Archive for the ‘insurance’ Category
Payment Source and Isolation
I once spoke to the owner of a home care agency who told me of his experiences with people new to the long-term area of health care. He told me that time after time, individuals insisted that their particular Medicare plan would pay for home care and personal care services in the home. He encountered others, whose private insurance was the best offered by their company, who held the same conviction and unshakeable faith in their coverage.
Then, soon after, he listened to the yelling, the anger, the incredulous voice at the other end of the phone, faced suddenly with the fact that our regular old insurance does not work so well when our needs switch from acute to chronic. It is a bitter pill to swallow, and a generic, over-the-counter, non-reimbursable one at that.
My colleague’s solution was to let calls go to voice mail: let another agency break that news, and lose the business (shoot the messenger). Often, after hearing the same news from enough sources, people simply realize that they have to pay up if they want long-term help at home… if they can.
If they cannot, they may enter into a new segment of the population: the Medicaid-eligible.
We all have been watching states grapple with their Medicaid plans in recent times, and have heard the normal complaints about the program. Part of the issue, I am sure, is the perception of Medicaid and its relationship with “welfare”, entitlements, free care. It is the insurance of the poor. It is also the insurance of one in four children, of many people with disabilities, and of 70% of nursing home residents. It is the only insurance that pays for any sort of long-term care at home, too, those these options are still too limited and often too restrictive–and Medicaid too hard to navigate–in my humble opinion.
But it is more than this: I wonder how it is that Medicaid is the only insurer to pay for any sort of long-term care. How did we fail to require this of our private insurers, or indeed, of Medicare?
As I was watching last week, as the Dual-Eligible (Medicare-Medicaid) demonstration project rolls out in Massachusetts, I realized that there is an enormous gap in understanding within traditional private insurance about how long-term care works, or even what it really means.
The issue, I believe, is that “long-term care” implies just that: it is care that goes on for a long time–or forever. And in this, it becomes the ordinary, an actual part of a person’s life, and not simply a single medical event, or even a number of them. Where a medical professional may well be able to impart some expertise on medical treatments for specific acute conditions, it is far more difficult for the same doctor to be the expert on a person’s day-to-day needs that come about as the result of a disability or illness–much less, to be the expert on a person’s wishes and preferences.
It matters, because prescribing ineffective doses of the wrong medicine in a person’s life will do harm, within a system whose intention first is to do no harm.
Ineffective doses could mean too few personal care hours. Wrong medicine could mean an ill-fitting wheelchair, or meals on wheels instead of assistance with grocery shopping. On paper, figuring out “appropriate” services seems easy: in reality, it will be the biggest challenge of the demonstration to determine how those dollars are spent. How much flexibility will this system allow? How long will it take for a new system to understand that the wrong equipment may lead to more hospitalizations? or that the agency-based personal care attendant’s refusal to show up at specific hours or to do specific tasks really will affect the long-term health of the individual needing those services?
For the lucky few who will never have to rely on Medicaid, extensive and often lavish options remain. Perhaps the limitations to private insurance and Medicare will still surprise, but the freedom of choice remains for those who can pay for it.
A medical model has always relied on a separation between healthy and sick, between abled and disabled, between normal and abnormal. And a medical model relies on maintaining these notions, on care that keeps the chronically ill, disabled, “abnormal”–and dare I say, poor–population isolated, for a long time–or forever. If private insurance and Medicare treat only the curable, then our payors isolate, as well, by refusing the reality of day-to-day needs inherent to medical conditions that will not be cured. In this isolation, a person becomes defined by a medical condition.
A person is not a medical condition. To isolate in this way is to deny the very humanity of that individual. Is this a responsibility that we as a society are willing to assume?
Pouring Down Like Silver
The weeks lately seem to come in like the hurricane last week. Round here, wind and relatively minor destruction, some fear. Other places, much worse. And so it seems as news comes in and will continue to rush in tomorrow and possibly beyond. As understood in that infamous Chinese curse, we are living in interesting times. This was the week to think about a new database, my present work, and a new project headed our way. We survived the storm, and carried on.
