Antonio+Olivo.

Antonio Olivo. 'I only wanted the pain to end'; In the U.S. illegally, Mariana de la Torre used a fake ID to get $530,000 worth of medical care. Here's her story: Chicago Tribune. Mar 15, 2009. pg. 1 Abstract (Summary) The real Gloria, whose name and Social Security number were taken by de la Torre, is serving a 3-year prison term in Texas for robbery, part of a criminal history that includes grave robbing, public records show. Because she couldn't be reached, the Tribune is not disclosing her full name. When death starts to claw deep into your pelvis until you want to scream, she said, you'll do anything to stop it -- including taking someone else's identity to get $530,000 in medical care. "I didn't think to do harm to anyone; I only wanted the pain to end," murmured Mariana de la Torre, 28, nearly two years after her cervical cancer pushed her, an illegal Mexican immigrant, into secretly using another woman's name and Social Security number for Medicaid benefits and other aid. She disclosed her true identity in late January, toward the end of a medical odyssey that took her through three rounds of chemotherapy in Rock Island, radiation and chemotherapy in Peoria and two surgeries at the University of Chicago Medical Center. She is now back in Mexico. Her case -- a story of both personal despair and calculated deception that has prompted a state investigation -- taps into burgeoning concerns over medical identity theft inside hospitals around the country already struggling to provide charity care for millions of uninsured patients. In May, health-care providers will be required to have in place new federal guidelines designed to block the theft of identities from roughly 250,000 people a year and risks inserting misinformation into their medical records. Hospital surveys and government data indicate illegal immigration plays a minor role in the overall problem. But some activists say undocumented immigrants who need long-term care -- but have no legal claim to public aid -- are using stolen IDs more frequently than officials suspect. "It's absolutely common," said Julie Santos, a League of United Latin American Citizens organizer in Chicago who helps low-income immigrants in need of organ transplants find charitable aid. "It has nothing to do with: 'Oh, I'm going to steal your identity and screw you.' Unfortunately, that is the reality and that is why the [immigration] system is so broken." The story of de la Torre -- assembled through interviews and hospital records obtained by the Tribune -- illustrates why some would resort to using another person's identity for medical care. Her path has been lit by a devoted husband forced to say goodbye to his dying wife at O'Hare International Airport and the nurses, doctors and social workers who've come to know her as "Gloria." The real Gloria, whose name and Social Security number were taken by de la Torre, is serving a 3-year prison term in Texas for robbery, part of a criminal history that includes grave robbing, public records show. Because she couldn't be reached, the Tribune is not disclosing her full name. De la Torre, a mother of three young children, left her home state of Michoacan for Illinois in December 2006, shortly after her boyfriend beat her and threatened to kill her. He was a police officer and -- she belatedly learned -- worked for a notorious drug cartel. Before heading to the U.S., de la Torre put her then-8-year-old daughter and two sons, then 5 years old and 7 months, in the care of an aunt, with plans to send for them later. Then she crossed into the U.S. in the trunk of a car and made her way to a friend's home in Moline. "Leaving the children was very difficult," de la Torre said over the click and hiss of an IV machine at Trinity Medical Center in Rock Island. "But I was very scared. I thought: If I take them, I don't know what I'll do. First I go; later, the children." She secured an assembly-line job in a snack food factory with an ID purchased on the black market. Weeks into her new life, de la Torre began to feel faint. Social workers took her to a Rock Island County clinic. There, she received a Pap smear, which can detect cervical cancer. The disease is usually treatable if caught early, but Hispanic women have a 50 percent higher death rate than non-Hispanic whites because of a lack of checkups and follow-up care. A clinic nurse recommended de la Torre see a gynecologist. But unaware of the cancer, she hesitated for several months. "She knew she couldn't go see a doctor; she couldn't afford it," said Stella Schneekloth, a social worker. "She didn't have a Social Security card or any type of medical insurance and, therefore, let it go untreated." One May 2007 morning, de la Torre said, she began to bleed profusely, with a cramping pain clinching her body. A friend took her to Trinity's Moline emergency room. There, she gave her fake name, though she eventually paid that $538 hospital bill herself. But larger bills followed, and hospital staff casually asked about her immigration status. "They asked: 'Do you have papers?' No. 