On Being An “01”

A couple months back, Husband and I were forced, due to the termination of my COBRA benefits, to search for alternative health insurance that one, wouldn’t bankrupt us; and two, would cover most of our needs.

We found one, a stripped-down version of our “current” HMO, offered through the state of New York at about half the price of a “standard” HMO for individuals. It didn’t offer mental health coverage, but if we wanted health insurance, we had no other choices.

After much research and many phone calls to this company, I decided that it would be in our best interest to buy the insurance under the aegis of our being sole proprietors. Doing this would give us, supposedly, more benefits for the same price as if we bought it as individuals. And as I was just starting up as a freelancer and Husband was a well-established sole proprietor, we applied for the insurance under his name.

At the time, I had no problems with this. For a variety of reasons, and for some, who the hell knows why, some household bills and investments are primarily in his name and some are primarily in mine. It just worked out that way.

But the insurance, as I’d been the one with the steady jobs, was always in my name.

We even had our first problem with the HMO, which had to do with which prescription drugs were covered and which weren’t (it will require another blog to vent about this). And all during those phone calls, when every time another person picked up the line I was required to supply my account number, it didn’t bother me that the insurance was in Husband’s name.

Until this morning.

The prescription drug coverage argument eventually came down to my doctor being required to submit a preauthorization letter to the HMO so that the certain drug they wouldn’t cover would be covered.

I’d talked to my doctor’s assistant about it yesterday afternoon and she agreed to do it, except that this morning she called back and needed my new ID number. After I read it off to her, she said, “Are you the 00 or the 01?” Meaning was I the primary carrier on the insurance or the “domestic partner,” as they so politically correctly called it.

I felt my shoulders sag. “I’m the 01,” I said.

I’m the 01. I know, it really means nothing. Just like it means nothing that his name appears over mine on our mortgage and I’m the “junior owner” on our investments.

But at the time, assigned a number that put my name below my husband’s, I became “the wife.” Subordinate. Dependent. In the kitchen with my pearls and apron.
And for about ten seconds, I hated it. I hated the position I know felt myself boxed into by that one little digit.

I’ve struggled with “the dependency thing” since I lost my source of steady income. And I thought I was, if not completely OK with it, at least arriving at some sort of peace within myself.

I guess I’m not quite done yet.

But, just like Patrick McGoohan always says in the intro to “The Prisoner,” I am not a number. I am a human being. One that might have to have my name below my husband’s for a while, but still, a human being.

But, for the sake of computer records, you can just call me “01.”

Just don’t ever expect to see me in the kitchen wearing pearls and an apron.