Main St. Update #4: Illinois Tax Payers are Paying for Our Health Insurance and Frankly We're Not Very Happy About It

Or: The One with the Swearing

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A foundation in Chicago did a study a few years ago and found that about 80 percent of people (or was it women?) in Chicago who qualify for some type of social service are not connected to any social service agency. That means that 80 percent of those folks who qualify for food stamps, health insurance, etc., are not accessing it. Let me illustrate why with a personal example.
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Glory-be! We finally can soak up some of those tax dollars we've been paying! Break out the champaign! We qualify for free health insurance through the state! Now we get an ID number! And a caseworker!

Forgive me if I don't sound grateful.

We've filled out the paperwork, provided our information, and received hardly any information in return. I spent all day yesterday trying to get my caseworker on the phone, but apparently she was away from her phone all day, or not returning messages, or stirring her coffee. But this morning I called her at 9:15 and surprised her. "Yes!" I thought. We'll get our questions answered and then move on.

Our caseworker refers to herself as Miss. Jones (not her real name). I've lived in the south, and I know in the south this is the norm and is a form of politeness. But this is not the south, and we, my caseworker and I, are both adults. I believe it is structured this way to remind us that she is powerful and we are weak and also that we are taking her away from her coffee-stirring, which I could hear in the background. Addressing my caseworker the way I addressed my fifth grade teacher? That was my first favorite thing about our phone call.

I start with an easy question. We received a letter telling us that we needed to choose one of three possible health plans, but we received no information about any of the plans. Could she tell me about the plans over the phone, or send me information about the plans? Her answer: she doesn't have that information. The organization she works for isn't the Illinois Department of Human Services, it is just an organization that IDHS contracted with to deliver the services that they provide. (I know that). She has no idea what information IDHS sends out. (Oh god). I ask her if there is a phone number I can call to find out about the plans. She tells me no, or if there is one, she doesn't have it. I should call 4-1-1 instead. (Oh god).

I realize what I am dealing with. Goodbye, pit-in-stomach. Hello, grand canyon. And yes, that was my second favorite part of our phone call.

Like an idiot, I forge ahead.

I explain to her that in few months we will have insurance, but it will be very expensive insurance. We think at that point we will qualify for the rebate program, not the totally free program that we qualify for now. What will we need to do at that point, to make sure that we are in the right program?

Here is my third favorite part of the conversation:

She reminds me that state-provided insurance is the last resort. If we are getting health insurance somewhere else we are obligated to take it. This program is the last resort. This program is the last resort. This program is the last resort. (She said some other words in between those sentences, but I don't know what they were because I was grinding my pen in to my ears). BECAUSE THIS IS OBVIOUSLY THE LAST RESORT! NO ONE IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WOULD CONSIDER THIS A SECOND-TO-LAST RESORT! AS IF I WOULDN'T HAVE HUNG UP ON YOU TWO SENTENCES AGO, MISS JONES, IF YOU WEREN'T MY LAST RESORT. AS IF I NEED ANY MORE REMINDING THAT WE ARE ON OUR LAST RESORT AND OH DEAR HEAVENS OUR LAST RESORT IS YOU. And if you would so kindly notice, Miss Jones, I asked that question only to make sure that we could get in to the correct program and not ask the state to spend more money on us than necessary. I asked only if you could help us figure out which program would be best for us in a few months. SO STOP ACTING LIKE I'M TRYING TO OUTWIT THE SYSTEM AND START TREATING ME FOR WHAT I AM: THE REASON YOU HAVE A JOB. WHICH YOU SUCK AT.

Still, it gets better.

Charlie and I are confused about what information we need to provide to prove that our children are United States citizens, since the information we received suggests things we need to show in addition to a birth certificate a military record and school identification card, which of course neither of my babies have. There is also confusion about where we need to bring those documents - to her office or to a DHS office?

She says we can't take our documents anywhere until the friendly people in Springfield send her our file. I tell her we have a letter from Springfield, dated 10 days ago, saying that she is our caseworker and that our file has been transferred to her office. I ask her if she could look for it there since mail usually doesn't take ten days to arrive, and she says it is not just sending files trough the mail, it is transferring a case, like I am supposed to know what that means, like I am supposed to know that "transferring a case" is completely different and way more difficult than mailing our paperwork to her. And is it really? Really? Really?

Then she goes on to say that when our case is transferred to her, she will send us a letter that will allow us to make an appointment with Miss Jones in her office. (Yes, she referred to herself - and her office - in the third person. Yes, I talk this way sometimes too. TO MY TWO YEAR OLD). Notice that she did not say where we are to take our citizenship-proving documents. She did not say she would call me or email me when our file arrived. She would send me a letter. Then after I get the letter I can drag myself and my toddler and infant on the bus, in the dead of winter, at her convenience, down to her glorious office to sit at her desk and listen to her in person, while she stirs her coffee and I sit real nice and polite. Because if we have the conversation over the phone I wouldn't be able to prove that I've invested any time or energy into getting this free, last-resort health care. My kids and I have to come down to her office to prove how committed we are. We have to work for it. Isn't that right, Miss Jones?

fuckers.