Knowing I needed to renew my annual IMSS health insurance coverage for the first time in September, 2011, I hiked over there last month to make sure I had all the newest details on how to do so. Confident I was fully prepared, I hiked back this past Wednesday with three copies of one form and carbon-interlaced copies of a second.
Thankfully, the line at Window #3 wasn’t long, and I soon presented my paperwork to Graciela. Almost immediately, her face clouded over and she said, “Oh! You’ve done this one all wrong.” How can that be, I asked? I was told to fill out your half-page form on both sides and bring two additional copies. “But,” Graciela said, “you were supposed to copy the form FIRST and THEN fill in all three forms as originals. We need six original signatures!” I took a deep breath and got permission to redo the form when I went to the copy shop for yet more copies of forms soon to be provided for premium payments at the bank.
Sighing, Graciela used my papers to create another one. “Take this to Window #11 so they can make you a form to take to the bank,” she intoned. Lucky me! No one was in line there, but the two young women servicing the counter were deep in conversation about an upcoming baby shower for a colleague. I tried to wait patiently (something I’m supremely pathetic at doing) and was alarmed to discover an error in Graciela’s new form. Hijole! Perhaps 8 minutes later, I interrupted the ongoing discussion and suggested jettisoning plans to buy yet more pink clothes for this couple’s upcoming 4th child (and first girl). This got some attention focused my way, as I’m sure neither of those two 30-somethings expected an aging blond gringa to understand Spanish.
“Look,” I said, pointing. “There’s a mistake here. Graciela’s got my birthdate down as May 23, 2012. That means I’m not even born yet!” Shaking her head, the chastened employee told me I’d have to go to another building and wait in line for someone to access the archives to correct this error. More deep breaths. “Look,” I said again. “If this were my error, OK. But it’s not. It’s yours. The very same thing happened to my partner and me last year when our birthdates were entered on this very same form as Jan. 1, 1900. You need to fix this — not me.”
Off we both went to see Graciela, who naturally was helping another customer. When she saw the problem, she repeated her co-worker’s comments. I repeated mine. A supervisor came over and — gracias a dios! — agreed with me. So Graciela did the “fix,” which consisted of unearthing a bottle of whiteout, blowing on the goopy stuff for a while, and entering my correct birth year on all three copies of this form in red ink. I guess that means the archive route is reserved for hapless subscribers who, by the time they finish the procedure, will need the psychiatric services provided by IMSS earlier than might otherwise have been the case.
“There’s one other thing,” I trepidatiously told Graciela. “Last year my CURP number was somehow omitted from your records. I was told to bring it to your attention at renewal time.” No problem, said the now-helpful Graciela. When you make all those other copies, have them run your CURP card through the machine twice — once for each side — so both sides come out next to each other on the same side of the paper because we can’t accept a copy of the card if it’s printed back-to-back. Of course they can’t, thought I after I digested this run-on sentence! Who would even have thought of suggesting such a travesty?
Off to the bank — where I was delighted to accomplish my mission quite smartly with no hitches. Unless, of course, you count the part where I received my $128-peso change in the form of one $100-peso note and 28 one-peso coins.
After lopsidedly walking back to the IMSS building with all those coins in my pocket and my new forms filled out with half a dozen signatures, Graciela averted her eyes while telling me she’d forgotten to mention I needed my FM3 to accomplish the CURP insertion. “But I have it!” I chirped, eagerly brandishing yet another official ID. “Well….” she continued, “I’m afraid you need to make a copy of it.” I’d done my research, though, and knew the CURP number was merely an “optional” requirement for foreigners (as opposed to “obligatory” for Mexicans), so I told her to forget the whole thing. We’ll try again next year, said I. Disappointed, I’m sure, that my torture would soon be over, Graciela stamped everything within reach, found what turned out to be a non-functioning stapler, made a mess of the upper left hand corner of my copies, and handed the packet over with a rusty paper clip holding it in a bundle.
“You really should get your permanent Carnet, though,” Graciela conspiratorially whispered, holding up my rather disreputable-looking temporary enrollment document with obvious distaste. “I went back for it 4 times last year and they never had any,” I replied. “They do now,” she said.
Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, si?…so I exited this part of the IMSS complex yet again and had yet another helping of anti-bacterial gel applied to my hands as I searched for the Preventive Medicine area — allegedly the storehouse for new permanent Carnets.
I found it with no trouble! Unfortunately, no one was working there, but a helpful security guard told me someone would be back in a “ratito,” so he and I chatted for not more than 20 minutes until that someone returned. When told what I needed, she opened a drawer and immediately produced a brand new Carnet, stapling my dogeared two-sided document onto the first page, thus effectively obscuring the list of prior appointments now securely lodged in place upside down beneath the staples.
I gratefully reached for the Carnet — but Mayra swished it off the table, informing me we had work to do filling in some blanks. Grabbing a pen, she began: “On what date did you have your polio vaccine?” “What??” I incredulously murmured. This was, I was told, vital information. Not being a total dummy, I made up a date somewhere in the 1950s. When Mayra asked if my last tetanus shot was within 5 years, I stupidly said “no,” causing her to bolt from her seat, saying she’d prepare one right now. “NO!” I wailed. “I’ve got another appointment in 20 minutes (bald-faced lie – but those things hurt like hell), and I don’t want one today.”
After I promised to come back in October to get stabbed, Mayra handed me a cellophane packet containing two hot pink pills. “Take one today and the other tomorrow,” she efficiently counseled. “What are they?” questioned I with a furrowed brow. “Why, your Viarden,” she replied. “What??” Expressing great astonishment at my lack of familiarity with these tablets, Mayra told me chewing one would reveal whether I needed immediate dental care. Flummoxed again (and now worrying about whether these forehead furrows were fast becoming a permanent feature of my physiognomy), I confoundedly uttered, “How?” I learned that if my saliva turns red upon masticating the neon-colored pill, it means I should hotfoot it to a dentist pronto-donto. How is it that my choppers have remained affixed inside my head for, lo, these 61 years without benefit of that knowledge?
OK, Mayra continued, let’s take your weight. That done, she proceeded to record my height. Next she approached me with a tape measure and encircled my waist. “Now what?” I exclaimed. “I can determine whether you’re underfat, normal, overfat or obese by doing this,” she said. “But can’t you tell just by looking at me?” I said. Ignoring what was to her completely obvious, Mayra adjusted the tape snugly, peered at it, and said, “62.” “WHAT?” I screeched. Whew…the measurement was in centimeters, not inches. (At this point in the telling of my tale while walking yesterday, a friend who could stand to lose a few pounds but in NO way qualifies for a circus fat lady’s job volunteered they skipped this part with her and simply told her she was obese!!)
“Now for your blood pressure,” Mayra went on. This is it, thought I. More than 2-1/2 hours into my IMSS travails, I was sure my usually perfect BP would have skyrocketed — as it did last year when Nick and I had a teeny-tiny car accident immediately before they took our readings! But sometimes Lady Luck smiles, and I heaved a sigh of relief as Mayra said, “Very good: 100 over 80.”
“You’re finished,” Mayra said. Exhausted but elated, I headed out the door, having insured my now dubious state of health for another year in paradise. Ahhhh, Mexico. You gotta love it if you’re gonna live here.
