DOING THE DME SHUFFLE

EARTHBOUND TOMBOY

BY HEIDI JOHNSON-WRIGHT

 

Let’s talk about a tricky dance with a lot of steps, and I’m not referring to the tango, waltz or minuet. It’s a dance familiar to everyone who uses a mobility device and has health insurance. I’m talking about the DME shuffle.

DME stands for “durable medical equipment,” the jargony moniker used by the insurance industry to refer to equipment like wheelchairs and scooters. It also refers to things like oxygen tanks and CPAP machines.

I’ve never worked in the insurance industry so I don’t know its inner workings. But I’ve been a consumer of insurance coverage for decades, so I’m an expert of sorts on navigating from the outside of what feels like an impenetrable, byzantine system. And despite my years of experience, I never cease to be amazed by its frustrating unwieldiness.

Take wheelchairs, for instance. I’ve been a wheelchair user for 30-plus years. I need one to traverse distances of more than four or five feet. Simply put: I gotta have a functioning wheelchair about 16 hours of each and every day, or I’m screwed.

Most of the time, it’s cool. But things get real tricky when it becomes evident that my chair is getting to the end of its life span. One can only repair and hold something together with chewing gum and paper clips for so long.

I can’t predict when the chair will crap out for good. And because it’s essential to my most basic functions, I don’t want to wait too long. Why? Because acquiring a new one is about a six-month process.

The process begins with getting a prescription and a letter of medical necessity from my doctor. Since he’s busy guy, I supply him with the essential info and suggested language he needs to write them. Once I’ve got these documents in hand, the real fun begins.

 

Insurance providers typically subcontract with other companies to provide DME. The DME provider’s bread and butter, though, is primarily diabetic supplies and off-the-rack walkers. When it comes to wheelchairs, they try to push the bare bones basic, one-size-fits-all variety. Give them your height and weight, and they’ll order you a small, medium or large. Those are fine for the retiree who needs one only for trips to the mall or county fair.

But I use a chair many hours every day. I must be evaluated by a rehab professional to determine the type of chair that can accommodate my functional limitations and ergonomic needs. The seat must be high enough from the floor so I can stand up unaided. The back rest must provide comfort and support in the right places. I need a seat cushion that supports my posture but doesn’t aggravate my chronic sciatica. The underside of the chair must accommodate a large bolt that can lock the chair into my van’s tie-down system. I’ll spare you the remaining details.