Claim Appeal

In America, healthcare is less of a right and more of a gamble. Claim Appeal is an ongoing photo series on the dissonance of receiving inadequate medical care followed by straining costs—or even the denial of coverage by one's health insurance.

I find a lot of agency and creativity in sequencing photos. Though half of these images were clinical from conception, I found that they extended their cold and elusive nature to images I'd otherwise write off as unrelated. Altogether, they replicate the grating nature of seeking medical help, only to negotiate, settle, or even neglect one's well-being entirely. American healthcare is exhausting by design, and in the face of this well-known reality comes a paradox: an aversion to care when it's needed most.

As a transgender man, seeking healthcare feels more vulnerable than necessary. Whether I'm scheduling an appointment or checking in for one, I never know if the person I'm speaking to has my best interests in mind once they see my legal name or gender marker. Simultaneously, I can't help but find hospital visits a dissociative experience as I'm repeatedly reminded of my anatomy. Pregnancy and the possibility of it are raised time and time again. I know that this is done out of safety, and yet, those questions feel more anticipatory than hypothetical when I sit in that quiet, chilled office.

On that exam table, mind and body are separate. The former is mature, reserved, and stern, giving whatever answers will allow you to leave. The latter is pliable and unpredictable; control cannot be exercised over the body, so it's ceded the moment you hear a knock.

You can't remember everything they did, but none of it checks out on paper. It can't be worth this much. You call and call and hear the same 2-hour wait time over the same muzak. The woman on the other end doesn't know how to help you. You don't know how to help either, so you tell her everything.

The bill doesn't change. You can't imagine why it mattered to be seen. You need to schedule your follow-up. You don't.

They stop calling about it. You forget about it until it hurts again. It doesn't hurt enough to move you. Not yet anyway. The moment it stops, you wonder if that stretch of flesh could forgive you for all the times you cursed it.

The next wave comes, and you book the next appointment, but all you can think about is the success and expense of the last one. Are you gonna file an appeal for this one, too?