Dad's Dead, but the Hospital Wants Payment

I ended the call and pulled out the invoice I'd received from the hospital before Dad was discharged, specifically going through the list of medications they'd used. The record came to an abrupt stop yesterday when he'd taken his last breath.

In his final days, he'd only been receiving a basic glucose IV drip. The doctors hadn't used any sort of expensive medication on him.

The nerve of that woman from the hospital to claim that we owed the hospital 246 thousand dollars. Scoffing, I didn't bother paying any further attention to this matter.

However, within seconds, I got a call from the same landline number. This time, I didn't bother taking it. My phone kept ringing for over 15 minutes before I received a text message.

"Stop ignoring our calls, Carl Stone! To think that a man your age would behave so atrociously! How dare you act like you're in the right when you owe the hospital money?"

Taking a deep breath, I typed out a reply.

"Carl Stone has passed away. This is his son, Evan Stone. My father's hospital bill was settled when the hospital released his body. Kindly be more thorough when verifying your records."

I only bothered sending this message to ensure that I had evidence to back myself up.

Besides, the hospital had completed its end of the paperwork for Dad's death certificate. Weren't their systems connected internally? How could they claim we owed them money when he was already dead? That made no sense at all.

Unexpectedly, moments after I sent that message, the hospital called me again. As soon as I answered the call, a piercing female voice shrieked at me, "Evan Stone! How can you be so shameless? How dare you refuse to pay up just because your father's dead?

"I'm warning you—if you don't clear the outstanding payment, we'll report you to the police! You think you can just act like some deadbeat defaulter? I'll make sure everyone knows that about you!"

Maintaining my composure, I asked, "What's your name?"

"That's none of your business! You owe the hospital 246 thousand dollars, and not a single cent less!"

She dropped the call on me.

Well, I wasn't going to play nice either. I blocked the number outright.

In our family, we usually held a wake for three days, giving enough time for our friends and family to pay their final respects.

Some of our relatives who had already come over overheard the calls and asked me what was going on. I didn't go into detail, only saying that the hospital was calling to demand payment. No one pressed for more details.

I assumed that once the hospital staff checked their system, they'd realize there had been a mistake. I had a wake to run and a funeral to plan, so I put my phone on silent.

By nighttime, all of our relatives had come over. After settling them into hotel rooms for the night, I finally went home—only to find that I'd received over 100 missed calls and several 100 messages.

Every single one was from the hospital, each message more profane than the last. Just seeing the words alone allowed me to imagine just how furious the person who typed those messages was.

But I simply ignored all the curses and insult-laden messages.

To my absolute shock, the next morning, a friend of mine sent me a video.

"Evan, why aren't you paying what you owe? The hospital has exposed you online. They're saying you're a deadbeat who's refusing to pay up and that they've already reported you to the police! You need to settle things with them before the situation gets even more out of hand."

The moment I watched the video, I almost had an aneurysm.

It'd been shot at the payment counter of Central Hospital, and a woman in her 30s, wearing a white coat, looked at the camera with red eyes.

"Evan Stone, your father, Carl Stone, received treatment at our hospital. However, you secretly took him away and still haven't paid the remaining 246 thousand dollars in medical fees that you owe the hospital.

"If you don't make the full payment, we'll have to cover it with money from our own pockets! Please, I'm begging you. We're just ordinary working people. Don't make things difficult for me!"

As she cried pitifully in front of the camera, she played what she claimed was a recording from one of our calls. "Stop calling me! My dad's dead. You can forget about getting a cent from me!"

It sounded like my voice—but I'd never said anything like that. The audio recording had clearly been doctored.

However, the online community believed her claims, and I was besieged with a tidal wave of verbal abuse and accusations.

Before long, my phone was spammed with calls. Some people even dug up my personal information and sent funeral wreaths to Dad's wake.

Dad probably never would've thought that, after his death, we'd receive over 30 funeral wreaths—only it was my name, not his, that was written as the deceased person's name.

Mom paled in fright at the sight. "Evan? What is—"

"I'll handle this, Mom."