, son,” Sean answered, patting the youngster on the head. “You’re nearly finished with second grade already. The rest is all repetition.”
“I don’t understand,” Peter said, scratching his head.
Sean could barely contain a smile. It was working already.
“Today we’re going to watch the Three Stooges all day long,” Sean said; a stack of videos in his hand.
“Can I read my ecology book after the Stooges?” Peter whined.
“I’ve taken all of the books out of the house,” Sean admitted. “From now on, it’s you and me and Mr. TV.”
“But Dad…”
“But nothing. Sit your butt down.”
The lilting tones of the song “Three Blind Mice” came over the speakers as Sean and Peter settled in on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and a couple of frosty cold beers.
“Dad, can I have some milk?” Peter asked, ignoring the hilarity on the screen.
“Drink your beer and enjoy the show.”
“But Dad…”
“C’mon, that’s a frosty mug.”
“Dad, why is Moe poking Curly in the eye? That will scratch his retina.”
“It’s called comedy, son. Enjoy.”
“Dad, NO! Tell Curly not to eat that thermometer. Mercury is toxic!”
Sean shut off the TV. This was going to be much more difficult than he could have ever imagined. A lesser man would have quit and resigned himself to his fate. But “quit” and “resigned” were also not in Sean’s dictionary. After all, he had been legitimately laid off.
The door bell rang.
“Ah, your instructor is here, my boy.”
For the first time all day, Peter’s eyes lit up.
“School?”
“I guess you could say that.”
There was something familiar about the imposing man who stood on the other side of the door. Peter was sure he had seen him somewhere before. He was big and strong; his neck the width of Peter’s shoulders. The tattoos on both of his gigantic bare arms were clearly visible. Peter was instinctively afraid of him.
“Where’s dis genius?” the squeaky voice asked.
“That’s him, right there,” Sean said.
“Dad, what’s going on?” Peter asked; his voice nearly as squeaky as the big man’s.
“This is Mr. Tyson,” Sean explained. “He’s going to teach you how to take a punch.”
“DAD!!!!”
“Come on, Mister,” the big man said. “I ain’t gonna hit that kid. He can’t be more than fifty pounds.”
“Forty three and 5/8ths,” Peter quickly corrected.
“If you don’t, he may never get medical insurance,” Sean begged.
“If I do, he’ll need medical insurance,” the big man answered.
“C’mon, Peter. Stick your chin out. It only hurts for a few seconds.”
“DAD!!!”
“Kid, your old man is completely nuts,” the big man squeaked on his way out.
Sean ran after him. “Not incurably!” he screamed down the driveway.
Sean was mentally drained by the time he plopped down on the couch next to his frightened young son.
“Dad, what is going on?”
“Time for some rap music,” Sean exclaimed. He wasn’t going to give up without using his trump card.
“Then can I read my ecology book?”
“You mean after we bust some rhymes.”
“Dad….”
“C’mon, Homey. You gotta schnizzle my grizzle.”
“Dad, you’re embarrassing yourself.”
The music started and Sean got Peter off the couch.
“Watch my fingers. See how the first two fingers stay together as I do this chopping
motion? That’s a classic rap move.”
“Dad, we live in the suburbs.”
“Want to listen to 50 cent or Snoop Dog?” Sean asked.
“What about Mozart?” his son countered. “Mom told me Mozart was composing concertos at my age. My piano teacher taught me the beginning of ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.”
Sean walked over to the stereo and shut if off. He was ready to say uncle.
“Look, son, I’ve got some bad news for you.”
“We’re going to watch some reality TV?”
“No, not until tonight,” Sean said. “I’m afraid this is much worse than that.” Sean put his arm around his young boy. “You got a condition, Peter” he explained.
“You mean I have a condition,” Peter corrected.
Sean winced at the reminder of the problem before him. He patted Peter’s bony shoulder. This was so sad.
“Yes, you have a condition. You see, son, you are what the insurance business calls ‘incurable.’”
“In what way?” Peter asked.
“Peter, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
“A molecular biologist, why?”
Sean broke down. The insurance company was so right about this boy. This wasn’t going to be cured by a few punches from a former heavyweight champion of the world. This wasn’t going to be cured by the driving lessons he had booked with Nick Nolte. The tears came from somewhere deep within him. Peter rushed over to hug his weeping father.
“Dad, I’ll be OK.”
“No, you won’t,” Sean explained. “It’s incurable. I’m sorry it’s come to this, but we have no choice. We’re going to have to cut you loose, boy.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve done the math. A broken leg here, a few pairs of broken glasses there, an obvious need for braces, four years at MIT. You’re much too big of a risk. We’re going to have reject your application.”
“Dad,” Peter said. “I’m your son.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes I do, Dad,” Peter calmly explained. “Remember when mom said that there was no way that I could be your son because I was too smart—and she had those DNA tests taken?”
“Those were inconclusive.”
“The odds were something like one billion to one in favor,” Peter reminded him.
“OJ’s odds were like that too.”
“Dad, I look exactly like you.”
Sean slowly wiped the tears from the corner of each eye.
“We can’t get insurance for you,” Sean explained. “You’re eight years old and you may never get insurance again the rest of your life. We just thought you were smart. We didn’t know it was incurable.”
“Can’t you call other insurance companies?”
“Once you get rejected by one company, they all reject you.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Oh Peter. Sweet, sweet, Peter.”
“Dad, is it really so bad to be gifted? What do these insurance companies know?”
“Peter, these people are professionals. Do you need me to bring out the financial pages to show you how well the insurance company stocks are doing?”
“Maybe they have really smart people working for them,” Peter said.
“That’s right, son. And really smart people have decided that being incurably smart is dangerous. Who would know better than them?”
He looked at his frail incurable eight year old boy sitting beside him. And just when it looked like the situation was hopeless, a ray of light appeared.
“What if I decide not to go into molecular biology? What if I go into the insurance business instead?”
What indeed. And a child shall lead them.
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