So, once we were back to work and on the road again, I found myself on the one hand trying to catch up with the enormous number of referrals I have had lately. I am glad that the community seems so cohesive. Often, depending on the situation, I find myself surrounded by many colleagues in similar care coordination/coalition building/resource finding roles. I am glad that we know to call one another and work together when people call upon us for support.
And on the other hand, I find myself drawn into a brave new world of healthcare at this point, as I contemplate–deeply–the about-to-launch demonstration project known familiarly as “The Duals”.
Individuals who are dually-eligible for Medicare and Medicaid represent a vulnerable disabled population. The sorts of ping-pong games between the two insurers have delayed medical care, therapies, services, and equipment for most people at some point, often with aggravating, if not tragic results. Change is needed.
At the same time, change is frightening, especially when it feels that there may be a buck to be made… or saved. And given the sorts of systemic abuse that many people, notably those with psychiatric disabilities, have faced throughout history and throughout individual lives, it is no surprise that invitation to “new and improved” packages is met with cynicism, as well.
I am newly diving into this world, swimming deeper into the history and ideas the Dual Demonstration Project contains. The insurers–Integrated Care Organizations–have just been named on Friday. And from my early glances, I can see that it is an opportunity to explain to come to the healthcare world and tell the stories of what it is to have a disability in this world. The Duals are the pioneers, not only for this project, but for the entire Affordable Care Act, as it looks to this challenging coordinating effort.
And tomorrow… Vote! The ballot in Massachusetts, particularly, has perhaps never mattered more.
It Won’t Happen to Me
Then they came for me
and there was no one left to speak out for me. (Martin Niemöller)
Last week was a rough one in the trenches. I had a short week, but found myself shaking my head again and again at the distinct tragedies I was watching.
Now, everything I write here is based on my own experiences, and not on any sort of surveys or data I have collected over time. But usually, I find later that the trends I see are real (most recently, my obsession with outpatient observation status increasing in hospitals over the last three years was substantiated).
But I have to say, judging from the sheer number of people I see, and from the increasingly dire circumstances they find themselves in, the healthcare crisis has hit levels I never imagined.
I think it is far worse than most people think, because most of the people who are in real trouble are completely invisible. Or, more exactly, they are inside, and isolated, either in hospitals or nursing homes, or in their own homes–provided they still have homes–which they rarely leave. Or they are in shelters, hidden because they are in places that no one wants to go. It is sure that we all know someone–a family member, friend or just an acquaintance–who has lost everything after an illness or disability. The problem is only getting worse.
I write today, on the eve of a Supreme Court decision, with a great feeling to continue the advocacy. But at the same time, I am aware of the Cassandra effect. Do we believe that this is real? Do we want to?
Qui est “in”, qui est “out”?
I was listening to the radio on the way to work, and from the regular accident reports, the words caught my attention… again: “The driver remains in the hospital under observation“.
Now, when I was less obsessive about uncovering the use of language as a bureaucratic weapon, I would have thought that this was just a descriptive term–hospital stay just to make sure that the driver was not hurt more badly than originally suspected. But since I have been watching people in hospitals for some time, the first thing that leaps into my mind when I hear the words “observation” and “hospital” in the same sentence is this: does the consumer know that he/she has not been admitted as an inpatient?
To most people, and to me when I am in a rational mood, this seems ridiculous. If I were sick enough to venture near an hospital, I would not have doubts once they got me out of the emergency department about whether I was in or out. I have a band on my wrist; I am in a bed upstairs: I have been admitted.
But of course, anyone who works in a hospital, or who has been through this already, knows very well that this is an incredibly naive assumption. In fact, as I mentioned in my last post, Medicare is aware enough of the confusion that they have an informational page to inform consumers to ask about admission status.
