Loose ends, small victories.

There are many small indignities that have come with life after Mila died.  One of them was receiving, after several weeks of trying to piece my heart and mind and life back together, a $3,000 bill in the mail from the hospital.  For the stillbirth of my daughter.

I’ve never been charged so much, for something I wanted so little.

I get that even in a stillbirth, doctors and nurses and hospital resources need to be paid for.  As bitter as this is, I can live with it and it makes sense to me.  The medical staff at my hospital took great care of me, and it’s not their fault that Mila died.  However, folded into that $3,000 balance I found a line item that was a slap in the face: a $500 penalty from my insurance company for not notifying them of my hospital admission within the required two-day window.

Two days?  Two days?  I spent the forty-eight hours after my admission to the hospital laboring, giving birth to my daughter, saying hello to her, saying goodbye to her forever, calling our family members and friends with the news and crying anew every time, and picking out her fucking funeral home.  Forty-eight hours after my admission, my milk hadn’t even come in yet.  Can somebody tell me when in that two-day span of time I was supposed to review my insurance policy’s fee schedule?

Earlier this week I asked my OB to write a letter supporting my case that I could enclose in an appeal to my insurance company.  I just received a copy of it, and boy did she deliver.  Four paragraphs of obscure medical terms, righteous anger, and professorial disapproval.  I kind of love her right now.  When it sometimes still feels like the universe is against us, or has forgotten us, it’s nice to have an ally in this fight.