A few years ago, I officially became a middle-aged dad by tearing my Achilles tendon during a casual game of pick-up basketball in the driveway. A short time later I was at the hospital, where, after a long and rather physically agonizing wait in the waiting room, the doctor gave me Tylenol and told me that I had to get an MRI and see a specialist. A week later, I had finally been officially diagnosed with a torn Achilles, at which point I was informed of all the options and the risks that accompany each option. Of course the only reasonable option was to get a surgery to repair the Achilles, but still I had to be informed that, for example, doing nothing and letting it heal on its own was a path that could be chosen, though it was certainly not recommended. I decided to go with the surgery.
This was all a pretty standard experience. And here’s what didn’t happen. I didn’t make a 22-minute video call and get approved for the surgery based on my claims alone. They didn’t give me an Achilles surgery merely because I said I wanted one. They didn’t simply take my word for it. And if the doctor had looked at the MRI and determined that my Achilles was not torn, he would not do the surgery anyway just to affirm my feeling that it was torn.
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