Good news. Fantastic news. The kind of news that makes me useless at work for hours after I hear it.
Dad had a PET scan recently, and we were all waiting breathless to hear the results. Compared against the CAT scans he had at the beginning of the treatment, this was supposed to show how the cancer was progressing (or not, ideally). So on Wednesday morning the whole family got up after not having slept well. I went to work with "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" stuck in my head. Mom, Dad, Auntie Pam and Uncle Larry went to the doctor's office. We tend to move in packs for support. It works out well.
At 11:19 am I got a text reading:
Pet Scan is great with No
sign of cancer, burket or
lyMphoma.
And it was so too good to be true, I had to make a weepy phone call to confirm. At that point, the grist mill had already started turning, and Dad was on the other line to my grandma to spread the good word.
Most of the rest of that day was a deep breath out sighing smiling daze, even the celebratory dinner out, at which Mom and I split a celebratory bottle of half-price champagne and then giggled at everything between the bathroom and the car.
When I left OMSI that afternoon, it was to the most prismatic of weather. It was bright blue, sunny, and softly sprinkling all at the same time. And if I couldn't spot the rainbow, that's just because I was in it.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
If not now, when??
(A good line. Not my line, but a good line. An important one.)
Well, hello again. Where have I been all my life?
Here and there, but mostly here. Thinkin', workin', wakin' in the middle of the night. It's been awhile since I've felt compelled to put things in words. Some things that I've been thinking and feeling lately just don't seem to fit into the letters I know. Somethings refuse to be molded into any shapes, and somethings I refuse to let inhabit any form on a page; even dots on a computer screen. There are strong things in this world, I know. Power and meaning. And sometimes those things swoop down and catch you up and you can't help but fly with them for awhile. Then sometimes - abandoned - you only catch darting, vibrating shapes out of the corners of your eyes, while you're choosing what kind of fruit juice to buy, or waiting in traffic on the way to the library. Then does your life seem far away, viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. And you wonder where the meat of the thing really is. Connection.
These things have been my saving graces throughout. And they fill my mind and my days when nothing else can seem to.
All this means for you, gentle readers, is a brief pause in the narration. I hope you've enjoyed the glossy picture insert in the middle of the novel-based-on-the-movie. If you'd had the choice, had the object in your hand, I'm sure you'd have flipped right to the middle first. To see the hero facing a sea of snakes, looking so rakish. The villain glaring and chortling before his plans go so spectacularly awry. The moment when the hero and the heroine first meet, and everyone is smiling easy, polite, only subtly distrustful smiles at one another.
With 14 pages of full-color photos!
But back to business. In the interim (April) since I last wrote, life has indeed kept on ticking past. I now work full-time at OMSI as an educator in the Featured Hall, and am slipping into it like a pair of pants warm from the dryer. It's a very good fit for me; a challenge in some ways, but nothing I'm pulling my hair out over. I'm slowly learning OMSI as an institution and all the foibles that accompany any company. I'm meeting people and being amicably led through the process of staging a new exhibition. All in all, a good way to spend eight hours a day.
In the past month, I've had friends come to visit and friends move away. I vastly prefer the former to the latter, and have been working ever since to find ways to make that vacation feeling last. My heels are itchy to be in the sand and sea again; my hips will even agree to being belted into a lumpy, narrow airplane seat if it means getting to find tight hugs and laughter and endless conversation at the other end of the flight. One thing I dearly miss about being in a classroom is the school calendar. Oh, how I yearn for a spring break.
A joke:
Once there was a man who had all sorts of misfortune heaped upon him. Family woes, unlucky in love, cheated in finances. This man was good, and held out optimism and faith that things could get better. Every week he prayed, "God, please turn my life around. If I could win the lottery, things would get better." But every week his prayers went unanswered and his debt continued to mount. "God, please," he begged. "I deserve to win the lottery, you know I do. Please let me win!" But still nothing. Finally, he was at the bottom of his coffers and the end of his rope. The man fell on his knees and cried, "God! All I want is to win one jackpot! What else can I do??"
And the voice came, "Meet me halfway! Buy a ticket!"
Oh Lord. I have been. During my most recent trip to the grocery store Oregon Lottery kiosk, a friend asked, "How does this work?" And it's quite simple. You put in a dollar and choose what game you want to play. It picks numbers, prints your ticket and then you come back in two or three days to scan the barcode and wait for the screen to say, "Sorry, not a winner." Then repeat! Yes, it may be a tax on people who choose to ignore probability. But I'm nothing if not an optimist. And if a biodiesel-powered Eurovan and a checklist of all the National Parks and science museums in the country could ever be in some version of my future, why shouldn't I do all I can to reach out in that direction?
