The thing with single mothers is – we don’t get to fall apart.
We convince ourselves we’re superwomen. I did. I wasn’t the type to fall sick. I wouldn’t allow it. I ran the house, cooked the meals, handled my daughter’s tuition, ran errands, ran my work, ran myself into the ground if I had to – but never, ever stopped.
I didn’t go to the hospital thinking I was dying.
I went in for gallbladder pain. A pain that had caught me unawares, a week after my daughter’s final twelfth-grade exams were over in May 2025. Since the tenth grade, life was all about studying, exams, internal assessments, and all kinds of projects, non-projects. So when her exams got over, I thought it was party time. My daughter and I were ready to go to our favourite retreat: the mountains of Dharamsala. We had even secured an appointment with His Holiness the Dalai Lama. We had plans, but then we discovered life had other plans.
The first time the pain came, I blamed the namkeen. New flavour, weekend indulgence — it made sense. Or maybe I’d just eaten something off. Happens, right? But by night, I wasn’t just uncomfortable — I was being hunted.
Nausea. Vomiting. Diarrhea. And a sharp, pulsing demon under my right rib. No painkiller worked. It clung to me like an obsessed lover who had finally found where I was hiding.
The next day I consulted my father’s friend, a medical specialist and very well-known doctor in Jaipur. He gave me some medicines and slowly the pain subsided. I thought it was done with me. I kept taking the medicines and preparing for the trip. However, the next weekend (why this pain was obsessed with the weekend, I don’t know) it was worse. Again, the entire night was spent in retching, nausea, loose motions. This time my father took me to a nearby hospital for ultrasound and the verdict was clear: I had gallstones, and the biggest was 13 mm. But the doctor said gallstone surgeries are as common as drinking water. I nodded as I smiled. A thousand thoughts racing in my head.
After a lot of advice from friends and family, and locating a surgeon who was known for gallbladder surgeries, I walked into the ER at one of the best-rated hospitals in Jaipur. The pain was real — dull, then sharp, then constant. I couldn’t lie on my side. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t even breathe too deep without that rock in my gut reminding me who was in charge.
The doctor sat across from me, with his eyes trained not on me, but on the numbers in his file. He didn’t speak much. Then he said, “Get admitted.” My mother and I stared at each other. The word hung in the air like a gavel — not shouted, not explained, just declared. My mother, who had accompanied me, said, “Can we come back again?” He looked at her and said, “Then find another doctor if you don’t trust me.”
And in the driest, most clinical tone, he said:
“Your gallbladder needs removal and it is not going to wait. Get admitted.”
An operation? People said it was an easy surgery, but an operation is still something where you are knocked out from anaesthesia and nothing is in your control. Did I have a choice? I was caught between the devil and the deep sea. Going back home, the pain would return to haunt me like some Ramsay Brothers movie. I smiled for my mother (but inside I was bargaining with fear) and said, “Let’s do it.”
“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “You have insurance. That’s why we paid all those premiums. This is what they’re meant for – a day like this.”
What she didn’t say but we all felt was the unsurety of it all. I was about 90 kgs at the time. My body rhythm was off, I would eat junk anytime of the day, I would eat as many rotis and as much rice as I wanted. Every now and then I would order food from Zomato and eat it regardless of the timing.
When the doctor came to visit me before the surgery, he did not mince his words:
“You have high blood pressure, diabetes and you are obese. There is a two to three percent chance that you may not survive this surgery.”
I looked at my mother who tried to show her brave face and I signed the bond.
I had no idea that what would follow wasn’t just surgery… but a system that would punish me for surviving it.
I am writing the second part now after six months — after winning the case against the insurance company.
PART 2 — WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AFTER THE SURGERY
If you’ve ever believed insurance companies are on your side, let my experience correct you.
My claim wasn’t rejected once.
It wasn’t rejected twice.
It wasn’t rejected by accident.
It was rejected because the insurer thought they had found the perfect reason to deny it forever.
They found one line on my old hospital record — craniosynostosis — something recorded by a doctor during my earlier June admission, something the insurer had already SEEN and APPROVED in a previous claim, something I never hid, something that has nothing to do with a gallbladder.
Not a disease, but a condition I wasn’t even aware of, because I was a three-month-old infant at the time. I came to know about this from my mother during my first hospitalisation when she mentioned it to the doctor. The best part? It wasn’t related to the gallbladder at all.
And yet, they decided this was their loophole.
They sent me a rejection saying I had not “disclosed” this condition.
A condition that was literally written on their own approved file.
I appealed. I sent the documents, the affidavits by the doctors who were treating me. I explained. I pointed out the timeline. They rejected again.
I escalated to IRDAI — the place people believe will fix everything. IRDAI closed my complaint in the insurer’s favour.
The insurer actually wrote to IRDAI:
“Had we known this fact earlier, we would not have agreed to give her insurance.”
