Make an appointment.
Wait for the appointment.
Arrive for appointment.
Sign my whole name on the visible sign-in sheet to everyone who comes in after me.
Provide the insurance card to the receptionist for the files, as we all do.
Listen as the receptionist calls the administrator number on my insurance card in front of the entire lobby.
"One," she says aloud as she navigates the menu of options using her voice instead of the keypad on the phone.
"Benefits," she declares loudly.
"BENEFITS," she repeats with an increasingly exasperated tone.
Leaning toward her reception colleague she lowers her voice to say,
"Ugh, I hate confirming medical benefits," she complains.
In the moment, I wonder if she knows we all hear her. We hear her complaining about the job she is literally paid to do.
Lifting the receiver of her clunky office phone to dial, she tries again, this time placing the phone on speaker and hanging up the handset while she awaits the welcome message.
The entire lobby is treated to the loud ring on the other end.
She picks up the handset.
"ONE," she emphasizes.
"BEN-E-FITS," she articulates with an unmistakable edge in her voice.
"U28675", she loudly reads my actual insurance ID (not this code).
"FIRST NAME LAST NAME," she actually says my full name and last name aloud.
"BIRTHDAY MONTH DAY AND YEAR," she actually says my entire birthdate aloud.
At the time, I actually think to myself that many of my very good friends probably don't know the month, day and year right? We celebrate with cake or a beverage on the day, but it's unusual to hear one's demographic information read aloud so completely. Perhaps she would like to top it off with my social security number?
Did I mention we are in the lobby of a physician's office, a waiting room?
No wall separates the patients waiting in the lobby from the two receptionists.
No plexiglass dividers form a false barrier of any kind even giving an impression or expectation of privacy.
Even at large chain drugstores printed signs hang near the pharmacy and read, "Please respect the privacy of other customers. Stand back 4 feet." Do they think we can't hear from 4 feet away? At least it is an attempt at privacy.
Do I say something to the receptionist? Should I complain that I think her current practices, the office practices, violate my privacy? Will my complaint affect my treatment? Do I even want to be treated here? I waited for this appointment. I need this appointment. My issue has a bit of urgency to it.
I choose to stay silent.
The dutiful receptionist audibly confirms my medical benefits and inaudibly but personally delivers the news to the staff in the back room who will eventually call my name. She didn't glance in my direction. No nod. No affirmation that my appointment can proceed. No acknowledgement of any kind. I am a widget on their assembly line.
Having moved to the next step on the medical assembly line, I take my place on an exam table in the middle of the treatment room.
On the back of the treatment room door hangs a colorful 8.5" x 11" portrait-oriented poster that reads in part,
"We're HIPAA compliant."
I disagree.
I wonder if they believe HIPAA to be similar to inventory lingo like LIFO (last in, first out) or FIFO (first in, first out).
Perhaps they believe HIPAA only applies to printed or digital medical records and not items read aloud like names, birthdates, and insurance group numbers. Maybe they don't know the intent of the law?
I can account for the receptionist's practices as simple and tactical completion of duties assigned to her at the front desk, although I can't believe that someone in the office doesn't know better than to do that.
What I cannot account for is my deliberate silence. I wouldn't usually keep such an obvious violation of my privacy to myself.
Why, in this situation, do I feel so vulnerable, so insignificant that I say nothing?
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