When I was first diagnosed, one of my doctor's offices contacted my insurance company and told them I was teetering on the verge of a bone-marrow transplant. (I'm not. Perhaps one day I will be, but that day is not today.) The insurance company then assigned me to a transplant caseworker who now calls every few weeks to verify that I am not dying or possibly trying to transplant my own bone marrow on the sly.
CASEWORKER: How are you doing?
ME: Oh, just great! I'm certainly not trying to transplant my own bone marrow! Ha HA!
CASEWORKER: That's good to know and ... wait, do I hear screaming?
ME: I can never figure out how to get the donor to hold still ... I mean, that's the TV. Gotta go.
Shortly after I got off the phone today, I received a letter from the doctor's office -- the same doctor's office that arranged for the insurance company caseworker to torment me -- telling me that they don't believe I'm actually covered by this insurance company. (I totally am.)