1: 1
My mother's fever wouldn't break, so on my boyfriend's recommendation I took her to the hospital where his old flame, Muriel Pruitt, worked.
But after a month in that hospital, she hadn't improved in the slightest, and then a nurse handed me a bill for $2.6 million.
Holding that impossible bill, I went to Muriel and challenged it.
She only looked down her nose at me and said, "Family members, please don't use your amateur opinions to question my professional judgment. Pay the bill quickly, before you miss the best window for treatment."
I said I wanted her transferred to another hospital. Muriel said, contemptuously, that I could do whatever I wanted.
But my boyfriend was right there to talk me out of it. "Just apologize to Dr. Pruitt already. Stop making a scene. Think about it—we've already spent all this money, and you don't want your mother to have some accident because of your nonsense, do you?"
So I swallowed my anger and apologized.
That same night, my mother's condition suddenly worsened, and they couldn't save her.
Grief-stricken, I tore the hospital apart.
Two days later, while I was sorting through her things at home, the hospital called again to demand payment.
The astronomical bill was one thing. But were they really going to keep charging for drugs given to a dead woman?
This time I didn't argue, didn't shout, didn't make a scene. I went straight to the hospital and paid.
And I kept the proof—proof that they'd billed for medicine given to a corpse, that they'd padded the charges—then I turned around and took my boyfriend, Muriel, and the whole hospital to court!
This time it wasn't only for my mother. It was to win justice for every victim they'd overbilled!
1
Watching my mother waste away under her illness cut me to the bone.
A month earlier, when her fever wouldn't break, I'd listened to my boyfriend and brought her to this hospital.
But even now the fever hadn't gone down, and the doctors couldn't even give a straight answer about what was wrong with her.
Several times I'd wanted to move her somewhere else, and every time my boyfriend talked me out of it.
I was still sitting there heartsick when a nurse walked over.
"Family member, this is the patient's bill for the past month. Please pay it immediately, or the hospital will stop administering medication."
I looked at her, confused.
"Didn't I already put down three hundred thousand as a deposit?"
The nurse shook her head.
"That three hundred thousand ran out long ago."
"You're in arrears now."
I was stunned.
"My mother's treatment cost that much?"
The nurse's face was thick with impatience.
"You're told to pay, so you pay. Why all the questions?"
I stared at her.
"Don't I even have the right to know what the charges are for?"
She curled her lip at me, disgusted.
"You're asking me? Who am I supposed to ask? I'm not the attending physician. Go ask the doctor about the details, go to billing if you want to check the account. I'm only here to notify you."
Her attitude was appalling.
She dropped the words and turned to leave.
On her way out the door, I heard her muttering under her breath.
"If you can't afford it, don't come to the hospital. Who do you think you're fooling."
I was so furious I could barely breathe.
Carrying that anger, I went to the billing department.
One look at the record, and there it was—the staggering number in front of me.
Two million, six hundred and three thousand, fifty-two dollars.
I could hardly believe such a horrifying figure was real.
"My mother's only been here a month. How could the treatment cost this much?"
The clerk in billing smiled.
"Ma'am, all our charges are standard charges. Every item is itemized. If you have any questions, you're welcome to check it yourself, or ask the attending physician."
She smiled the whole time, and yet what she said was utterly evasive.
Translated into plain speech: you're asking me, so who am I supposed to ask? Don't come bothering me for nothing.
I knew there was no point arguing with her, so I took the bill, sat down alone in a corner, and went through it carefully.
It didn't take long to spot something off.
I took the bill straight to Muriel.
"Dr. Pruitt, my mother's bill here—do you know about this?"
Muriel sat at her desk, lifted her coffee, took an unhurried little sip, and only then spoke slowly.
"Augusta Henson, what exactly do you mean?"
I said it plainly.
"I mean these charges aren't reasonable."
Muriel asked, calm and unhurried.
"You know medicine?"
I shook my head.
"I don't, no. But there are obvious mistakes on this bill."
"Look here—this acid, this amine, whatever they are. The doses are clearly way over the limit."
"I did a quick calculation. Every day you'd be pumping over two hundred pounds of fluid into my mother."
"Is that even possible?"
"That's twice my mother's own body weight!"
"Isn't that absurd?"
