CHAPTER 10

FEELING RIPPED OFF

January 2007 arrived, and we had been anxiously waiting for Mateo’s appointment at the end of the month. This time we would see a different oncologist and maybe get some answers. Todd and I were back to work full-time, as was Chris.

Every morning before work, I found myself waking up and checking in on Mateo, first thing. Routinely, silently, I would kiss him “Good-bye, I love you,” as I left the house. Every day upon waking up, he would call me at my desk to say “Good morning, Stinks.” Daily I found myself secretly paying closer attention to see if Mateo showed signs of any physical or mental changes. Daily I reminded myself of the shattering fact that my son was going to die from brain cancer; it was just a matter of when. I knew the best thing I could do was to be strong and focus on him—his wants and needs.

Sometime in mid-January, I arrived home from a busy work day to walk in to Mateo’s smiling face, dinner cooking on the stove.

“Hi, Mommy,” he said cheerfully, moving about the kitchen. “I cooked dinner tonight.”

“Ah, yeah, I see that,” I laughed. “What are you cooking?”

“A new recipe,” he answered, with an inherited twinkle in his eyes.

“A new recipe, huh?” Suspicion laced my words. I was not only a small eater but my personal menu also did not include much variety, a fact he was well aware of.

“Yeah,” he answered, seeing my suspicion grow. “It’s chicken!” He began laughing.

“Mateo,” I began, a smile creeping over my lips. “You know your dad does not like chicken.”

“Well, too bad. He’s just going to have to get over it, because I was reading, and I need to be eating better. Here, Mommy, sit down.” He pulled the chair out from under the table and patted it. “I made you a fresh pot of coffee, and here’s the mail. Dinner will be ready pretty soon.” Then off he went to join his brother who had come home early that day.

I sat at the table, a hot cup of coffee and a small stack of mail in front of me. Taking a relaxed sip of the belly-warming liquid, I began to go through the multi-colored, assorted envelopes. One of the envelopes that caught my immediate attention was a bill from the contractor who had remodeled our kitchen.

Tearing the envelop open, I noticed the papers inside were copies of the “Estimated Replacement Costs” the contractor had submitted to our insurance company. A quick perusal showed that the only change from the original paper work was an additional page, indicating a total amount of the actual work to be over $17,000. The insurance company would cover $14,000, leaving us to come up with an additional over $3,000.

My calm, relaxed demeanor instantly vanished. At the same time, Todd walked through the door from work.

“Hey. What’s wrong now?” he asked as he walked passed me and kept going out to the garage to place his work things down, irritated.

Within a matter of seconds, he had returned and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. Without saying a word, I handed him the papers from the envelope and awaited his reaction.

“What’s this?” He began flipping through the pages. “Yeah? So, what’s this?”

“It’s what the contractor calls a bill,” I stated flatly. “Check out the last page.”

Watching Todd’s eyes grow bigger as he reviewed the amount charged, I began my rant.

“First of all, we need an itemized bill showing us the materials used, how much was bought, material costs, labor costs separated . . . You know, itemized!” I continued. “How in the world can they charge us $1,000 for “demolition” and “removal,” when we did the demolition and removal ourselves? Look at what they did. They replaced solid oak cabinets with cheap ones, put the cabinet doors on backwards, the counter top isn’t level, and they charged us for a new stove that we already bought, out-of-pocket. And don’t even get me started on the kitchen floor that is six inches too short. You needed to oversee that kitchen, Todd. I told you I didn’t have time or energy to take care of Mateo and the contractors.”

“Maybe we should just pay them. If we don’t, they could take us to court, and we don’t have time for that stuff right now,” he answered.

“When do you think I’ve got time to call this guy? I work, ya know?” Mumbling under his breath, he retreated to the garage for the night.

Not wanting to argue, I grudgingly decided to make the call myself when I came home from work the next day, to request an “itemized” bill.

The next week we received a second envelope containing the same pages as before, with the “demolition and removal” fees removed but 35 percent materials pick-up fee added. Total cost was still over $17,000.

I made a third call, explaining explicitly what I wanted, only to receive a third copy of the same. My energy and focus needed to be on my son and his illness. Instead, it was being drawn away, and I couldn’t allow that. Time was a precious commodity to the family now. I sat down and wrote the check in full.