It's What I Do

Writers write.

I try to remind myself it is what we do, not who we are. In my day job, I manage my husband’s medical office, and I wrestle insurance giants much of the time. My day job shares many traits with my writing career.

Instead of crafting an article between nine and five, I compile necessary information, create a claim form, and then send the form off to the Powers That Be in Insurance Land. Then I wait. State law mandates the company respond to me in a certain number of weeks, but it is sufficient for them to say, “We’re still processing this claim and need just a little more information to complete it. No action is required on your part.”

That statement buys them another forty-five days to procrastinate. I wait some more. If I’m feeling strong, I compile a few more claim forms and send them out in the meantime, trying not to count how many days I’ve been waiting to hear back from Medicare or Blue Cross.

Eventually, a decision is reached in an office cubicle somewhere across the country, and the response is sent to me by carrier pigeon or pony express, whichever is slower. I can usually tell by the envelope whether my claim has been accepted or rejected. I only rip it open so I can read the explanation that tells me something terribly helpful such as “Your claim lacks information needed for adjudication.”

It is good that I recognize these are things I do, not things I am. Otherwise, I’d toss that letter in the circular file by my feet and announce to my husband, “That’s it. I’m obviously not an office manager after all. I’m applying for a job at Wal Mart.”

But filing claims is just something I do. This is not who I am. And no matter how many times the insurance company sends my claims back without an attached check, I will not be deterred. I will file and re-file and re-file again until I figure out exactly which data goes in exactly which box. And I will overcome. Eventually, an envelope will arrive with that glorious “Pay to the Order Of” peeking from the window.

I will slash it open with a victorious flare and resist the urge to wave it as I strut up and down the hall shouting, “Look, I’m a writer … I mean, office manager.”