Page 21 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

My tolerance for being placed on hold the increasing likelihood of me murdering someone today.

By the time Monday morning rolls around, I’m in panic mode. It’s like the universe purposely schedules bad shit for Fridays or weekends, so you have to suffer the anxiety of waiting until the following week when the nine-to-five businesses open again and something can finally be done about it.

Well, the new week has arrived, and here I am, attempting to sort out the shitstorm that my life has become.

Normally, I would be in my Applied Discrete Mathematics lecture, but I emailed my professor an hour ago feigning illness (a great start to a new semester) so I could make some calls while Mom is at work.

Luckily, Professor Bensen is also my advisor, and after nine months of said advising, we’re well enough acquainted for him to know I wouldn’t skip class this early in the school year—or at all—unless I urgently had to.

And since my scholarship is based on academic performance more than attendance, missing one lesson really isn’t an issue.

Besides, I couldn’t do this with Mom home.

Her moral compass is permanently facing due north, and seeing as she’s refusing to stand up for herself, she’s left me no choice but to stand up in her stead, even if that means throwing all our morals out the window.

She might not want to fight the injustice of a corrupt medical system, but like hell am I going to sit back and do nothing.

Especially when the matter of her literal life or death boils down to some greedy company, and their underhanded tactics to try to save a few bucks.

Which brings us to the task at hand. Thanks to my exceptional brain and its affinity for all things math related, I’ve been doing our taxes since I was thirteen, so I know both Mom’s and Gina’s social security numbers and all their other personal information, making it all too easy to pass myself off as either of them over the phone.

It also helps that I sound like Mom, not that being able to impersonate her well makes what I’m about to do any less illegal.

Identity theft is a crime, but hey, drastic times call for drastic measures, and I’d rather beg for forgiveness than ask for permission.

I make myself comfortable at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of much-needed caffeine, the paperwork we received in the mail on Friday, and a depressingly short list of phone numbers.

They were the only potentially useful ones I could find over the weekend, and I take a moment to glance at them before starting at the top of the list with Mom’s doctor.

Since she was the one who wrote the infusion order and the prescription for her oral medication, I’m hoping she might be able to help us, either by prescribing new pills that will actually be covered on our formulary or by reaching out to the insurance company on our behalf.

As the phone rings, I pump my leg under the table, my heel tap, tap, tapping the floor as my entire body vibrates with nervous energy.

One automated response and three “press one for reception” prompts later, I’m connected to the receptionist, who—in a bored drawl—informs me that, “Dr. Park isn’t available right now, but can I take a message?

” I try my best to stay calm while expressing how imperative it is that I speak with her as soon as humanly possible, but the receptionist merely offers to pass on my details, stating, “You can expect a call back sometime tomorrow.”

When I push the issue, she begrudgingly hands me over to one of the nurses, who regrettably says he can’t help me, as if I didn’t already know that.

Hence why I asked to talk to my mom’s doctor .

Irritation spreads through me, making me feel itchy, and I let out a loud breath through my nose as I once again ask to speak to Dr. Park.

“One moment, please,” the nurse insists, but instead of handing me over to the doctor per my request, the call is forwarded to yet another nurse, who repeats what the previous one said almost verbatim before directing the call back to reception.

I’m passed around this way for the better part of twenty minutes, tossed back and forth between the nurses and reception like an unwanted hacky sack, until a new voice comes on the line, and I finally hear those three glorious words I’ve been waiting for: “Dr. Park speaking.”

I relay the problem with as much tact and poise as I can manage given the pure fury and vitriol racing through me that we’re even in this situation.

Dr. Park, to her credit, is empathetic, but ultimately explains there’s little she can do other than appeal the insurance company’s decision with something called a medical letter of need that would express why my mom requires that particular prescription.

When I ask how likely it is that the appeal would be successful and our insurance company would reverse their decision, her response is a grim, “Not likely at all.” Still, she offers to send it regardless, which I suppose is better than nothing.

