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T A B L E++T A L K

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R E C E N T L Y

Time for one thing
By Kate Moses
If you've been drinking my eggnog, you better not drive
(12/02/97)

Reading between the whines
By Inda Schaenen
The sevenfold path to coping with seven-step parenting manuals
(12/01/97)

The big joke about being ill for so long is that just as you begin to feel better, your medical bills start to arrive, making you sicker than ever before. I had hundreds of bills. $600,000 for two days. $400,000 for blood. The sheer shock of the numbers made me giddy and I sent the bills off to my insurance, which paid and paid and paid until the bills topped a million dollars and then the company began to balk. They questioned procedures. They refused fees. Dealing with insurance became a full-time job, as I contested decisions and reapplied for benefits three, four, five times, and each and every time, they were refused.

I owed several doctors thousands of dollars. I owed the hospital even more. The collection agencies began to call, their voices hypnotic, lulling me to get that credit card and pay now. "Wouldn't you like this to be over and done with?" one man said sweetly. But if the collection agencies were the good cops, the billing department was the bad one, and their calls and letters were nasty and threatening. "We can't wait much longer," they told me. "We'll have to take action." They never said exactly what action they planned to take, but I had visions of our having to sell our house and move to a trailer park. I'd have to get a job flipping burgers, serving fries, cleaning washrooms, never mind the layers of gauze about my stomach wounds or my halting, stumbling walk.

I didn't know what to do. I contacted every doctor I owed money to and explained that I was battling my insurance company, to hold tight and money would be forthcoming. Sometimes, when I felt most desperate, I paid a little bit to the doctors myself, in a kind of ragged act of good faith. The doctors were pretty nice. One of my surgeons even wrote me a personal letter, saying what a shame it was that I had these problems with insurance and that he was sure it would be worked out.

I owed Roy more than $10,000. My insurance refused to pay because I had been precertified only for a normal delivery, which included two or three doctor's hospital visits, not the seven weeks' worth it had been billed for.

"But it wasn't a normal delivery," I kept insisting.

The health plan was immovable.

The next time I went in for a checkup with Roy, I apologized so profusely for my mounting debt to him that I got tongue-tied. "Just give me a little more time," I begged. "I'm getting it worked out."

He was seated at his desk, tapping my chart with the edge of his pen. He studied me for a second. "You know," he said finally. "I've been thinking. You should be recovering a bit faster than you are."

"I should?" I said.

He nodded. "And I bet I know what's the culprit."

"Bad blood counts," I said glumly.

He shook his head. "Medical bills," he said finally. "Not very conducive to a quick recovery." He doodled something. "So here's what I'm going to do." I was sure he was figuring out a pay plan, a schedule I could follow without too much trouble. Two years to pay. Ten years. Thank you, I thought. Thank you.

He lifted his pen. I looked at his pad, where he had scribbled a series of circles. "I've been paid enough. As far as I'm concerned you don't have to ever worry about paying me anything more." He grinned. "Ever."

I thought he was kidding, just being kind. I laughed. But when I left his office and went to the desk to pay for my visit, his nurse was on the phone. She held up one finger and then when she got off, she shook her head at me and pushed my check away. "He says your dues are paid," she said, and winked at me. "Now go on home to your son."

I stood there for a moment, confused.

She waved her hand gaily. "Get," she said.

It's a year later and I'm almost well. Medical bills still slap through our mail slot, but none of them are ever from Roy's office. I still try to pay him, harassing the insurance company, sending Roy what I can, but every time I do, my check gets sent back to me and then Roy or his nurse calls me and reminds me cheerfully that I am paid in full, that my guilt is misplaced and my money unnecessary.

And so I send Roy other things. Chocolates on holidays. Funny notes with photos of my son. Invitations to every family event. He never responds. He never attends any event. But I'm not surprised or even the least offended because, really, isn't that just like family?
SALON | Dec. 3, 1997

Caroline Leavitt is the author of six novels, including "Meeting Rozzy Half Way," "Family" and "Living Other Lives." She has written for Parenting, Red Book and New Woman. She lives with her husband and her 16-month-old wonder baby, Max, in Hoboken, N.J.

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