My Health Care Nightmare

When I was a little girl, I assumed that abortion was illegal. I assumed there was no death penalty, not in this day and age. I didn't think there were borders; if you wanted to live in America, or England, or Russia, you saved up money for a plane ticket and went there. As I got older, I was a little shocked to find out how brutal the real world actually is.

But in my little girl world, health care was free for everyone.

Part of me wishes I could vote for Obama. Because I believe health care is a right. I'm no socialist ... I know it's competition that produces the best care, the best new treatments, etc.

When I first came home, I saw a doctor right away. He told me the disease was severe, and I would need to go to a hospital for a cocktail of treatments. At one point, my mother threw a fit in his office, and he didn't want to take care of me anymore.

So then I had to find another doctor.

The insurance provided by the convent was running out. Religious organizations are exempt from COBRA, and private insurance was impossible for me to get. I needed to find a job with group insurance.

And so I went on interview after interview. I didn't volunteer the information that I was sick. But it was pretty apparent from the looks of me. No takers.

Getting an appointment with a specialist is hard enough. But once they find out you don't have insurance, forget it. Other places are willing to take you, but only if you pay 50% up front.

It was 2 months before I could see a gastroenterologist, during which time I suffered more than I knew was possible. When I did get an appointment, the doctor told me my condition had worsened considerably. There was very little she could do for me. "What I recommend," she said, "is surgery." Disfiugirng, life-altering surgery. I was actually relieved, because it would be over.

My surgeon is a nice man, an Australian. He bumped me up ahead of everyone else on his waiting list. The pre-op tests took several days. Wrapped in a morphine haze, I remember a technician smiling over my bed: "you're going to get better." And I was better. I inexplicably went into remission in the middle of all those tests. And now its been 4 months.

Still, every day, I swallow 14 pills. It's about $500/month. Since I came home, I've had $21,000 in medical bills. Because I had no money, no job, and no assets, I qualified for state indigent care. Otherwise, I would be bankrupt.

Now that I have a job, I have to worry about not getting sick again. Because I'm not poor enough for the state to pay, but I'm not rich enough for me to pay. I don't think anybody should be making money off of sick people, if anybody is doing that. I think if you're sick, you should be able to get a doctor.

Worm Food Goes to the Mall

Thomas a Kempis is the author of "Imitation of Christ," that singular piece of literature second only to the Bible in prolificity.   I myself, don't have much use for it. Mostly because Mr. a Kempis seems generally down on humanity.  St. Josemaria Escriva is much the same, comparing his reader to worms, or even worm food.  I prefer the gentler directors (St. Francis de Sales, St. Therse of Lisieux) 

But yesterday evening, the term "worm food" kept coming to mind.

My sister wanted to try on make-up, and I dutifully accompanied her. The boutique she chose absorbed a considerable amount of space in the Beachwood Mall, enough room for a perfectly good book store.  It was stuffed to the gills with women, all giddily running from counter to counter with applicators in hand.  There were school girls in plaid uniforms, and elderly ladies in house dresses. 

I barely repressed the gag reflex.  It's important for women to be feminine, of course.  But the teeming frenzy on display at this particular store was, well ...  it took terrible effort not to judge them. Maybe this  is the one afternoon out of the whole year they are focused on make-up.  Or perhaps they are only being normal.

My weirdness confronts me again. Joy.

The entire experience left me feeling vaguely icky and depressed. 

It seems the world is not for me.

arggh!!

blogger Beta is giving me grief. Pardon my construction dust.

Photo Album

I was going through my shoebox of old DC photos. Usually this kind of melancholic activity is kryptonite to me, but I did it in the company of my very bubbly, not-nostalgic and not-wistful sister.

The kite flying festival in DC:




One of my CYDC camp students meeting a firefighter:



The National Shrine:

Forgiveness

Write a book about it. Make a million bucks.

Everyone has somebody they need to forgive. Somebody they want to forgive.


( Want, at least, in theory.)

But if you listen to people talk, you'll figure out our biggest problem. People have the hardest time forgiving themselves.

And why is that?

Truly guilty people do not want forgiveness. They don't want mercy. They want punishment. Mercy is humiliating. It leaves a debt unpaid. It is written off, but not paid off. Justice, on the other hand ...

I think this is how people end up choosing Hell. They cannot stand for God to let them off the hook.

Pride. The first sin and the last sin.