I know, I know. I'm reaching.
Well, hello again. Where have I been all my life?
Here and there, but mostly here. Thinkin', workin', wakin' in the middle of the night. It's been awhile since I've felt compelled to put things in words. Some things that I've been thinking and feeling lately just don't seem to fit into the letters I know. Somethings refuse to be molded into any shapes, and somethings I refuse to let inhabit any form on a page; even dots on a computer screen. There are strong things in this world, I know. Power and meaning. And sometimes those things swoop down and catch you up and you can't help but fly with them for awhile. Then sometimes - abandoned - you only catch darting, vibrating shapes out of the corners of your eyes, while you're choosing what kind of fruit juice to buy, or waiting in traffic on the way to the library. Then does your life seem far away, viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. And you wonder where the meat of the thing really is. Connection.
Music, motion, open space.
All this means for you, gentle readers, is a brief pause in the narration. I hope you've enjoyed the glossy picture insert in the middle of the novel-based-on-the-movie. If you'd had the choice, had the object in your hand, I'm sure you'd have flipped right to the middle first. To see the hero facing a sea of snakes, looking so rakish. The villain glaring and chortling before his plans go so spectacularly awry. The moment when the hero and the heroine first meet, and everyone is smiling easy, polite, only subtly distrustful smiles at one another.
With 14 pages of full-color photos!
But back to business. In the interim (April) since I last wrote, life has indeed kept on ticking past. I now work full-time at OMSI as an educator in the Featured Hall, and am slipping into it like a pair of pants warm from the dryer. It's a very good fit for me; a challenge in some ways, but nothing I'm pulling my hair out over. I'm slowly learning OMSI as an institution and all the foibles that accompany any company. I'm meeting people and being amicably led through the process of staging a new exhibition. All in all, a good way to spend eight hours a day.
In the past month, I've had friends come to visit and friends move away. I vastly prefer the former to the latter, and have been working ever since to find ways to make that vacation feeling last. My heels are itchy to be in the sand and sea again; my hips will even agree to being belted into a lumpy, narrow airplane seat if it means getting to find tight hugs and laughter and endless conversation at the other end of the flight. One thing I dearly miss about being in a classroom is the school calendar. Oh, how I yearn for a spring break.
A joke:
Once there was a man who had all sorts of misfortune heaped upon him. Family woes, unlucky in love, cheated in finances. This man was good, and held out optimism and faith that things could get better. Every week he prayed, "God, please turn my life around. If I could win the lottery, things would get better." But every week his prayers went unanswered and his debt continued to mount. "God, please," he begged. "I deserve to win the lottery, you know I do. Please let me win!" But still nothing. Finally, he was at the bottom of his coffers and the end of his rope. The man fell on his knees and cried, "God! All I want is to win one jackpot! What else can I do??"
And the voice came, "Meet me halfway! Buy a ticket!"
Oh Lord. I have been. During my most recent trip to the grocery store Oregon Lottery kiosk, a friend asked, "How does this work?" And it's quite simple. You put in a dollar and choose what game you want to play. It picks numbers, prints your ticket and then you come back in two or three days to scan the barcode and wait for the screen to say, "Sorry, not a winner." Then repeat! Yes, it may be a tax on people who choose to ignore probability. But I'm nothing if not an optimist. And if a biodiesel-powered Eurovan and a checklist of all the National Parks and science museums in the country could ever be in some version of my future, why shouldn't I do all I can to reach out in that direction?
I know, I know. I'm reaching.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Epilogue
So I'm back in the rainy city, having just missed a big snowstorm in Denver that sauntered in after I left. Thank god for that, though at times I still wish I was there.
Here is where bills need to get paid, where my taxes still need to be done, where I need to get to work on time. There was where I got to wrestle in the snow with tiny Peyton, where some days all I had to do was laundry, take a walk in the sun and decide where to go for dinner.
Back here I'm researching the General and Special Theories of Relativity, for OMSI's next exhibit on Einstein. It's interesting, but it makes my head spin and I have a hard time keeping everything straight. Mostly this: that if the speed of light is constant (and, so far as we've been able to test, it is) no matter the position or distance of the observer, then in order for this equation to be true -
Speed = Distance / Time
(and as far as we can determine, it should be) - then Time is the thing that must be variable in proportion to distance in order to keep the speed of light always the same.
Wha--?
Yeah. Time passes - not seems to pass, but actually passes - ever so slightly slower for astronauts in spacecraft going really fast relative to us here on Earth.