For Medicare, and therefore for other insurers, it makes a tremendous difference whether a person is inpatient or outpatient, an A and B type difference, a copay type difference, and the consequences can be very ugly, especially if a consumer goes in expecting any services after the hospital stay, be they visiting nurses or short-term rehabilitation.
This is the sort of thing that upsets me tremendously when I visit people who are already sick or injured–not at their optimum speed for figuring things out. The rules may well be there, but the rules are confusing–especially for people who do not already spend enormous amounts of time thinking about hospitals or insurance. And honestly, other than those who really love the healthcare world and work in it, who would want to spend all their time deciphering Medicare?
This is not a new concern, of course, this crackdown on hospitals that may get soft on their admission policies. In fact, it is rather difficult as I see it for a doctor to override the decision–which is aided by software like McKesson’s Interqual.
It is not that I believe people should remain in hospitals longer than they need to be, or that hospitals should be providing respite to caregivers. But not unlike the use of emergency rooms for non-emergency primary-care concerns, hospital inpatient rooms may easily be the repository for people whose needs have gone unmet for some time in the community, due to the woeful lack of resources for long-term care.
And lest anyone think that by long-term care, I mean nursing homes, let me be clear: I mean support in the community, long-term support for people with chronic illnesses or disabilities. Without this support, people get sicker, have accidents, and die. Pardon me if that sounds melodramatic, but in my experience, I have to say–anecdotally–that it is true.
But given what we have to work with, which are people who most likely would rather not be in hospitals, the least we could do is to be clear about how we are treating them. I do not believe it would make people happy to have someone explain, “Now, Mr. Smith, just to explain, we are moving you upstairs to a room, but under observation status. That means that your insurance will (or will not)…”
Well, that is a tough conversation, isn’t it? And to continue, “And unless we admit you later, it also means that you will be discharged back home with no extra services.” And then, of course, we should ask Mr. Smith if he understands.
And chances are, he will not. Which is why advocates filed a lawsuit challenging the policy last November.
And yet, we continue to put people into hospital beds, observe them, and let them fret about the 20% when they get home.
There is a difficult balance when a system does not work well to meet the needs of its consumers. It is very easy to blame people whose lifestyles contribute to their poor health–and accurate often enough. But where is the support to monitor early stages of illness? to spend the time necessary to answer a concern? to involve consumers in a system that does not terrify them?
Most people do not ever want to be admitted as inpatients into the hospital. They do not want to be there under observation. They do not want to go to emergency departments. Hell, they want to stay away from that place!
And the truth is that at some point, we all will probably be in one or all of these situations. It should be rare.
It is not rare: we ignore our health, and we fear illness. We fear death.
Or more precisely, we fear feeling powerless.
And not just powerless in the face of illness or disability itself.
Consider this: many people hate checkups, and some do not even have primary care at all. Why? well… think of the power dynamic. It is so easy to forget once you feel comfortable with doctors, and with the healthcare system in general. But for everyone else, could it be that many people ignore their health because they feel powerless and ashamed in the relationship they have always had with healthcare providers?
And when we keep confusing people and sending them bills that they do not understand, who can blame them?
Not Ready for Prime Time?
The son of the patient was nearly red, and gesturing when I arrived.
“Dad is not ready to go home yet!”
A hospitalist stood in the hall, looking at the floor, then looking up every once in a while to make a comment.
“We cannot change the decision.”
“There is nothing we can do.”
“It is not our decision.”
“It is the system.”
The System.
We all hate The System in its bureaucratic anonymity. And we especially hate it when someone tells us that The System is responsible for a decision that will significantly alter our expectations. The son of this particular patient had expected what had happened with his mother years before: his father would be in the hospital for a few days, then go on to the neighborhood skilled nursing facility for a few weeks of short-term rehabilitation. But times have changed, and despite the son’s own illness and compromised ability to care for himself, let alone anyone else at the time, Dad had an overnight at the hospital, but now was about to go home.
“So where do I go to complain?” the son yelled back at the doctor.
