“When I was filling your prescription, I ran a routine check through our system. Your medication was prescribed to you once before about 8 years ago at our sister location.”
“8 years ago?”
I would have been 14.
“The notes in our system indicate there was an urgent warning attached to that prescription. Something about critical risk classification, but when I checked your current file, your risk level is marked as low.”
“I don’t understand. How can that be?”
“That’s what concerned me. So I did some digging. Someone with portal access changed your risk classification last week. Changed it from critical to low. That’s not something that happens accidentally.”
The parking lot seemed to tilt.
“Someone deliberately downgraded how serious my condition is.”
“I can’t speculate on intent, but yes, the classification was changed. And because of that change, your current prescription wasn’t flagged as urgent when your parents picked up the—”
He paused.
“Wait, did you say your parents didn’t pick this up? They never went to the pharmacy.”
“Oh.”
A beat.
“Oh no, Miss Patterson. When someone with portal access changes a risk classification and then doesn’t pick up a critical medication, that raises serious red flags. I think you need to document this. This might be medical neglect.”
Medical neglect. The words hung in the air like smoke.
“Who changed my classification?”
“The access log shows it was done from your father’s portal account.”
I don’t remember driving back to campus. One minute I was in the hospital parking lot. The next I was sitting in my dorm room staring at my laptop screen. I logged into my patient portal, something I’d barely ever used because my parents always handled medical stuff for me. I created a new password because I’d forgotten the old one. I waited for the verification email. When I finally got in, I went straight to the activity log. My father’s account had accessed my file six times in the last month. Each time he’d made changes, removed flags, downgraded urgency markers, edited symptom notes I’d entered. One entry showed he’d actually changed my reported symptoms from severe and worsening to mild and intermittent. He’d literally rewritten my medical history to make me seem less sick than I was.
A memory surfaced, sharp and clear this time. I was maybe 15, sitting on the edge of a hospital bed. A doctor, a woman with kind eyes, was talking to my parents in the hallway. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could see my father’s face—angry, defensive. My mother was crying. Then my father came back in and said,
“Get dressed. We’re leaving.”
“The doctor doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
We left. I don’t remember ever going back, but I must have, because my files said I had multiple appointments over the next year. Appointments I have almost no memory of. What else had they hidden from me? What else had they convinced me didn’t happen?
My phone rang again. Mom. I answered this time, but I didn’t speak.
“Lena.”
Her voice was raw, like she’d been crying.
“Please, we need to talk in person. There are things you need to understand.”
“I understand plenty.”
“That you and Dad have been lying to me for years. That you used money meant for my healthcare on Ava. That Dad has been accessing my medical files and changing them to make me seem less sick.”
Silence. Long enough that I thought she’d hung up.
“How did you find out?” she whispered finally.
“Does it matter? It’s true, isn’t it?”
“It’s not. It’s more complicated than that.”
“Try me. I’ve got time.”
