LIVING UNINSURED

I've been inspired by the pieces that have been written by our own Ms. Jochild on Meta Watershed to tell of one of my own run-ins with the health care system. For those who are convinced that socialized medicine is the worst thing that could ever happen to this country, maybe this will make you think again.

In 2005, my girlfriend and I decided to move in together. During the move, I fell down some stairs. Back then, I thought I had injured only my knee -- two years later I was told I had severely injured my back, that THAT was my real problem. But my knee hurt more, and everyone went with that.

I had surgery for a torn meniscus and a torn ACL. I was supposed to get better "in a couple of weeks"; it never got better, only worse. The summer that followed, my contract was not renewed with the school district, and with my job went my health insurance.


Without physical therapy, my whole leg was enveloped with pain. When I could stand it no more, I went to a community health clinic that would see uninsured patients. The clinic doctor told me I needed an x-ray, as she thought I had a blood clot. I was to go to the ER at Truman Medical Center (they see uninsured patients) and have this done right away.

When I arrived at the ER, I was shocked to find it chock-full of the maimed and bleeding. One woman sat in the corner, a bloody towel pressed to her face. Upon inquiry, I discovered her eye had been popped from its socket by an errant boyfriend. She had been waiting TWO HOURS. Another woman, unable to move her left hand, had been there THREE HOURS. I was in for a bit of a wait.

I called my girlfriend to let her know where I was. No, don't come down. Once I get in, I'll have my xray, and probably just end up coming home. Naw, don't worry about me.

Around 10 p.m., I was finally seen (I'd been there since 6). I was in pain, so I was given pain medication. A few minutes later, a beautiful, young, female resident came in my little curtained cubicle, full of questions for me. "You have pain in your leg, yes?" "Yeeeessss" I nodded and said. "And you have chest pain, too, is that right?" "Nooooo" I nodded and said. At least I think I did. Looking at her beautiful Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman-like face, I just might've said yes to anything. I was on painkillers, and by then was pretty baked. "Pos for cp" she said over her shoulder to the nurse. "Nooooo, Noooo for CP" I gurgled, but I think it came out "Og, og, erg og."

Two hours later, my girlfriend Cyndi came in. She tried to talk to me; I answered in gibberish. "What the hell's wrong with her?" she said. "She's having chest pains," said the nurse, "Sometimes they get like that. "I'm calling her kids," said Cyndi "NOOOOO" I cried out "MYFUCKING LEG IS THE ONLY THING THAT HURTS!!!" Apparently the only words that were understandable were "fucking" and "hurts" because then Dr Quinn said "Hear that? She hurts so much she's swearing! Give her another pain shot!"

"NOOOOOOOOO!!!"

Some time later, my girls arrived. They drove all the way from Lawrence, Kansas, about an hour away (they went to K.U. at the time) They were both crying, thinking I was dying. (Their father really did die, two years before, hence my concern). I tried to talk to them, but nothing came out right. They eventually returned home with Cyndi and left me to the mercy of the Emergency Department.

I have a dim memory of having my x-ray -- no blood clot was found. "But there's still her chest pain" they said. And even though by then I was beginning to be a little more understandable -- "My chest doesn't hurt!" -- no one was listening. I then spent the next 24 hours on a cot in the ER, waiting for a bed to open up.

The next morning I was taken to a no frills room. Next to me was the woman with the hand problem -- it seems she had had a stroke. The room was very cold, and I asked for a blanket.

"Ain't got no blankets. We out!" was the reply. Then our breakfast arrives, cold eggs on a paper plate with a hard roll. "Ma'am" I said, "Could I have some coffee with my breakfast?"

"Ain't got no coffee. This ain't a hotel!"

My roommate's doctor came and talked with her. "I just wanna go home," said roommate. The doctor told her to get out of bed and walk. Evidently, she didn't do it well enough to suit the doctor. "I'm sending you to a nursing home," she said. My roommate cried, and repeated her request to go home. The doctor turned on her heels and left. My roommate cried.

In came Dr. Quinn, with a bevy of other comely residents. But this time I would not be swayed.

"I want to go home" I said.

"How's your chest pain?"

"I never had any. What's wrong with my leg?"

"Well we aren't sure. And you said you had chest pain down in the ER".

I argued with them over this point for about five minutes, then gave up. I just wanted to go home and told them so.

"Let me see how well you can walk, before we do that."

Remembering my roommate, I girded up all my strength, and stiffened up, determined not to wobble. Hell, I practically goose-stepped, but it was sufficient enough to past muster. And they let me go home.

Later that year, the county adopted a domestic partner registry. Since Cyndi was a county employee, if I became her official "domestic partner" I could get on her health insurance. (BTW, for this privilege, we pay extra taxes, something married straights don't have to do). And so we became "domesticated".

With health insurance, I got better medical care. I finally found out my leg pain was actually sciatica, now called a radiculopathy, and was caused by a back injury no one in Truman or the clinic had picked up on, and I am now being treated for that.

I often think about the other people in that ER. I hope one day they somehow get a new job, get married, or partnered up, and get some health insurance so they never have to go back there. I figure that wish has more of a chance than wishing for universal health care for all of them.