I shocked my insurance adjuster when I told her how much a lithotripsy costs.
Two kidney stones. One in each kidney. One golfball sized, one more like the size of a quarter. They were blocking the flow, and while it was not yet so much that I was in kidney failure, nor was kidney failure quite imminent, I was nevertheless being sent to the hospital As Soon As Possible.
The problem? My good job with good benefits kicked me to the curb because I was out all the time, going home after half a day nauseated and crying and unable to work. I didn’t know what the hell was wrong with me until finally – in the middle of the stones shifting again, in the middle of vomiting and sobbing in the doctor’s office as they tried to pour water down my throat before the MRI, after I’d taken yet another day off my new temp secretary job to see if this other test would work – they found the bastards. I told my new boss I would need surgery, I’d be out in no more than three days, the surgery was in two weeks. My contract was terminated the Friday before the surgery.
I was lucky: I had a doctor who was willing to do the procedure. I still owe him money: three thousand for the doctor, another fifteen hundred for the anesthesiologist, thirteen thousand for the hospital… soon you start talking about real money. I live with my parents now so I can pay it all off slowly.
But then there’s Bob. Bob walked everywhere because he couldn’t afford a bicycle, let alone a car. One day, he collapsed with a herniated disc. He had no insurance, so he lay on a gurney in the Catholic hospital down the road, screaming piteously and nearly pissing himself because the nurses wouldn’t even help him to the lavatory (we helped him, at last, and between him and the person helping him he collapsed and slipped and fell and really did lose control at that point. I have never forgiven that hospital and will never go there, not even if I am having a heart attack. Seton can get … mmph, I’m not in the Pit).
The only way Bob got help – after being prescribed pain medication to take like candy – was to find someone four states away willing to hire him temporarily so he could get health insurance. Wonder of wonders, now he can walk without a cane and without horrible pain.
The point is this: you cannot plan for medical emergencies. It is morally bankrupt to advise people to get stuffed when they have slow wasting conditions or problems that make it impossible to work. It’s idiotic and, in the long run, more expensive to treat the symptoms rather than the cause. If I had not found a sympathetic doctor, I would have had to wait until my kidneys began to fail so I could be put into dialysis and THEN get the same damned procedure done. If done at the taxpayer’s expense, it would be ten or so times more than fifteen thousand dollars.
So: rather than cure the sick and make it possible for them to be productive citizens, we give them painkillers and tell them to stick it out, pull themselves up by their bootstraps, and have the foresight to have health insurance next go-round. It seems that by ‘emergency’, we mean ‘death is imminent’.