The latest and last-for-now hospital bill had finally arrived, so I could file for bankruptcy. I knew the full extent of my indebtedness to all three hospitals where my seven surgeries had taken place. The last one wasn’t awful, in and of itself—under two thousand dollars for the half day required for an outpatient surgery. It covered the nice woman at the reception desk, the pre-op nurse, the bed and its warming system, the drugs (though not the anesthesiologist’s service), the use of the operating room and its equipment and personnel, the post-op nurse, the discharge folks. And of course basic stuff like helping to pay for the electricity and running water. A bargain, really.

I didn’t and don’t begrudge them this. They earned it, and this bill was only a small portion of what the services would have cost on the open market. The original total charge was $13,341.47, which my insurance company whittled away because this hospital is in their network. Which means I won’t drop insurance yet—the almost twelve thousand dollar difference for just this one statement makes it cost-effective. If I can’t pay even the bill I received, how could I hope to ever repay $13,000? And I’m mindful of the fact that I have needed one of these surgeries annually since they found the cancer.

This hospital offers a partial payment plan—I would have to call to set it up, just as I had done with the other two hospitals. One of them didn’t charge interest, but the other did. I was new to this hospital (what a way to begin the relationship!), so I didn’t know what their policy was. They offered financial assistance, but I was not at or below the federal poverty guidelines.

They also presented the option, as all these invoices do, to pay with Mastercard, Visa, Discover, or American Express. I once had all those cards, but they’re no longer an option.

Going into surgery, I knew that I had been advised to include this bill with the bankruptcy. I felt, and still feel, fraudulent about this. My lawyer’s advice sheet states plainly Do not use credit cards within 90 days of filing! What about surgery 90 days before filing? The healthcare system is still broken. The hospital and I will both go on; I’m the only one who feels guilty and broken.

Broken, not just physically with cancer, but broken because I can’t do math and don’t care about money. If I were living in an ancient African civilization, I might have been able to care about cowrie shells—they’re pretty and tactile, a great form of currency. But paper money (invented by the Chinese, by the way) especially with pictures of dead presidents and statesmen, nary a woman in sight, all of it green, without even a variation of color as Canadian money has, or interesting birds or flowers as some Caribbean paper money depicts, just doesn’t do it for me.