by Richard Sebastian
Are you alive? Are you part of the baby-buster, twentysomething, 13th Generation? Are you uninsured? If so, than chances are that one day -- but hopefully not too soon -- you, too, will be crying in your cup.
Why? If you have merely browsed through a newspaper in the past year, you know why: more and more young people are finding it impossible to land full-time jobs. More often than not, these unemployed and underemployed people do not have a lick of health insurance. They're young and robust with a lifetime and a world ahead of them. But they are also poor. And, unfortunately, many of them are finding themselves in expensive, unexpected little emergencies that they cannot afford, much less comprehend.
Even the most minor of injuries can financially cripple these young job hunters and working families. The American health care system is merciless.
My wife and I know this from first-hand experience.
We are a young, hardworking couple in our twenties, who, due to large college loan payments and sporadic employment, are not prospering. Neither of us has had insurance for years. I haven't been to a dentist since they started wearing protective gloves and face shields. That's a long time.
But since there was nothing we could do about it, we decided not to worry too much. We just hoped that we would stay miraculously healthy for the remainder of our temporary "sorry-no-benefits" lives.
Then one day, out of the blue, an eensy-weensy little ball of minerals decided to venture out of my wife's kidneys and take a stroll down her rosy-red bladder, where it promptly got stuck. We rushed to the hospital.
The doctors took x-rays and gave my wife some painkillers and left. A doctor soon breezed into the room, declared the problem to be a kidney stone and sent us home with a bill for $570.
We were baffled by the amount, in spite of the number of times we had heard about skyrocketing health care costs. Besides, the kidney stone was still there.
After examining the bill, we figured out that the doctor had charged us by the syllable. Kid-ney stone had only three. What if she had had car-pal tun-nel syn-drome or an up-per res-pir-a-tory in-fec-tion?
After three more emergency visits for the same problem, my wife's doctor finally suggested surgery, or else "her kidney might die." I told her not to worry about it -- she'd still have one left.
That didn't seem to comfort her. So we scheduled the surgery.
No one could tell us how much surgery would cost. Not even an estimate. We mentioned that auto mechanics don1t even have to finish high school and they give estimates, but the hospital staff didn't seem bothered.
So, they performed the surgery on my wife and made a remarkable discovery.
The nettlesome kidney stone was not even there! It was gone.
In the end, we owed a total of about $6,000. I was going to write a check for the total balance and send it to MCV, but I realized that they probably wouldn't think that was too funny. Instead, I contacted MCV's accounting office to ask for financial assistance.
The voice on the other end of the phone line was about as comforting as a peptic ulcer. No, she said, my wife and I made too much money. Could we please write a check for at least $100 and mail it to MCV?
You see, what I failed to realize was that my wife and I are greedy and selfish, despite our poverty. And furthermore, my wife was irresponsible for getting sick without having the proper insurance. The accounting representative helped me see all of this.
Some advice: Never get sick or have an accident without insurance. Otherwise, it's your fault.
After hours of haggling, bartering, yelling and flattering, the impassive accounting rep finally allowed me to pay a reasonable monthly rate. I agreed to pay $35 a month. For the next 13 years.
But it wasn't over yet. The voice on the phone line told me to come down to MCV and sign a payment contract. Weary and frazzled, I acquiesced.
As I dutifully read over the contract in the billing office, I was surprised to find such phrases as "waive the right to" and words like "forfeit." The legal representative told me not to worry about all the confusing legalese. The contract, she said, was for my benefit.
I asked how waiving my rights benefited me.
Her back stiffened and her sweet demeanor immediately curdled. Sensing this, I asked her if I was legally required to sign the document at all.
"By law, no. You don't," she curtly replied, reiterating that the contract was strictly for my own personal benefit.
I told her thanks, but no thanks. To my surprise she snatched the papers from my hand and huffed out the room. I wrote a check for $35, gave it to the receptionist and left.
As I left the office, I was thinking to myself: If you are alive and uninsured, you are going to get screwed.
