“Broaddus Bummer”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-20)

Bills in the mail.

I have written here before about growing up in a home where debt collectors were like members of the family. They never appeared on sunny days, preferring to descend when we were struggling and sick, or feeling lost amid the chaos of rural living on a limited budget. But they became a familiar part of my childhood. I knew the look on my father’s face when one of these hawks had swooped into action. I memorized his response on the telephone, said with an earnestness that could not be summoned except by someone with true faith in God and himself.

“I will send you five dollars on Monday...”

Dad passed away in 2018. Besides medical bills, he had about $30,000 of unpaid credit card charges lingering. He owned no property at the time of his death, not even a motor vehicle. Navigating this minefield was a responsibility that fell to me, as his oldest son. Though in a sense, the work to settle his accounts kept me grounded. I had no time to wallow in grief. Instead, with help from my sister, the tasks at hand kept things clear and focused.

My father’s estate had a bottom-line value of zero. Yet one claim stalled efforts to get it legally closed in the State of West Virginia. It was an unsatisfied obligation to Broaddus Hospital, the health institution associated with Mansfield Place, where my parents resided. Located in the Barbour County hamlet of Philippi.

The charge was for $1953.00.

I found success in working through the other bills, and canceling unused services, while striving to stop the incessant stream of junk mail and solicitations. A nagging issue that perplexed the nursing facility. But Broaddus took a hard line, despite my labor. When Dad’s statement was not paid, they reissued the bill in my personal name. Something that my family counseled was illegal. Then, I was sent to a collection agency and the harassing calls began.

I could not help thinking of my childhood. Though frustrating, it made me laugh with a sense that life had indeed moved in a circle.

The hospital debt was paid at last, through a meager trickle of insurance money, with the rest going to Mansfield Place. When the local Clerk of Courts reviewed what happened, she displayed genuine outrage. Her assertion was that my father’s estate had no final value, so the bill should have been denied as a claim and written off as noncollectable. But in personal terms, I was simply glad to have things settled.

My mother passed away during the following year. Though emotionally draining, the experience had less legal issues. As before, I put her affairs in order. The folder for her and my father had grown to a size I imagined would equal a phone book for Morgantown. After eight months had elapsed, the family felt some sense of relief. I reached a point of calm and sadness. Perhaps at the point where I could authentically mourn the loss of my sire and mater.

This moment of stillness and introspection exploded when I saw a familiar logo in my mailbox. The shape of a mountain profile, used by Broaddus Hospital as their logo. It made me cringe. Yet somehow, once again, I returned to my childhood.

Mom had coverage from Medicaid, being widowed and destitute. We had thought that her situation was clearly defined by need. But somehow, charges for her care had been refused. Like grains of sand spilling through a broken hourglass shell. There had been no estate. She had only her clothes. Plus a video player and a wheelchair, which we donated to the home. No funds were left.

I wrote to Broaddus and explained the situation. The result was a new billing, the one now in my mailbox. As before, the hospital reissued their charge in my own name. It stung my eyes.

“Pay Immediately: 1979.89.”

I contacted my sister with the distressing news. Her reaction was modeled after our late father. She said that I should not worry. A comment he would have made, before assuring a bill collector that Monday would find him sending out a payment of five dollars.

I had to smile, remembering his patience and strength.

After a bit of pondering, I wrote a letter to the hospital. One that briefly outlined our situation as surviving children. It went in the mail a day later:

To:

Broaddus Hospital

P. O. Box 1484

Elkins, WV 26241

Re:

Gwendolyn A. Ice (Deceased, Mansfield Place)

Dear Broaddus Hospital,

I recently received a medical bill for my deceased mother, which you reissued in my name. The stated amount is $1979.89. I am Gwendolyn’s oldest son and was appointed by the court to manage her financial affairs, as conservator, while she remained at Mansfield Place. That responsibility has now concluded.

Gwendolyn was on Medicaid. She qualified due to having no assets. When she died, there was no estate.

With regret, I must say on behalf of my family that Gwendolyn left no funds to satisfy this debt.

Thanks for your kind attention in this matter.

Sincerely,

RDI, 4-09-20

I had no idea of what might follow my correspondence. Though being turned over to another collection agency, or perhaps even legal action, seemed possible. I remembered the hospital sending a letter at one point after my father’s death, stating that their standard policy was to pursue every delinquency with gusto. A note that soured my stomach, but kept me firmly fixed on handling the details. Their enforcement activity actually shielded me against the pain of loss.

Strangely, I felt comforted. Perhaps because the experience was so familiar. I imagined Dad speaking into a gold telephone, while sitting with Jesus, Mom, and our grandparents, in Heaven:

“I will send you five dollars, on Monday!”

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024