'Do you have insurance?' No. I don't have anything," she recalled. The questions made her nervous enough to keep using her alias for treatment. Officials at the Trinity Regional Health System said they learned of de la Torre's identity when she told them in late January. The non-profit hospital chain quickly notified state authorities, said spokeswoman Leigh Geramanis, adding that a plan to monitor for identity theft was accelerated by the case. Trinity officials were unsure whether de la Torre would have received the same treatment if she had used her real identity, saying the question has sparked internal discussion about providing charity care with limited resources. High treatment costs Trinity has absorbed roughly $317,000 in treatment costs for de la Torre, with Medicaid picking up an additional $106,000, the hospital said. Both the University of Chicago Medical Center and St. Francis Medical Center in Peoria said they didn't know de la Torre was using an alias until the Tribune told them. The U. of C. hospital declined to discuss her treatment. But a Web site for fair medical pricing, www.healthcarebluebook.com, estimated her surgery and related care at U. of C. should have cost about $18,000. The St. Francis total was about $89,000, with Medicaid covering about 25 percent. De la Torre applied for a Medicaid-reimbursed treatment program in July 2007. A friend who asked not to be named recalled her angst as she pulled out her alias ID inside a Rock Island County Health Department office. "I said: 'You know, you could get into big, big trouble,'" the friend recalled. "She had tears in her eyes and said, 'I'd rather get treated and go to jail.'" Part of what drove de la Torre was her life in Moline, a western Illinois town whose growing Latino population has filled jobs at the John Deere farm machinery plant and surrounding factories. There, de la Torre found two new loves: God and her husband, Santiago. Her renewed faith came in the form of a local Pentecostal church member who saw de la Torre weeping on her porch shortly after she was diagnosed. The church soon become a fixture in her life. Santiago, 26, who arrived illegally from the Mexican state of Oaxaca, was the shy neighbor who always managed a smile whenever de la Torre passed by -- his demeanor every bit as courtly as her former boyfriend's was violent. One day, she asked him to escort her to the grocery store. He declared his love four days later. "She is full of life," he said. What might have flourished from their union revealed itself during a doctor's visit before de la Torre's radiation therapy. A routine test showed signs of a baby. With both a pregnancy and abortion out of the question because of her growing tumor, doctors allowed the radiation treatment to lead to a "spontaneous abortion." That happened inside the couple's home in August 2007. "Santiago had the saddest expression, like he was in shock," recalled Connie Barrett, a social worker who translated for de la Torre. De la Torre said, "It's something too painful to discuss." Husband at her side Santiago kept vigil during more emergency room trips, the painful rounds of chemotherapy after more tumors appeared and an October 2008 operation at U. of C. that took out her uterus and all other organs in her pelvic cavity. He was there when church members crowded her room in cacophonous prayer while she grimaced in pain. And when, in January, she revealed her real name to a hospital social worker, saying she wanted to return to Mexico to be with the children she hadn't seen in three years. With financial help from friends and the Mexican consulate in Chicago, the woman who by then was bald and rail thin left Trinity in February and headed to Michoacan. "I'm ready," de la Torre said, convinced of a miraculous cure on one of her good days despite her doctors' prognosis that she wouldn't last much longer. "God has cured me. He has touched me and healed me." At O'Hare, the toll of a three-hour drive pulled her into nausea as Santiago moistened her dry lips with ice water and whispered in her ear. Though he intended to follow her to Mexico months later, odds were that this was their goodbye: a whisper, a smile from de la Torre and three quick kisses. "I told her: 'I love you very much,'" he later said, watching her pass through security in a wheelchair. The next morning, de la Torre saw her children in a Michoacan hospital. Her daughter, Andrea, 11, cried at the sight of her mother. Her middle son, Rodrigo, 8, urged his 2-year-old brother Diego to say hello to "Mami." Two days later, she was discharged, with doctors saying there was nothing more to do. Inside a brother's stifling concrete-block home, she lay in bed sweating or shivering and smiled at the sounds of rustling mango trees and roosters outside that filled her childhood memories. As she curled into the fetal position in increasing pain, the children were led into her room clutching newly graded homework, then led out almost right away. Laboring to save her with folk remedies, family members sprinkled powdered snakeskin on her food and prepared a vulture meat soup. A local soothsayer stopped by, but determined that the illness was "a sort of curse" for which he had no answers.

aolivo@tribune.com