Two days later, I found myself standing in the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway of the hospital, waiting for my appointment with the billing manager. The air was filled with a quiet hum, punctuated by the occasional beep of a heart monitor from a nearby room. I clutched a folder containing all the bills and letters I’d collected over the past week, a tangible representation of the financial web I was only beginning to untangle.
« Mrs. Nguyen, » a voice called, breaking the monotony. I looked up to see a woman in a crisp, white blouse and glasses perched on the edge of her nose. « Follow me, please. »
In the small, windowless office, I was offered a seat across from her desk. The manager, Ms. Carter, glanced at my folder with a professional curiosity. « I understand you’re concerned about the billing process, » she said, her tone neutral.
« Yes, » I replied, opening the folder to reveal the documents. « I want to know why I wasn’t informed about these bills. My spouse was hospitalized for weeks, and I had no idea about these charges. »
Ms. Carter nodded, her fingers tapping lightly on the keyboard as she pulled up the account. « It seems your spouse requested all financial communication to be directed to them alone. It’s not uncommon, but I understand your concern. »
I suppressed a sigh. « I need to be involved in these decisions. Can we change this? »
Ms. Carter looked at me, her expression softening slightly. « We can update the preferences, but it will require your spouse’s approval. »
I left the office with a mix of relief and frustration, knowing this was only the first step.
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