A fair question, in any circumstance. It should not be a difficult one to answer, either. But it was, or so it seemed, because the son was still yelling, and the surrounding staff were still telling him that they were sorry.
And so, the patient’s son decided to complain to me. “Look! Look! This is what they are doing.”
He handed me a discharge summary, signed and ready to go. And beneath that was the paper that explains how to appeal to Medicare if you disagree with a discharge.
So, the paper does tell patients where to go to complain–and actually, the patient’s son was in the process of following suggestion #1: “You can talk to the hospital staff, your doctor and your managed care plan (if you belong to one) about your concerns.”
But getting to suggestion #2, which involves calling the area Quality Improvement Organization (Masspro here), is not obvious to most people, even Medicare consumers. And finding that Important Message from Medicare instruction page buried within a stack of paperwork on a sick patient’s bedside table is not terribly likely, even if the patient does remember signing something downstairs–wasn’t it about HIPAA?– and even if someone has some vague idea that there must be a higher authority in the hospital, or beyond the hospital, that takes complaints–and responds to them.
So, I wonder how many patients file appeals about their discharge. I have to admit that after many years of hanging out in hospitals, I would never have guessed that my insurance company was the place I really needed to call if I disagreed with a decision that I assumed a doctor was making.
I also have to say, most people who do not feel ready to go home are never this loud about a discharge decision. Loudness upsets everyone, and often causes more problems than it solves–or so we think. Most people disagree quietly, if they think to disagree at all, and they go home. There, if things are bad enough, they may remain unsatisfied about their health in general, and possibly with the entire system meant to monitor it. And they may well try to ignore doctors and hospitals as much as possible.
So, just in case it ever happens to you, and you are on Medicare, be prepared. If you are admitted as an inpatient to the hospital, and think that you are still sick enough that you actually want to stay admitted as an inpatient in the hospital, you may have to pay for the extra time if you do not appeal before midnight of the planned discharge date. Figuring it all out after the fact, when you feel better at home, can be an expensive option.
And of course, an impossible one if you do not notice that Important Message from Medicare until after your hospital bed turns into a pumpkin.
Now, the sticky part in this entire situation is not only the frustration of the discharge, but the fact that this patient was never actually admitted as an inpatient to the hospital.
Who knew?
Certainly not the patient, or his family, who had no idea that there was a distinction between inpatient and outpatient if a person was lying upstairs in a hospital bed. Doesn’t “observation” just mean that someone is watching over things?
And who really would know? Unless you know. You know if you work in a hospital, I hope. And you know if you are especially savvy about the healthcare system, or at least Medicare. And you know if you just watched a friend faced with a similar situation. And you just might know if you read all the mail that you get relating to Medicare–it is very possible that there was a big instruction page that you received at some time…
But more on this question next time.
Now, I want to say that I understand that family members should not be using hospitals for respite from caregiving. And I also know that ideally, care that can happen outside a hospital setting should happen outside a hospital setting. But no matter the reason, a consumer or family member should have a clear understanding of how decisions are made, and who is making them.
And I also want to say that understanding what happens in this world of hospitals does not mean that we agree with the way care is administered in them. Or that we do not think that there might be enormous chronic unmet needs in the community that end up in an emergency room because by that time, they have become acute needs.
Part of the difficulty in communicating with consumers about The System comes simply from working in The System. At a certain point, we begin to understand how these rules work, and why they exist, at least in our own little part of it. But the danger is that in that process is forgetting how twisted and confusing it all is to the people who do not encounter this world on a daily basis. And ironically, theirs are the lives that are most affected by the decisions that are made during that hospital stay.
It requires an intentional effort to make sure that hospitals give people a way to interact with their decision-makers effectively, and on a human level. Without that in place, without giving the consumer the ability to be heard, we all lose out. We blame our own frustrations and those of the consumers on a large, anonymous entity that is not only omniscient, but omnipotent, as well. There is no meaningful dialogue. I imagine that in the long run, this is also very expensive.
Only Anecdotal 