Gratitude, Inc.
In the wake of Thanksgiving, something to be thankful for: health insurance.
I got it. Not through any hard work of my own. I got it through my husband's teaching job, or retained it when I left my own job for the wilds of freelance writing in '05. Our new single-stream insurance went along like most insurance, minimally used or even thought about much until it suddenly became the be-all when my husband was diagnosed with cancer a couple years back. Despite a few bureaucratic glitches, treatment was swift, comprehensive and aggressive, and my husband recovered. The path to that recovery was lined with doctors and specialists who all focused on my husband and his condition as the driving force of their action plan, the reason they were there at all. Frightening as the whole experience was, I had no doubt my husband was always the most important person in the consultation room.
Now let's talk frightening. On Thanksgiving I talked to a friend, John (not his real name), who was recently diagnosed with cancer. He lives in South Central and has no insurance, and so has been going to County-USC hospital. John found an alarming mass in chest earlier in the year, and has been trying to get a clear diagnosis and course of treatment ever since. He's still trying. He has found out some things: he has cancer. The tumor has invaded his spine and degraded a vertebrae to the point where sitting and standing at length is uncomfortable. That makes the hours-long waits he has to endure each time he goes to County that much worse; on more than occasion, he left before his number was called. When he does get called, he doesn't get the same doctor he saw before, and has to start the process of getting seen and taken care of all over again. He's managed to get a few procedures--a CT scan, a biopsy--but they haven't added up to any action. That's because John is not really considered a patient the way my husband was. He's a problem, a to-do item to check off a list, if not today, then maybe tomorrow or the next day. As well-meaning as County may be, it just can't spare the attention that John and his disease needs. To me, this is the last thing that insurance means, or even health care. In the meantime, the tumor is growing, or it's not getting any better. Time is of the essence. The cancer has weakened John's right arm and limited his range of motion, which forced him to give up a conducting gig with a youth orchestra in Pasadena. John, you see, is a musician, involved his whole life with arts nonprofits; he's also civic-minded in too many ways to count. In other words, he's not the layabout or desperado most people associate with black men living in South Central. Just a decent citizen like millions of other Americans who try and take care of themselves but who get caught up in the terror of not having insurance when catastrophe hits. For John, any health care reform that reduces his wait time--and that phrase is looming larger and larger--can't come quick enough.
John lives alone and has little family. He got invited out to Thanksgiving dinner, he says. He planned to go; he showered, shaved and got dressed. And then, he says, he just couldn't get out the door. Getting somewhere has became an oppressive concept. I hope that changes very, very soon.
This image was taken from the Anoto Group under the Creative Commons License.