As for switching to a different pill…well, that isn’t a viable option due to the same bullshit insurance factor.

Or in the case of the few drugs that would be covered, because of the negative reactions Mom had when she tried them prior to moving on to the current medication she’s taking.

Before she was switched to acalabrutinib, which is what she’s on now, Dr. Park had trialed her on several lower tier drugs—the cheaper options that are, as of this moment, still covered by our insurance.

Unfortunately, the side effects were too bad for her to keep taking them, which is just freaking typical.

Of course, the meds Mom reacts poorly to are the only ones our insurance will actually pay for, as if they intentionally changed our cover just to punish her body for something completely out of her control.

These assholes, I swear. Like she hasn’t suffered enough.

I only realize I muttered that last thought aloud when Dr. Park expresses her confusion, to which I hastily thank her for the appeal, and then make an excuse to end the call before she can catch on that I’m not my mother.

My pulse beats wildly under my skin as I lean back in my chair and release a heavy breath, the wood creaking from the shift in weight. You’d think I just rode the world’s fastest roller coaster the way my heart is racing from that call. I hate the feeling. Adrenaline junkie, I am not.

Pushing up my glasses, I rub at one eye, my vision bleary as I glance at the second number on my list. It slides into focus as the frames fall back into their previous place on the perch of my nose.

Next up: the bastard insurance company.

Hands shaking, I type in the digits. I know before I even hit the call button that this won’t go well, and I’m proven right by the forty plus minutes they keep me on hold, each passing moment driven closer to madness by the same annoying jingle on the other end of the line that plays over and over and over again in my ear on a torturous loop.

When the music ends and I hear the sweet, blissful sound of a human voice, I nearly shout, “Thank fuck!”

Unfortunately, that sense of relief doesn’t last long, and aside from suggesting I change our insurance benefits to a more expensive tier that would actually include the drug Mom needs during the upcoming open enrollment period, the customer service rep says there’s nothing they can do to help us on our existing plan.

The way the guy talks, you’d think the changes to the formulary were law, and not just something the company decided on a whim to boost their profits.

With a tired sigh, I ask for the difference in cost between our current plan and the upgraded option, and as the man regurgitates the numbers his computer spits out, I see them build up before me like a clusterfuck of LEGO blocks, each one a different color and shape.

They slide together in sync with my brain as it makes the calculation against our existing monthly expenses, but the picture they form isn’t pretty. Or remotely affordable.

When I end the call, it takes all my self-restraint to not throw my phone across the room.

“What a waste of time.” Groaning, I press my fingertips into my aching temples and glance down at the screen.

An hour and a half has already elapsed, and I’m no closer to a solution than I was when I first started making these calls. I’m at zero for two, and while I still have a handful of numbers on my list to try, this whole situation is really starting to feel hopeless.

“Stop it, Lex,” I growl, slapping myself hard on the cheek. “Your momma didn’t raise no quitter.”

And right now, that same momma needs me.

Finding my resolve, I move on to the next call.

The remaining numbers on my list are all for cancer charities and patient assistance programs, and I decide to start with the charities first since I know the odds of PAP helping us are slim to none.

A quick Google search was all I needed to learn that, regardless of our circumstances, it’s likely we’ll be denied because Mom doesn’t meet any of the prerequisites for cover.

She won’t qualify, even if rejecting her means she could die. It’s as simple and cut-throat as that.

Unfortunately, the charities aren’t much help either.

After spending an ungodly amount of time on hold with each one, I’m told all the grants for chronic lymphocytic leukemia are closed at the moment, and the best they can offer is to put me (aka my mom) on a waitlist to potentially receive a portion of funding when the grants eventually open again.

But there’s no saying when that would be, and since these things are first come, first served—and the representatives can’t divulge how many other people are ahead of us on the list—there’s no guarantee Mom would receive anything at all, let alone the staggering amount we need.