Einstein said, "...[T]he distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion." If that's true, it's mind-blowing, but there's also a kernal of comfort in it. It means I can always have the time in downtown Denver at the end of the 7K when my legs felt like Gumby and my lungs could breathe in all the atmosphere. I'll never be far from that moment in the parking lot when Peyton put her mom and me in a simultaneous headlock and started shakin' her booty when 'Single Ladies' came on the car radio. The feathers from that deteriorating comforter in the guest room will always be mid-air, and I'll always be half-muzzy with sleep watching them drift.
And I suppose I'll always have Relativity as an excuse when I'm late for work.
Also, did you know Einstein moved back in with his parents after University, when he couldn't find a teaching job? Yeah. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Ha!
Here is where bills need to get paid, where my taxes still need to be done, where I need to get to work on time. There was where I got to wrestle in the snow with tiny Peyton, where some days all I had to do was laundry, take a walk in the sun and decide where to go for dinner.
Back here I'm researching the General and Special Theories of Relativity, for OMSI's next exhibit on Einstein. It's interesting, but it makes my head spin and I have a hard time keeping everything straight. Mostly this: that if the speed of light is constant (and, so far as we've been able to test, it is) no matter the position or distance of the observer, then in order for this equation to be true -
Speed = Distance / Time
(and as far as we can determine, it should be) - then Time is the thing that must be variable in proportion to distance in order to keep the speed of light always the same.
Wha--?
Yeah. Time passes - not seems to pass, but actually passes - ever so slightly slower for astronauts in spacecraft going really fast relative to us here on Earth.
Einstein said, "...[T]he distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion." If that's true, it's mind-blowing, but there's also a kernal of comfort in it. It means I can always have the time in downtown Denver at the end of the 7K when my legs felt like Gumby and my lungs could breathe in all the atmosphere. I'll never be far from that moment in the parking lot when Peyton put her mom and me in a simultaneous headlock and started shakin' her booty when 'Single Ladies' came on the car radio. The feathers from that deteriorating comforter in the guest room will always be mid-air, and I'll always be half-muzzy with sleep watching them drift.
And I suppose I'll always have Relativity as an excuse when I'm late for work.
Also, did you know Einstein moved back in with his parents after University, when he couldn't find a teaching job? Yeah. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Ha!
Sunday, March 21, 2010
How the Other Half Lives (Or Doesn't) 2
Part Two: Through the Looking Glass
So, as mentioned, I went to the ER whilst in Denver. Then I went to the pharmacy, then went home, exhausted, and slept.
The next day, Peyton and I had a grand ol' time at the Children's Museum, though I was sluggish and a much less hands-on aunt than I like to be. By that evening I was feeling flu-ish and put myself to bed at 6pm. When I woke up a few hours later, it was like I was walking on the bottom of a swimming pool. Everything hurt and I was in slow-motion. When I located a thermometer, it said I had a fever of 103F. Now, the financial panic from the day before hadn't quite worn off, but I never get fevers that high and I was scared. So my hero of a sister drove me to Yet Another ER to be admitted. The front end of that process, this time, was mercifully fast. I was whisked to a room to don a paper mask and near-paper dress and given only one sheet on my bed because my fever was so high.
If you were to Google Map my house in Portland, you'd have to zoom in very closely to avoid seeing the big ol' hospital right down the street. I've grown up rollerblading in its parking garages (not strictly allowed), lunching with Mom in its cafeteria, swiping its draw-string pants to use as durable, comfy pajamas. I'm not scared of hospitals in the slightest. In fact, I always feel a bit comforted knowing that I'm about to get care for whatever ailment I'm suffering from. Again this ties back to my identity as a scientist, an educator and a generally curious person - I find the not knowing the hardest part. So when there's a team of folks working on what it is that's making me feel crappy, I tend to feel less crappy just knowing that.
I will admit, though: I was a little nervous.
I've had blood drawn before, but this time I was out of the exam room when they brought in all the equipment. Seeing all the empty tubes and latex ties laid out there just so on that tiny silver table was a bit unsettling, as was my phlebotomist probing and probing and probing my right arm before finally striking it rich in my left and saying, "I always seem to pick the wrong arm! Ha!" (Note to direct caregivers: though it may be humanizing when you admit to your mistakes and shortcomings and nervousnesses, don't. It doesn't encourage confidence. Fallibly human is not what I need you to be right now.) As I watched her push and pull the tiny hollow tube back and forth right under my skin, all I could think is, "My mom would kick your ass right now."
I also got an IV - my first one. (Mazel tov!) Did you know that when they pump in a booster syringe of whatever (in my case, anti-nausea meds then narcotics), you can feel it? I didn't. I never thought to ask. But you can. The liquid going in is cooler than body temp, so it's like a tiny, rushing, flowing feeling happening right in your arm - a river from far away - the Colorado viewed from the Grand Canyon rim.
