No Medi-Cal for Us

Last week, I went to the Dept. of Social Services, Los Angeles Branch to check out Medi-Cal - the state-funded/sponsored health insurance program (for indigents, and pregnant women without insurance). Brand-new building with floofy, modern-y sculpture out front - and, inside, it still managed to smell kinda like pee. Sigh.

Nice enough people/staff, but the experience was what you'd expect. I just wanted to find out what the program covers, and how eligibility is determined.

Well, first I had to go to the reception desk, get a number, and fill out a form. Then, my number was called, I took the form to the desk, the lady entered the data in the computer, and I was told to be seated again and wait for my name to be called. She couldn't answer my questions - that's another dept/group.

Cue Jeopardy! music.

Half-hour later, another lady emerges from behind door, calls my name. I follow her back to a bank of corporate cubicles, where she confirms my contact info, enters it into another computer screen, assembles a file folder with my name on it. She couldn't answer my questions - that's another group/dept. She escorts me back to waiting area, and I'm told to wait for my name to be called again.

At this point, I've been there an hour and a half, I'm queued into the database, and I still don't know if this is something we can or want to apply for. Cue Jeopardy! music again.

Twenty minutes later, I'm told to go up to the Third Floor Reception area. Okay. I get up there and am told to sit along the wall and you guessed it, wait for my name to be called.

In the meantime, I've observed the pageantry of my fellow applicants: uncombed, shambly man, skinny, pretty black girl with skinny, handsome boyfriend, super-skinny brunette (whom I'm not entirely convinced is a natural woman) with the pointy heels, athletic, high-energy almost-agitated man, black guy with fly open, young Asian couple, and talking-to-himself Arab guy.

There was a big bank of North-facing facing windows in the Third Floor reception area. For another half hour, I stared at the 405 traffic inching its way north into the Valley, and began to fantasize about jumping out the window.

Lorie Marsh? Ms. Marsh?

Hallelujah - petite, plump Mexican staff-lady is calling my name! Off we go into another bank of cubicles. Turns out, she's able to answer a couple of my questions, but not all. If I want to find out more about any benefit/coverage specifics, I'll have to call this one phone number, and...agh.

In the end, I learned that Ken and I could basically squeak into the program, but we'd basically have to lie about the extent of our assets. That don't fly with me. And, I found the whole experience well-intentioned, but "ew."

So, that's that.