The Treatment of Kenny Farnsworth
For much of a decade, he called 911 routinely for an endless list of medical issues. Now he has an endless stack of bills he is unlikely to ever pay. So what's the diagnosis?
By Dave Jamieson
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Eight miles north of the U.S. Capitol, in Silver Spring, there is an office trailer on a tow lot where the telephone rings throughout the day. As one would expect, a lot of the calls come from stranded drivers who need a tow or a jump-start. But these days, most of the calls tend to come from debt collectors -- both human and automated -- searching doggedly for Ken Farnsworth, a chronically ill hospital regular known to first responders and nurses across the Washington area. A decade in and out of emergency rooms has turned Farnsworth into a wanted man.
Seated in an office chair one summer afternoon, Farnsworth stares at the receiver as the line lights up during a string of calls. "That phone never stops ringing," he says, shaking his head as the call goes to voice mail.
Farnsworth is a short and squat 59-year-old who walks like a man in search of a cane. His paunch hangs over his belt, and his eyes blink slowly behind horn-rimmed bifocals. He could easily be mistaken for a retired firefighter, thanks to the clothing he wears daily -- a matching Washington, D.C., fire department hat and T-shirt, in honor of the men and women who have treated his array of health problems over the years. Farnsworth has no home of his own, so the office trailer is one of a few places where he's been known to crash now and again, with the owner's permission. He lives out of two duffel bags that are stuffed with a few pairs of clothes, some toiletries, and his most recent medical bills and conditions' diagnoses.
The medical claims are too much for Farnsworth to keep up with. They arrive by the bundle every week. The bills come from just about every hospital in the Washington area, as well as from the collection agencies that handle overdue accounts for those hospitals. Farnsworth even has a tab with the D.C. government, which is trying to recoup money he owes it for the countless ambulance rides he has taken.
"I guess I wore out my welcome a long time ago," he says, managing a laugh.
He opens most of the letters and tries to sort through his debts, but the numbers have become too abstract -- "unfathomable" is how he puts it. He piles the bills into neat stacks until they become too unwieldy, then he stuffs them into grocery bags.
Eventually, when he starts to face reality, he throws the overflowing bags into the trash.
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