Imagine reading that when you’re still healing from surgery.
Imagine reading that when you have proof that they did know it, because they passed an earlier claim with the same diagnosis written on it.
Imagine being a single mother dealing with pain, fear, bills, and now a corporation implying you’re some kind of fraud.
To add insult to injury, the insurance company sent me letters saying that since this was a case of denial, my insurance no longer held valid — and either I agreed to let my daughter’s insurance continue alone, or that too would be invalidated.
I wasn’t even angry at that point. I was tired. Tired in a way that seeps into your bones. But here is the horrible part: you don’t get to be tired when you’re a single mother. No one is coming to save you. No husband to take over. No partner to say, “Rest. I’ll handle it.”
So I handled it. I couldn’t let the insurance win on a whim.
THE FIGHT THEY DIDN’T EXPECT ME TO WIN
I filed with the Insurance Ombudsman. This isn’t a place you casually submit an email. You need dates, documents, logic, proof, and the ability to calmly explain something that has emotionally wrecked you.
I had all of it.
I walked the Ombudsman through:
- my first hospitalization
- the doctor’s notes
- the earlier approved claim
- the discharge summaries
- the rejection emails
- the IRDAI closure
- the insurer’s false narrative
I showed them the pattern:
The insurer was using a documented childhood condition — already present in their system — to deny a completely unrelated gallbladder surgery. It wasn’t non-disclosure. It was an excuse — someone in their system found it easier to deny my claim than to read their own file.
And excuses collapse when you shine enough light on them. But this too took a lot of months and even more patience. Finally, I was called for the hearing.
The Ombudsman agreed.
He overturned the decision.
He directed the insurer to pay my claim and reinstate my policy.
For the first time in months, something moved in my favour.
He sent the award in the mail.
WINNING DOESN’T FEEL LIKE VICTORY. IT FEELS LIKE BREATHING AGAIN.
People imagine victory feels glamorous.
It doesn’t.
When I finally got the money, I felt relief, not triumph.
When my policy was reinstated, I felt safe, not powerful.
Because I wasn’t fighting for luxury.
I was fighting for basic rights as a policyholder — something women are too often denied because we don’t shout, we don’t threaten, we don’t push.
Insurance companies rely on that.
They rely on:
- fatigue,
- fear,
- confusion,
- lack of support,
- and loneliness —
the kind that only single mothers know.
But here is the thing:
we may bend, but we don’t break.
I didn’t break.
I stood up every morning and fought again.
Even when I was overwhelmed.
Even when the rejections felt personal.
Even when my body was still recovering from surgery.
Even when IRDAI failed me.
Even when the insurer implied I didn’t deserve insurance at all.
I kept going.
And I won.
NOW WHAT?
Now I tell this story so no other woman has to learn these lessons the hard way:
- Insurance companies will deny your claim even when they have the evidence in their files.
- They will use any line, any phrase, any technicality.
- They will rely on you being silent.
- IRDAI won’t always save you.
- You need to know your rights.
- You need to know your documents.
- You need to know how to escalate.
- And sometimes, you need to go all the way to the Ombudsman.
I didn’t fight because I’m brave.
I fought because I didn’t have the luxury of giving up.
And if my daughter ever faces a system like this, I want her to know:
Her mother didn’t surrender.
Her mother didn’t let a corporation decide her worth.
Her mother didn’t let injustice pass quietly.
I didn’t lose this battle.
And I won’t lose the next one.
This is my personal experience. Every person’s case may be different.
THE PART EVERY WOMAN SHOULD READ BEFORE HER NEXT PREMIUM
This wasn’t just about money.
It was about dignity.
It was about not letting a corporation rewrite my truth.
It was about teaching my daughter that women don’t get justice by waiting for it — we get it by fighting for it.
So if you’re reading this and your claim has been rejected, here is what I want you to remember:
- A rejection is not final.
It’s a tactic. - “Non-disclosure” is the easiest tool insurers misuse.
Challenge it. - The first claim you file sets a pattern.
Learn how your insurer behaves. - IRDAI may not protect you.
The Ombudsman might. - Keep every document.
Every test. Every discharge summary.
Take POD for every physical submission.
This will save you.
And most importantly:
You are allowed to fight back — even when you are tired, scared, alone, and healing.
Women aren’t taught to be confrontational.
Single mothers even less so.
But systems like these depend on our silence.
I refused to be silent.
And now that I’ve survived surgery, insurance warfare, and months of emotional exhaustion…
I am reclaiming my body too.
One walk. One meal. One disciplined day at a time.
The road to recovery — financial, physical, emotional — doesn’t end with a ruling.
It starts after.
This is my story.
If it helps even one woman stand up for herself when a system tells her she doesn’t matter, then the whole battle was worth it.
And if you want me to break down exactly how to fight an insurance rejection step by step, tell me below — I’ll write a full guide.
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