It was so weird to be a patient, privy to all the bother a patient is. The waxy feeling of the sealant over the IV site, the scratchy sheets, the Oxygen monitor that beeps at you for no reason. Having to pee and being so hooked up to things that you're not sure what to do about that. Then, when you finally notify someone (you have to notify someone in order to pee), having so much equipment to roll with you through the hallways that you feel like some sort of one-man-band. And then you have to hold your gown shut the whole time because the tie in the back is broken.
Again, I'm a dilettante in terms of the patient experience. I did this for one evening, and had to suffer the inconveniences and indignities for just that long. But it was strange to be on this side of the bed rails:
instead of this one:
One constant through all this: I'm connected to (and damn thankful for) my family. At the same time that I was in an adjustable bed in Colorado, Dad was fitfully dozing in Oregon after his own minor terrifying procedure. And it was great to have Michele there supporting me, doing her homework, trying to curl up in that tiny chair and rest for a bit. As a patient, that was the best part. That and the percocet.
So, as mentioned, I went to the ER whilst in Denver. Then I went to the pharmacy, then went home, exhausted, and slept.
The next day, Peyton and I had a grand ol' time at the Children's Museum, though I was sluggish and a much less hands-on aunt than I like to be. By that evening I was feeling flu-ish and put myself to bed at 6pm. When I woke up a few hours later, it was like I was walking on the bottom of a swimming pool. Everything hurt and I was in slow-motion. When I located a thermometer, it said I had a fever of 103F. Now, the financial panic from the day before hadn't quite worn off, but I never get fevers that high and I was scared. So my hero of a sister drove me to Yet Another ER to be admitted. The front end of that process, this time, was mercifully fast. I was whisked to a room to don a paper mask and near-paper dress and given only one sheet on my bed because my fever was so high.
If you were to Google Map my house in Portland, you'd have to zoom in very closely to avoid seeing the big ol' hospital right down the street. I've grown up rollerblading in its parking garages (not strictly allowed), lunching with Mom in its cafeteria, swiping its draw-string pants to use as durable, comfy pajamas. I'm not scared of hospitals in the slightest. In fact, I always feel a bit comforted knowing that I'm about to get care for whatever ailment I'm suffering from. Again this ties back to my identity as a scientist, an educator and a generally curious person - I find the not knowing the hardest part. So when there's a team of folks working on what it is that's making me feel crappy, I tend to feel less crappy just knowing that.
I will admit, though: I was a little nervous.
I've had blood drawn before, but this time I was out of the exam room when they brought in all the equipment. Seeing all the empty tubes and latex ties laid out there just so on that tiny silver table was a bit unsettling, as was my phlebotomist probing and probing and probing my right arm before finally striking it rich in my left and saying, "I always seem to pick the wrong arm! Ha!" (Note to direct caregivers: though it may be humanizing when you admit to your mistakes and shortcomings and nervousnesses, don't. It doesn't encourage confidence. Fallibly human is not what I need you to be right now.) As I watched her push and pull the tiny hollow tube back and forth right under my skin, all I could think is, "My mom would kick your ass right now."
I also got an IV - my first one. (Mazel tov!) Did you know that when they pump in a booster syringe of whatever (in my case, anti-nausea meds then narcotics), you can feel it? I didn't. I never thought to ask. But you can. The liquid going in is cooler than body temp, so it's like a tiny, rushing, flowing feeling happening right in your arm - a river from far away - the Colorado viewed from the Grand Canyon rim.
It was so weird to be a patient, privy to all the bother a patient is. The waxy feeling of the sealant over the IV site, the scratchy sheets, the Oxygen monitor that beeps at you for no reason. Having to pee and being so hooked up to things that you're not sure what to do about that. Then, when you finally notify someone (you have to notify someone in order to pee), having so much equipment to roll with you through the hallways that you feel like some sort of one-man-band. And then you have to hold your gown shut the whole time because the tie in the back is broken.
Again, I'm a dilettante in terms of the patient experience. I did this for one evening, and had to suffer the inconveniences and indignities for just that long. But it was strange to be on this side of the bed rails:
One constant through all this: I'm connected to (and damn thankful for) my family. At the same time that I was in an adjustable bed in Colorado, Dad was fitfully dozing in Oregon after his own minor terrifying procedure. And it was great to have Michele there supporting me, doing her homework, trying to curl up in that tiny chair and rest for a bit. As a patient, that was the best part. That and the percocet.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
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.
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,
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.
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