As I sit here on my patio, continuing to fight the pain, I go over what the primary care physician said: “You can go to the emergency room if this is an emergency.”
Really? I was told that we poor people use the emergency room too much like a doctor’s office. And, unfortunately, I have no way to triage myself. So, I guess, in my inferior logic, that meant I was to go to a doctor’s office and avoid the emergency room. Because if you misdiagnosed yourself, and it isn’t an emergency, then you are just one more poor person using the system incorrectly.
So I sit here, wondering what it’s like to die. And humor me, because I am an oddball. After I broke my arm from a fall in June, I got on the bus that same day so I could make it to a mental health appointment.
And forgive me, I really don’t care if health care is single-payer or free market. I only wish there were more options. I just don’t want to be sitting here, awake so early, wondering what it’s like to die. Wondering how much pain God will make me go through, first.
I want poor people to have access to getting their bodies fixed. I don’t know if that makes me a socialist. I only know that we aren’t born into this world with moneybags sewn onto our bodies. So the irony is that I’m covered insurance-wise, but discrimination by the medical community against the poor still might see me to an early grave.
Or I should face it, large efforts to keep the mentally ill alive simply do not happen. We have an unbelievable mortality rate. I have watched too many friends die young, often from illness caused by medication trials so the upper class can take them in safety. So, you’re welcome. I’m the reason your baby can receive chewable Tegretol. Actually, it horrifies me.
Sipping my tea, looking out at the gray Salt Lake City dawn. I wonder if things will be better for my children. The answer to that is: I only hope. Please hope with me. I truly don’t care what kind of insurance covers America. I only want everybody treated equally. By doctors.
Eileen Brinker
Murray