"I don't need Dr. Kevorkian, I have an HMO!"

I saw that on a bumper sticker and almost spit my latte all over the inside of the windshield.

Yeah, like I drink fuckin' latte - ugh. Diet coke, please.

And that message is SO spot on about HMO's. Once upon a time in the deep dark past I was the appointment scheduler and billing clerk in a radiation therapy ward. Aside from having to ask questions the goddamn doctors should have asked (such as: "Which breast do you need the mammogram on ma'am?" - because one had been removed but she had a prosthesis on one side...) I had to be the bearer of the wonderful news about HMO's.

"Your HMO has declined coverage on this treatment, Sir. If we are to proceed I need to have you sign this additional financial responsibility form. You will be billed $30,000 per treatment for the course of 24 treatments."

I usually had my finger near the three adjacent speed dial buttons - one for the nursing station (in case they passed out then and there), one for the social worker (if they hadn't quite multiplied 30 grand times 24 or were in denial about it or just in tears), and one for security in case they went postal. This is not to minimize the tragedy of what those people were undoubtedly feeling, I've just had the conversation from the one side of the desk about 20 times involving different five-figure multipliers.

If it was me on the receiving end of that news I'd need the nurse.