My Body, My Temple, My $2,000 Copay

A wellness journey brought to you by deductibles, vague diagnoses, and the crushing realization that your insurance provider thinks your eyes and teeth aren’t part of your body.

I’ve been told my body is my temple. Holy. Sacred. Worthy of reverence. Turns out my temple has a nine-month waitlist and a copay that rivals my mortgage.

Welcome to middle-aged wellness.

Despite decades of being told we can “have it all,” the simple request to maintain our health now requires writing memoir-length symptom logs, cross-referencing our insurance portal, and bringing color-coded binders to every appointment.

Then we’re told to “listen to your body.”

Great. My body is telling me I want a massage and chocolate.

Does insurance cover that?

Not a chance—at least not if you’re a woman.

The Doctor Will See You Now

Hope is a dangerous drug. You make the appointment, and for a split second, you think, this time will be different. You’ll finally get answers instead of being told “that’s just part of aging.”

That lasts until you walk into the waiting room. You arrive 20 minutes early, as requested, and are told to fill out the same forms you filled out online before waiting 45 more minutes for the doctor to actually see you.

The only reading material is a 2017 issue of Highlights and a pamphlet titled Do You Know Your Spleen? Both teeming with enough germs to spark Patient Zero status.

At last, you’re ushered into an exam room and given a folded square of paper marketed as a “gown.” You sit there, pantsless, the fabric clinging to your thighs like a damp Post-it. Your bare buttcheek sticks to the vinyl exam table with a noise best described as the squelch of despair.

The doctor enters.

He’s friendly.

Efficient.

Possibly 14.

“So, what brings you in today?”

You resist the urge to say, “Society. Mortality. My left knee.”

Instead, you channel your inner Grey’s Anatomy extra: “I have elevated levels of fatigue, intermittent joint pain, and I think I cried at a burrito commercial last week.”

He listens with the polite smile of a man who absolutely thinks hormones explain 92 percent of female ailments. Types. Probably writes “perimenopausal spiral with WebMD dependency.”

After a quick check of your basement, he wraps it up saying “looks good.” Flattering, considering the angle. Bloodwork? Ordered “just to rule things out.” Joint pain? Ignored. Prescription? Water, stress management, and possibly something about magnesium and goat yoga.

Revolutionary.

And that’s just the beginning.

Copays: The Cover Charge for Existing

Copays are like paying admission to a concert you didn’t want to attend, where the headliner is “Basic Survival” and the opening act is “Waiting Pantless in the Exam Room.”

It’s never simple. “How much is my copay?” you ask. They act like they’ve been handed the Dead Sea Scrolls. “Well, based on appointment type, insurance tier, and whether Mercury is in retrograde … that’ll be $50.”

Need a specialist? That’s $100. The ER? Roughly $2,000 and your firstborn. And to add insult to injury, the “pink tax” is real.

Women, who statistically go to the doctor more often, consistently spend nearly 30 percent more out of pocket. That amounted to $8.8 billion in 2024. Men, meanwhile, brag about only paying a copay once in their life—when their leg snapped in half playing rec-league softball—and hobble away with free crutches and a Vicodin prescription.

The Insurance Enigma

Insurance is the only system where you pay thousands of dollars a year for the privilege of being told “no” in increasingly creative ways.

Mammogram coverage? Only on Tuesdays between 9:07 a.m. and 9:17 a.m., during a leap year, while holding your insurance card and a chicken sacrifice. MRI? Denied because you “didn’t try Pilates first.”

Do we want more tests? No. Especially since patients who use more health care services—like women—are more likely to experience denied claims.

We just don’t want to be treated like hysterical drama queens for noticing, “Hey, something feels off.” Especially when Chad from work gets full disability approval for “seasonal sciatica,” which coincidentally aligns with his golf schedule.

But you’re strong (stubborn).

You’re not giving up (yet).

So you call the insurance company to get answers. After 47 minutes on hold, you’re transferred three times only to be told to “view the website.” Interesting, considering that your insurance company doesn’t even acknowledge that eyes—or teeth—are part of your body. They live in a parallel universe called “specialty coverage.” So your options are: fork over another $3,000 a year or go insurer shopping like your body parts are add-ons at a rental car counter.

Still, at least denial is free. The bill, on the other hand, is where they really show their creative side.

Surprise! You Owe More Than Your Kitchen Remodel

The next step in our “wellness journey” consists of an expensive trip through the insurance portal while trying not to cry, swear, or accidentally enroll in a new plan that only covers rabies and wishful thinking.

The message starts with a cheery “This Is Not a Bill” notice that warms you up for the actual bill, which arrives three weeks later and looks like an encrypted message from the Pentagon:

• $450: Facility Fee (You sat in a chair.)
• $200: Contamination Remediation (You sneezed in the waiting room.)
• $98: Supplies (Did you buy the tongue depressors? Are they artisanal?)
• $1,200: Consultation (The doctor said “hmmm.”)
• $8,000: Deductible (The fee for the privilege of paying fees.)
• $75: Deductible Processing Fee (Because your deductible must also meet its own deductible.)
• $500: Pre-existing Condition (Being a woman.)

And just when you think it can’t get worse … the insurance adjustment hits. No one knows what it is. Not you. Not your doctor. Not Linda from the HOA. You’re simply told, “Good news! We covered 80 percent of your $4,000 bill. You only owe … $3,300.”

It’s like being politely mugged by someone who compliments your shoes and then says,

“Unfortunately, your ovaries are out of network.”

Waiting Room Warriors

So, here we are. Frustrated, exhausted, and one more hold-music loop away from faking our death and moving to a country with subsidized health care.

But this body?

It’s not just a temple.

It’s a fortress reinforced with perseverance, Icy Hot, and a suspiciously large tote bag packed with insurance spreadsheets, emergency snacks, and the rage of paying $1,000 to be told to “hydrate more.”

We’re not fragile.

We’re not confused.

We’re not broken.

The system is.

And middle-aged women? We’re the most dangerous thing in any waiting room with a co-pay. We juggle hormones, careers, family, and a tolerance for BS that ghosted us at 42. We’re done with vague diagnoses, corporate gaslighting, and decades of being told our pain is “just stress.”

If the system won’t take care of us, we will.

We’ve carried everyone else.

Now, we carry ourselves.