After two emails and an
office visit (for which I was chastised by the head of HR for appearing
“unannounced”—her actual word; evidently an “open-door policy”—again, her
words—means something other than actually, you know, “open”), the chick
reputedly managing benefits for my company reluctantly emailed me what she said
was our dental plan ID number, along with the advice that I could call Cigna.
Which, when I gave it
to the dentist yesterday, turned out to be…not anything recognizable as a plan
number for Cigna. (Look—I’m clueless about it, but in this matter I’m inclined
to take the word of anyone in a dental office over that of anyone in HR.)
So I had to pay $130
for the consultation and will need to square it away with the insurance
company. Deep joy—because there’s nothing more fun than dental work, unless it’s
dental work plus fighting with an
insurance company.
I should have known
that with one job to do, this chick would not get it right. And that when she
hawked up a response that basically was
“here’s-the-plan-number-call-Cigna-to-find-out-anything-useful-now-go-away”, I
should just have called the insurance company. It may be tempting the gods to
say that Cigna couldn’t do a worse job of customer service than HR, but since
I’m going to have to do it anyway, I should have gone first to the horse’s
mouth instead of the other end.
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