OPEN LETTERS

An Open Letter to the Unopened Letters Piling Up in My House

Other countries do health care so much better than you

Dear Unopened letters,

I hoped you’d get the hint when I didn’t open the first one. Oooh, this looks important with that fancy return address including the hospital logo and a crinkly see-through window showing my name.

I guess I can’t put this in the recycling with all the rest of the junk mail. I’ll set you down here to deal with you later.

I mean, I don’t really need to open you to know what you’re going to say. We’ve been there so many times in the past, haven’t we? Our relationship goes back years and it’s always the same.

I try to stay away from your home as much as possible but sometimes I just can’t help it. I establish the ground rules as soon as I arrive. Look, I know you are going to make me pay for this. I get that, and it’s only fair after all. You are meeting my important needs at this moment.

But ouch, visiting your house costs a lot. This is why money flies out of my paycheck every month to these other people who have agreed to pay you so I don’t have to. Every time I visit you, I tell you about my friends who pay the bills.

It’s not like you’re surprised. It’s the first question I’m asked when I walk in the door. You want to know about my paying friends before you even ask why I visited. Frankly, that stings a bit, but I get it. It’s just the way you roll.

We agree together — me in pain, you just doing your job — you will go to my friends and ask them to pay you. Maybe they won’t send you everything you need. These friends aren’t perfect. Nobody ever claimed they were.

So I agree, there at the desk in pain and begging for your help, ask my friends first and I’ll cover what they can’t. We agreed! Both of us! Remember? I gave you all their contact information. Again. Just like the last time I visited even though nothing has changed. I make sure you have everything correct in the system.

This is why I ignore you, unopened letter from the hospital. I’ve been burned too many times before. I’ve opened letters that look just like you in the past.

“Hey, remember that time you visited me. I need you to pay for it. NOW. Or yesterday. Yesterday would be better. Thanks, you’re very special to me.”

You don’t mention my friend at all. It’s clear you never bothered to talk to them.

Why? Why do you do this every time?

The first time you arrived in the mail I opened you immediately. “This is weird,” I said to myself and called you right away.

For someone who keeps coming to my house, you aren’t very good at answering calls on your home turf. Sometimes it takes hours for me to reach a person willing to talk about you.

“We asked your friend and they ghosted us,” you tell me once I finally get through.

I call my friend. “Why did you do me wrong like this?” I ask after hours of robot prompts and hold music have been endured.

“It’s not me,” says my friend. “You know I’ve got your back. They never asked me. I haven’t heard a peep from them. As soon as they ask I’ll send them the money. You know I’m good for it.”

I call your house back. You look things up. I try to be polite, patient, and persistent.

“We did ask your friend.”

“How did you ask my friend? Where?” You give me an address from five years ago.

I correct your error just like I corrected your error last time this happened. I never go into your house without checking and double-checking you have my friend's address correct.

“I’ll send this off to your friend then and see what they say,” you tell me.

The first time we did this dance, I opened you when you next arrived, eager for proof the whole thing was sorted.

“Hey, remember that time you visited me. It was kind of a long time ago now. Why haven’t you paid for it? Please pay NOW. Thanks, you’re very special to me.”

You still haven’t asked my friend. I call. I wait on hold.

“We did ask,” you say.

“What address?” I say. You give the five-year-old address I’ve corrected a bazillion times.

“Oh, no problem,” you say cheerfully. “It’s fixed now. We’ll ask again at the correct address.”

So forgive me for ignoring you. Forgive me for letting you pile up in the stack of important stuff to deal with sometime that is not now.

You keep coming. You always keep coming. Eventually, I cave and open one of you. I call. The script is the same.

“We’ve got it right this time,” the warm voice assures me. They do not.

You arrive again and keep arriving as I let you pile up until a time I have the energy to be aggravated again.

Frankly, I’ve moved on. I’m in a country now where I don’t need friends to pay these kinds of bills. When I’m in pain I walk in and get asked first what I need not how will I pay. There are no letters later threatening to bankrupt me.

This is the way it should be. Most civilized countries do it this way. You shouldn’t even need to exist, unopened letters cluttering my house.

I’ll admit it isn’t perfect. There was that thing a while back where my new pain pals said, “Hey, we are kinda busy with this whole global pandemic thing. So please, please don’t visit unless you are dying or something.”

Fair enough. I can wait. Plus they came up with a plan B. “Look, we are still too busy for minor stuff but hey, here’s how you can do video calls with a doctor. Book online and everything.”

Frankly, this was a win-win for my needs. Health care without leaving my home? Sold!

And most importantly, no letters leaping through the mail slot and cluttering my house.

So our relationship is over. You can’t keep pursuing me like this. It’s kind of pathetic you know. I’ve found someone new.

I get that I’m still legally responsible to pay you off. I suppose like any divorce I’m not free of you until all the bills are paid even if you are making it difficult by not doing your part correctly.

So you’ll keep coming. I’ll keep ignoring, caving, calling, and being disappointed when you once again fail to do the thing you promised to do and then have the gall to get mad at me about it.

When will it all end?

Mary

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