Whose in charge here?

When we first moved into our new home, we were strapped for money—such is life when you subsist from paycheck to paycheck—and just my luck to have a crisis land in my lap at all the wrong times. But first, a little background. We have been living without health insurance for many months now. We cut it from my partner’s bi-monthly benefits because the extra $200 a month was necessary in order to survive. In the months since we cancelled insurance we have managed to escape any broken bones, infections or odd bodily occurrences that usually send one running for medical attention. Once in the home and during our first homeowner financial crunch, we experienced some sobering conditions.

First was my own health concern. I reluctantly made an appointment when I realized that, without my own good health, I cannot care for my children—if mom is pooped out, everyone else is crapped on. Fortunately, my NP was kind and empathetic to my situation and charged the bare minimum for my visit. What a kind soul. I seemed to be okay save for a few things that needed follow-up. She referred me to Volunteers in Medicine. That was a dead-end. VIM is for the working uninsured; apparently mothers do not work—well, not in their terms. No worries, there is another qualifier. If married I could receive medical care by virtue of my spouse’s employment. Sure, okay, great. Just one problem, I cannot be married, I don’t know if you caught the universal homo buzzword in the first paragraph, “partner”. I am a chic, with a chic—see, we’re gay. “No marriage license, no care” So, wait, I’m confused am I being discriminated against for not being married or for being gay.

Then my son and his unexplained fever. He had had the fever for a few days, kind of sporadic at first and then becoming more consistent. I knew from experience to check his throat—the last unexplained fever accompanied severe strep throat. I looked and became frantic—the white spot in his throat was like a cosmic reminder that mom’s chicken soup and the food pyramid cannot prevent all creepies into the body of a child. I cannot even explain or put into words the fear that coursed through me at that moment. We had about $40.00 in the bank for another week and then, with our first mortgage payment being due, we would not be much better off. I was so scared and the more I read on the internet, while looking for alternative treatments, the more scared I became. Helpless. My child was sick—there was an infection in his body, money was nil, all we had was credit and that was tight. But that’s how we live; credit is our savings account—welcome to my reality.

I called the health department clinics in my area and out of my area. The first had no doctor in that day, ergo; I could not have my son seen there for any kind of diagnosis or prescription. The second’s computers were down; she suggested I apply for Medicaid. Perhaps you didn’t understand, he’s struggling with a really high fever, the application process for Medicaid takes, what 2 weeks? Actually, it’s 4-6 weeks. Yeah, even better—that sounds like a grand plan. I’ll apply and keep the Tylenol pumping until we hear back. I’m dealing with brilliance here. But wait, she had one more comeback—the ER. Why didn’t I think of that? Fuck it. Backing up and turning around from that dead-end, I called the health department directly. The phone was answered by a woman who sounded as if I disturbed her sleep. Any explanation to her regarding my situation was futile—she could not help me, I needed Medicaid. Are you joking? Is it possible that they are reading the same health department handbook, at the same time? Never mind that she clicked me into hold three times during our conversation. I guess if social services were hospitable it might encourage use and certainly then, abuse of their “hospitality” therefore, they must be disrespectful, curt and abrasive so the bottom-feeders don’t rise and the inquisitors don’t stay.

Finally, defeated I was, I called a walk-in clinic at the beach. I explained that I did not have insurance but asked if I could pay with my credit card. The receptionist was nice, I felt like I had an ally, finally following my morning at war with social services. Of course I could--$100.00, “what time can you be here?” I was on my way after my shower and getting my little guy out of bed. See, this system is different. They are nice to you because you are a customer. In this scenario I had a modicum of value—not much mind you because the fact that I had seen strep throat in my son before had no bearing in that office. I needed a doctor’s, or in this case, a NP’s “expert” diagnosis. But I was paying for a service—standard customer/service provider relationship. Nevertheless, I left there with my dignity, $100.00 racked up on my dwindling credit card and a prescription for another $40.00--the chalky cure. Earlier in the morning I was not a customer but a seeker of social services and not the good kind. Not the kind that we respect and smile on like social security (disability and retirement) or those that compensate our military. No—these are the “other” kind of social services, for the vermin, bottom-feeders of society. The kind we provide begrudgingly and sparingly only so we do not face rotting corpses in the street or other such public blemishes on our collective soul (and reputation).

Other countries have universal health care. Imagine. By virtue of being a citizen of the country, you are entitled to health care. What a concept.

Fuck you system. Fuck you for causing me grief over the health of my son. Fuck you no universal health care. Fuck you City Government. Fuck you Health Department—for making me feel marginal, for your apathy, for your tone, for your disconnection and haste. I ought to withhold the fruit of my children from this nation for making me fret so—how many other mothers cry over the health of their children, for conditions more severe than strep throat? How many other mothers crawl toward this system designed to annihilate their self-worth having them pinned under you while you wield their dignity like a conqueror’s flag? How many children harbor infections in their bodies while mothers juggle priorities, pay and don’t pay bills and call upon the apathetic, robotic resources of the system—kneeling before them and deferring to their ambivalence? Fuck you system, fuck you. Fuck you walk-in clinic for being my only option.

Apathetic
divide my spirit into
bits you devour

SYSTEMS
robotic, hypnotic
crushing life