Wouldn’t you know it, to close out 2020, I got sent to collections! How’s that for a fitting end to this effing year?
Not surprisingly, the alleged incident involves a February ER run and mishandled insurance claims. Admittedly, as the point person for this particular bill, I dropped the ball. I confused the physician statement with the hospital one, assuming they were the same, as they were both outrageously expensive and within $50 of each other. And because I was preoccupied with my dad dying from cancer and the intensifying COVID-19 pandemic, I pretty much ignored the perpetual flood of statements for most of the summer, thinking insurance would ultimately take care of it. If only it had been filed correctly!
When the first “pink slip” arrived in August, I immediately sought to remedy the situation. I spoke with insurance directly, set up a payment plan, and even signed up for auto-draft so I wouldn’t forget to pay. But for whatever reason, none of this was communicated to one of the health care providers, which obviously proceeded with collections.
The kicker is, we only discovered the debacle because the interest rate on yet another student loan I was co-signing (so our oldest could return to an exorbitantly priced in-state school, mind you) came back at 13 percent! Thirteen! My husband, Doo, applied and was offered 6 percent. What the what!
Now, I’ve been financially blackballed. Fiscally shamed. Deemed unworthy of a respectable credit score. Seems about right, given the apocalypse. Thank goodness I only have to survive a few more days before I can legitimately say, “Farewell, 2020, you stupid effing year!”