So Easy ... Even A Caveman Can Do It.

Remember those old Insurance commercials?

"So easy, even a caveman can do it."

I laughed every time.

Turns out...the caveman wasn't buying health insurance.

And, he definitely wasn't trying to use it.

Buying Insurance: A Walk in the Park

Purchasing health insurance is surprisingly easy.

Sign here.

Initial there.

Pick a deductible you'll never understand.

Congratulations! You're covered!

They'll send you a shiny little insurance card, a welcome packet thicker than the New York City phone book (do we still have phone books?), and maybe even a refrigerator magnet reminding you they're "here when you need us."

What they don't include is a map.

Not a map to the hospital.

A map through the maze you enter the minute you actually need your insurance.

Because that's when the adventure begins.

Welcome to the Stone Age

Since my cancer diagnosis, I've become fluent in a language I never wanted to learn.

Authorization.

Pending.

Pre-certification.

Peer-to-peer review.

Medical necessity.

Appeal.

Expedited appeal.

Translation?

"Not today."

I've called hospitals.

I've called doctor's offices.

I've called insurance companies.

I've talked to receptionists, schedulers, insurance advocates, nurse navigators, authorization specialists, financial counselors, physicians...

I'm convinced there's a secret underground society where they all transfer calls to one another just to see how many extensions I can collect before lunch.

"Let me transfer you..."

The four most terrifying words in the English language.

Meanwhile... Cancer Doesn't Wait

Here's the thing.

Every single person I've spoken with has been kind.

Really kind.

Most of them genuinely want to help.

The problem isn't the people.

It's the system.

Because while everyone is checking boxes...

My cancer is checking none.

The mass doesn't stop growing because someone is waiting for a fax.

Cancer doesn't hit the pause button because an authorization specialist is on vacation.

It doesn't care someone forgot to upload page three of my medical records.

It doesn't know your office hours.

It doesn't care your committee only meets on Tuesdays.

It just keeps doing what cancer does.

Growing.

The urgency belongs to me.

Not the process.

The Commercials Are Starting to Feel Personal

I can't even watch television anymore.

That gecko?

He's mocking me.

The hamsters rowing their little boat?

Clearly they have faster approval times than I do.

Every commercial promises peace of mind.

"We'll take care of you."

"You're covered."

"We've got your back."

Really?

Because from where I'm sitting, it feels more like...

"We've got your paperwork."

My New Full-Time Job

Nobody tells you cancer comes with a second career.

Insurance Coordinator.

Hours: 24/7.

Benefits: None.

Dress code: Whatever I happened to throw on before my eighth phone call.

Qualifications: An unreasonable amount of patience, the ability to explain my medical history to complete strangers over and over again, and advanced hold-music endurance.

I'm not just fighting cancer.

I'm managing appointments.

Tracking referrals.

Checking authorizations.

Calling back because nobody called me back.

Leaving messages.

Listening to recordings telling me how important my call is.

If my call is so important...

...answer it.

I've Spent My Career Supporting Patients

For more than two decades, I've worked in healthcare philanthropy.

I've had the privilege of connecting generous people with meaningful causes—helping fund new technology, patient programs, scholarships, equipment, and services that improve healthcare for our communities.

I've listened to grateful patient stories.

I've celebrated incredible recoveries.

I've cried over heartbreaking losses.

I've believed deeply in supporting patients through some of the hardest moments of their lives.

I thought I understood what they were experiencing.

Now I'm seeing healthcare from the other side.

Not as someone helping make care possible.

Not as someone cheering on our incredible physicians, nurses, and caregivers.

But as the patient.

And I've realized something.

Supporting patients isn't only about raising money for exceptional healthcare.

It's also about helping them navigate everything that happens between appointments.

The waiting.

The uncertainty.

The paperwork.

The endless phone calls.

The emotional exhaustion of wondering whether your treatment will be approved while your cancer quietly continues doing what cancer does.

It makes me wonder...

Can we support patients beyond the exam room?

Can we make the process just as compassionate as the care?

Can we remember every authorization isn't just another case number?

It's someone's sleepless night.

Someone's spouse trying to stay optimistic.

Someone's family waiting for answers.

Someone simply wanting to begin treatment before another day slips away.

This experience has given me a perspective I never wanted, but one I know will make me a better advocate.

When I come out on the other side of this—and I fully intend to—I don't just want to celebrate being cancer-free.

I want to help make this journey a little easier for the next person.

Apparently I Should Have Been a Caveman

Everyone assures me,

"It'll get approved."

I know it will.

Eventually.

But not before I carve my medical history into a giant slab of bedrock, strap it to my back, drag it uphill, and personally deliver it to the Insurance Approval Cave.

Maybe that's where the slogan came from.

"So easy, even a caveman can do it."

Apparently they knew something I didn't.

Because right now, the Stone Age is looking surprisingly progressive.

Today's Blessing Cake 

What was mine?

The kind voices on the other end of the phone. The people who genuinely wanted to help, even when the system around them made it difficult. Their compassion reminded me that the people aren't the problem—the process is.

What did I learn?

As someone who's spent a career supporting patients, I now understand there's another opportunity to care for them. Great healthcare isn't only what happens in the exam room or operating room. It's helping patients navigate the journey in between.

What's yours?

Maybe today your Blessing Cake is the person who made an overwhelming day just a little lighter. Sometimes that's enough to remind us we're not carrying the load alone.

In the Spirit of Health & Wellness,

-Elizabeth