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It turns out, I expired in January — and became literally worthless.
It wasn’t my actual existence that terminated, but my life insurance.
I’d been carrying a 10-year, $2 million term policy and had no idea it was ending at the start of the year. Worse, I had crossed some sort of actuarial Rubicon.
In order to secure a renewed contract with the same reputable carrier, my annual premium would soar from $5,000 to $80,000! I called our broker, Abe, the nice chap who sends me a calendar every year. He confirmed that because I was now well on the other side of 65, the cost would jump considerably, no matter that I felt fitter now than a decade ago.
Another broker I consulted said I was looking at a “final expense” policy, which had the distinct ring of a coffin closing. It reminded me of Jerry Seinfeld’s routine about the ominous “use by” dates stamped on milk cartons: “Oh, they know — today is the day!”
To the protection industry, I was a souring prospect. Did I even need such a hefty policy? My wife and I debated. We had accumulated decent retirement savings and carried little debt. If something happened to moi, Sarah could sell our longtime co-op and downsize comfortably on the profit, whether or not she returned to work. But we still had med-school tuition to cover for our younger son and the cashflow from my business would evaporate quickly with me in the hereafter.
It seemed I had no choice but to be pro-death benefit. (For the record, term life contracts can be struck up to age 80 and renewed annually until a person reaches 90 years.)
Abe was moving slowly on better pricing so we randomly found another agent and underwriter, who sent an itinerant doctor to our apartment for the physical exam. He even brought his own scale and whipped through the medical questionnaire — “Just say ‘no’ here, here and here,” he instructed, waving me past various diagnostic checkpoints. He was already on to his next appointment when I noticed my arm had blown up like Popeye’s from his speedo blood test — the bruising in my veins lasted two weeks.
Since my father had been in the Army, I checked out several insurers specializing in veterans and their families — our car was covered by one. But because I live in New York state, the companies weren’t allowed to offer rates by phone and their online sites weren’t showing the discounts I expected.
We were still facing yearly premiums of $25,000, when I remembered an old grade-school friend named Steve who’d become an insurance super-agent in Buffalo. In between ski trips, he took over our case and found ways to lower the cost, including dialing back the policy’s start date and going for preferred rates based on my good, non-smoker health.
“Forget about that old scan — it’s nothing,” he assured me of one ancient test.
Paying annually instead of monthly also saved some change. And then, we waited. And waited. The underwriter wanted more information. My doctor hadn’t sent my charts. Omicron stalled things. Abe and the other agent kept calling, reminding me my policy had lapsed.
Never had I been so stressed about something I didn’t want. It didn’t help that Sarah and I streamed a Hulu documentary called “Wild Crime” about a man convicted of shoving his wife off a cliff in Rocky Mountain National Park to collect her $5 million insurance payout.
Should I be afraid? “Just keep Allan in bubble wrap,” Steve advised Sarah while I went naked — er, uninsured.
In fact, I suddenly felt a financial obligation to stay alive, crossing at intersections and avoiding confrontations with the electric bike delivery guys who zip over the sidewalks in our neighborhood.
Finally, we got a good-news call from Steve. “Super preferred, baby!” he crowed, meaning we’d been given the best 10-year rate, which turned out to be only a 110% increase from what I had before crossing the senior divide.
We agreed, and I can now go back to my reckless, jaywalking ways as the $2 Million Man. Only no trips to national parks.
Allan Ripp runs a press-relations firm in New York.
