On June 24, 2026, I had breast cancer surgery.
At my post-operative appointment on July 2, my surgeon cleared me for the next phase of treatment: radiation.
On July 10—happy birthday to me—I met with a radiation oncologist. She explained the treatment process, what to expect, and the possible side effects. I listened. I asked questions. I understood the assignment.
I was all in and “readt tah go,” as we say.
Then, the following week, my primary care physician called and asked why I was no longer under his care.
What?
I had not changed doctors. I had not changed medical groups. I had not changed insurance plans. I had not authorized anyone to make decisions about my healthcare.
But someone had.
Upon further investigation, I learned that a Medicare agent had stolen my identity and changed my healthcare plan without my knowledge or consent.
Let me say that again: While I was recovering from breast cancer surgery and preparing for radiation, someone fraudulently interfered with my Medicare coverage.
The result was immediate and devastating.
Not one member of my cancer care team was available under the new plan. Not my surgeon. Not my radiation oncologist. Not one.
Appointments began disappearing one by one as medical offices tried to verify insurance information that no longer matched what they had on file. If I wanted to continue treatment while the mess was being untangled, I would have to pay out of pocket.
A standard course of breast radiation can cost thousands of dollars—roughly $7,300 to more than $10,000. Since I have been unable to work normally while recovering from surgery and fighting this bureaucratic dumpster fire, paying cash was never a realistic option.
So, my trusted Medicare agent and I pulled out our boxing gloves, grabbed the stressful snacks—not the healthy ones—and got to work.
That was in mid-July.
Coverage Restored. Treatment Still Denied.
By late August, my insurance coverage had finally been restored. I believed I could return to my original cancer care team and continue treatment.
That belief lasted about five minutes.
I met with my primary care physician, who assured me that his office would generate the authorizations necessary for me to resume care with my radiation oncologist. At that point, I thought I was simply waiting for the oncology office to call with my treatment dates.
Within a week, everything was fouled up again.
The radiation oncology office called to say I was not covered through my medical group. We investigated together, found the correct insurance information, and appeared to clear the problem.
Then came the next blow. The radiation practice had undergone changes—it even had a new name—and was no longer in my network.
After weeks of fighting to recover my stolen coverage, I still could not return to the doctors who knew my case.
Back to the beginning.
Again.
Stop Fighting the System, They Said
My Medicare agent and I finally decided to stop trying to force access to my former team. I loved those doctors, but the system had made them inaccessible.
Fine.
Let’s go with the flow.
Assign me a new radiation oncologist. Send me somewhere else. At this point, continuity of care had already been sacrificed on the altar of insurance bureaucracy. I simply wanted treatment to begin.
I received an authorization in early September—but it was dated July 16. Remember that date. The authorization number ended in 0014. Remember that number.
I called the new radiation center to schedule. They reviewed the authorization and told me they could not proceed because it had been issued by the wrong provider group.
I was instructed to contact my PCP and ask them to create an authorization from my Medicare plan, not the group plan.
This was the Friday before Labor Day.
Knowing that a three-day weekend was approaching—and knowing exactly how easily an urgent request can disappear into an administrative black hole—I went to my primary care physician’s office in person.
I arrived around 2:00 p.m. and could practically feel the daggers coming from staff members who appeared ready to coast into their holiday weekend.
I did not care. I could not care. I do not have the luxury of caring in that way. Cancer does not stop progressing because somebody wants to leave early.
I explained the entire situation. Again.
The referral department submitted a request for a new authorization. I specifically asked that it be marked URGENT because my surgical pathology showed lymphovascular invasion—a finding that makes timely follow-up care especially important.
I was assured that a new referral was being requested from my Medicare provider and would be cleared shortly. Then everyone went home for the holiday.
The Same Useless Authorization—Recycled
On Tuesday, after offices reopened, my Medicare agent and I called for a status update. We held a three-way call with the referral department at my primary care physician’s office. The three of us agreed that we needed to bring my Medicare provider onto the call.
We attempted a four-way call. My Medicare provider never answered. Nevertheless, the referral representative (in my PCP's office) said she had would process a “new” authorization and would push it through for a speedy resolution.
Later that day, I received it. It was dated July 16. It ended in 0014. Remember? It was the exact same authorization the radiation center had already rejected.
Nothing had been corrected. Nothing had been reconsidered. Nothing had changed.
Some lazy-ass fucker apparently pushed the same authorization through again without reading the copious notes, understanding the problem, or giving one damn about the human being waiting on the other side of that paperwork.
A human being with breast cancer.
A human being approaching three months post-surgery.
A human being still waiting for the next phase of prescribed cancer treatment.
This Is Not a “Glitch.” It Is Administrative Violence.
We are constantly told to advocate for ourselves.
I have advocated. I have called. I have waited on hold. I have shown up in person. I have repeated the same story until I am sick of hearing my own voice.
I have tracked authorizations, dates, provider groups, medical networks, reference numbers, and office conversations while recovering from major surgery and living with the knowledge that my cancer treatment remains unfinished.
What else, exactly, am I supposed to do?
Should I process the authorization myself? Should I walk it from office to office? Should I stand over someone’s desk and watch as they type?
At what point does “patient advocacy” become a convenient excuse for making sick people perform unpaid administrative labor just to receive the healthcare their doctors have already determined they need?
This is not merely incompetence. It is administrative violence.
Nobody has to strike you to harm you. Nobody has to raise their voice. They can injure you quietly—with an incorrect code, an unread note, an unanswered telephone, a recycled authorization, or one careless press of a button.
Every delay has consequences. Every cancelled appointment matters. Every employee who fails to read the file contributes to the delay.
And every system that forces a cancer patient to spend weeks fighting for authorized treatment is a broken system—whether that failure comes from fraud, incompetence, indifference, or all three.
Where Things Stand Today
Today, I am approaching three months post-operation. My radiation treatment has not begun. I still do not have a usable authorization.
And I will undoubtedly spend another day making calls, sitting on hold, repeating dates, correcting errors, and explaining the same damned situation to people who will treat it like routine paperwork.
It is not routine paperwork to me. This is my body. This is my health. This is my life.
I am angry. I am exhausted. I am frustrated. I am near tears. None of these states is typical for me, but nothing about this experience should be considered normal or acceptable.
Thank MotherFatherGoddess for my Medicare agent, who has walked beside me through this fight every single day. Without that support, I cannot imagine where I would be.
Believe me when I say: You cannot make this shit up.
And yet, here I am—still alive, still fighting, and still demanding the cancer treatment I should have received months ago.