I had three insurance policies capable of bringing a little light relief to the rather unfortunate lung cancer diagnosis.

One I took out in 1997, covering death and critical illness.  At the time I’d pondered an 18 year term to coincide with Chris popping out and reaching adulthood.  Fortunately I opted for a 23 year term instead and didn’t cancel the direct debit on divorce.  £32,000 just about paid off the mortgage last month.

During the Credit Crunch I took out an accident sickness redundancy policy to pay out £200 a month for a year should I lose my job.  On numerous occasions I pondered cancelling the £10 a month direct debit.  I didn’t.  So far it’s coughed up £1,400 and looks set to get to add another £1,000 to that before expiry.

Yesterday I got home to a massive pack of forms to complete for my permanent health insurance policy taken out in 1992.  £6.93 a month that’s meant to give me £550 a month until age 62 if I ever claim.  Plus, interestingly, a guaranteed 5% annual pay rise if I’m still alive!  Not had a rise that big in years …

It’s not the gentlest claim form I’ve ever seen.  Rather unsubtle questioning about being reallocated lighter duties, hints that if you can sit down perhaps you could do a job.  Catch you out questions about how your job might be different now to 1992, possibly invalidating any claim.

Additional forms also go off to the medics and my employer.  I assume they’re both being asked “Can he breathe?” as part of the claims assessment.

It’s clear that the claims process isn’t going to be quick.  I’ve been completely honest on the form as to what I’m capable of or not.  Throwing in words like “terminal” and “palliative” alongside “pain” and the like.

And despite it being as genuine a claim as there could possibly be, a large part of me fears being declined.  If successful this will be my primary income for the rest of my life.  But at the moment I’m concerned.

$6,000 of Drugs in My Car as I Parked Illegally on a Liverpool Street