Papers

Today I go through a mountain of papers. Why do I never throw anything away? One filing cabinet is filled with medical records, insurance forms; and correspondence between myself, and doctors, and the aforementioned insurance companies. The files start with Colby's upper respiratory infections and strep, and move to asthma (age 3) and to his sulfa allergy. That happened when he was five. Colby was prescribed a sulfa drug for strep and became partially paralyzed from the waist down. That was a little scary. Fortunately the effects only lasted about five days.

Then we move to depression (age 8), anxiety and behavior difficulties in school (age 10), the diagnosis of dysgraphia, a learning difference that affects writing, math calculation, organization and knot tying (age 11). At 12 there were panic attacks and at 15, anorexia (yes, boys get that, too). There was also mood disorder at 15 and that's when the long-term hospital stays began. A week here, ten days there, a month, four months. From 17 to 18 he rallied some, was on regular meds, had good medical care. Then the diagnosis of schizophrenia and the cancellation of not just his insurance policy, but the closing of the entire division of that insurance company.

Now I see the applications for new insurance and all the rejection letters. There are a ton of them, one from every major insurance carrier in the state, and they all say variations of the same thing. "Due to pre-existing conditions . . ." "Because of extensive hospital stays . . ." "Considering the mental instability . . ." "Because of the . . ."

After that I find receipts where I paid out of pocket for what I could. The amount of money spent is staggering. But it wasn't enough. I could not afford the more expensive testing they wanted to do, the hospital stays, and because of this Colby's mental state deteriorated. I couldn't get him to go to the dentist, to walk into the doctor's office. If I had known then what the future held I would have sold my house, lived in the truck, done anything. Anything . . .

I keep some of the papers, throw most of them away. The papers fill a large trash can and clean out the majority of the filing cabinet.  I refill the space with Colby's autopsy report, findings from the attorney who looked into his death, and information from his celebration of life. The drawer is, once again, full.