How the Other Half Lives (Or Doesn't)

*Editor's Note to Moms and Mom-like Folks: I'm back home in Oregon now, doing just fine, but still sore in so many ways from this experience.  I wanted to write how it was that day, so here it is, but don't worry unduly.  I swear I'll post prettier things soon.


Part One: Socialize This

I have already had quite enough of hospitals.  And that was as a caregiver.  To a patient with a magical card that unlocks doors.  This card has his name, some mystical, impenetrable digits and the sigil "United Health Care."  In Arizona, I enrolled in the state health insurance plan, which got me flu shots, vaccine boosters and once a free visit to the ER, with free antibiotics and localized painkillers to boot.  Since I left and have yet to find full-time employment, I've been floating free in God's good graces, with my name in the lottery to apply for the Oregon plan. (Pick me!  Pick me!)  Last Wednesday, the acute infection I'd felt building for the past few days hit with decisive force, and I decided to go do something about it beyond the 'fluids and rest' I had self-prescribed.  So.  Put yourself in my shoes.  Ready?

Step 1: While in grocery store, in whimpering discomfort, look for over the counter remedies, painkillers, vitamin supplements or foodstuffs which might help.  Find few, and purchase these in vain optimism.

Step 2: Pain while in grocery store causes you to decide not to wait for the foodstuff's supposed benefits.  Ask Customer Service desk for yellow pages to look up local clinics.

Step 3: Be deferred from first (of many) clinics you contact because your difficulty is not their specialty.

Step 4: Go home to use internet to search for more clinics.  Call around and memorize these disheartening and embarrassing words - "Hi.  I don't have insurance and I'm pretty sure I have [Annoying Infection - Never you mind].  I was wondering if I could get treated for that at your clinic/urgent care/ER and how much it would cost."  Repeat throughout the afternoon.

Step 5: Borrow third-hand car to drive to First Hospital where the following conversation takes place -

     Me - [Disheartening introduction as above]
     ER Registrar - Well, our copay is $230.
     Me - I can't pay that.
     Reg - Oh.  Uh.
     Registrar Behind Her - We have payment plans.  And programs you might be able to qualify for.
     Me - Can you tell me about those?
     RBH - Not until you get triaged as a patient.
     Me - Is there a cost to triage?
     RBH - Minimal.
     Me - Can you estimate what that is?
     RBH - No.  There's a Colorado law that I can't discuss finances with anyone until they're a patient.
     Me - But you can't tell me how much it'll cost to become a patient?
     RBH - Minimal.
     Me - Okay.  I'm going to go.

I've had a fair amount of shit to deal with lately in my life, but this hurt.  It was embarrassing and frustrating and isolating.  I felt stupid, and like a failure.  Compounded with not feeling well physically, it was a miserable, hopeless experience.  And it happened once more, at Second Hospital.

Third Hospital is state-run and so (I was told on the phone) has a sliding scale.  Also a full parking lot, a full waiting room, and a metal detector at the entrance.  And is a 37 minute drive from where I'm staying.

Now, I'm privileged and I know it (let me count the ways).  I have a car to get to said hospital instead of busing it.  And internet and phone service to do research all afternoon.  And a job that allows me, if not vacation time, then time off to sit around in waiting rooms.  And no direct dependents waiting for my caretaking.  And a history of general good health due to good nutrition and previous health care, preventative and otherwise.  The idea that someone might lack not one, but all these privileges is not at all beyond the realm of possibility.  Many of my fellow waiting room compatriots are still in work drag with kids in tow.

The waiting room is busy.  (The others not nearly so much.)  Clearly the need is there for this facility and its accessibility.  I don't expect to be seen for awhile, and when I do, I'm not dreading any procedures or prognoses.  I'm worried about the final bill at the end.  I don't wonder that the fear of that paperwork keeps people already less comfortable with the medical system (folks who weren't raised within blocks of a hospital, for example) away entirely, or until the situation is too dire to put off or ignore.

In a recent conversation with a friend of strong opinions, he asserted that healthcare was not a right, but a burden on society. [EDIT: "I never said it was a burden, I just said I didn't want to pay for people who abuse it."  Better?]  Many who know me won't be surprised to hear that in the face of opinionated, I often shy away from making strong declarations.  My debate style is to mull and consider and feel out.  I'm intimidated by tricksy rhetoric and fast facts and unfamiliar references.  I'm fascinated to hear your case, but don't ask me mine.

That said, that's bullshit.

I clog up the works by being in the ER and I know it.  I'm ambulatory, cognizant and only in mild pain.  Maybe an hour and a half after I arrive and am triaged, the hospital manager makes an announcement that they're diverting ambulances in the area to other hospitals because the waiting room is so full.  I should be able to go to an intermediate care center and leave the 50 beds (40 in rooms and 10 in hallways) for people who really need them.  I shouldn't have to worry about my "network" when I'm worried about my wellbeing.  How arbitrary is it that I can't see a doctor because she signed a different paper than the one I signed, even if I need her services and she wouldn't mind being paid for it?

Get me care.  Make the process easy and streamlined.  Allow me reasonable options, before my Worst Case Scenario complicates my life, my care and my burden on the system.  As it is, this is not the way to heal.  Not the way to care for others.  Fix this shit up.

Coming up Next: Part Two, in which the Personal is the Political is the Personal Again.