The bill was for two unspecified injections weeks earlier. I remembered getting a free flu shot and maybe a Covid-19 or RSV shot. But $480.76? I called the number on the bill and a recording announced a 30 to 40-minute wait. Would I like them to call me back when it was my turn? Absolutely.

No call ever came. The following day, same thing, no return call. So next time, I just waited on the line, listening to umpteen repetitions of what sounded like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir version of "Twist and Shout." Time froze. Eventually, though, I reached a sympathetic soul. She said, "Let me put you on hold while I see about an adjustment."

Click! But instead of more Mormons massacring music, I got silence, dead silence. Betting against the odds, I waited. And finally, a man responded — a man who knew nothing about the sympathetic woman or my adjustment. "Your bill seems to be accurate," he decided.

"Seems to be or is?"

"You should speak to billing."

"Aren't you billing? I called the number on the bill."

"This is payments. Do you want to pay?"

"Do I owe it?"

"Probably. It's on your bill. With your billing history though, you should contact financial assistance. If your medical charges exceed a certain percentage of your income — a sliding percentage — you'll qualify for significant savings."

Fortunately, my medical charges tended toward the breath-taking. (Fortunately?) Some people take up golf in retirement, some travel. In my sort-of-semi-retirement, I've taken up medical care. When I sign onto my HMO's website and click on "Email my Doctor," I get a dropdown menu with 22 choices. No exaggeration. I've got 22 doctors! I figure I've had nearly enough body parts removed or swapped out to build another person.

The Financial Assistance Hotline offered a varied on-hold concert. ("Interminable philharmonic flatulence!" the critics cried.) I put my phone on speaker and let it foul the air while I worked. But you can't outlast the forces of darkness. At 4:57 p.m. they simply shut down for the day. The bastards cheated me out of three minutes.

My last attempt uncovered an all-new circle of phone tree hell: "Because we value your business, please continue to hold," repeated on a loop at seven-second intervals for what promised to be the rest of my life. But no, after a mere 53 minutes, a genuine Financial Assistance Specialist materialized. In consultation with powers unseen, she determined: first, that I definitely qualified; then that I might qualify; and finally, that I may have qualified the year before but there was no chance I qualified now. However, if I could work in another brain surgery ...

More surprising, one of the unseen powers claimed to know that the $480.76 was not for a Covid-19 or RSV shot, but for an osteoporosis infusion. "It's actually just a shot but they usually call it an infusion. That's why it's $480. Still, you really should check with billing on that amount."

I'd rather gargle drain opener. "Just send me to payments," I said. "Please!" Then, they offered their automated system, and I jumped on it. Why not? My personal information has been breached so frequently that I figure the dark web already knows more about me than my wife does. Which is only fitting, since I'm probably worth more to them than I am to her.

Dutifully, I plugged in my 12 digit account number, not to be confused with my 10 digit medical record number. The automated system replied, "Good afternoon, Gertrude Garasanov. Your current balance is $9.394.32." Re-entering my number, I remained Gertrude.

I couldn't resist googling her. Gertrude had passed two weeks before. She'll never know what she missed.

If you have or need spare body parts, you can contact Barry Maher or sign up for his Slightly Off-Kilter newsletter at www.barrymaher.com.

To find out more about Barry Maher and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

Photo credit: Towfiqu barbhuiya at Unsplash