Insurance: The Great Necessity

I spent last weekend in Chicago. If that raises thoughts of "Oh, Lordy, I feel for you," fret not. The area we stayed in was quite nice, and I never felt a moment's distress when walking around. The DH had a meeting to attend, and I went along for the ride and to see if I could be of any assistance. As it turned out, I had time to stroll around and see the shops and flowers of the Magnificent Mile (and I've got some lovely pix as well, on a different blog).

I spotted a great-looking urban garden show that I planned to visit on Sunday, but alas, fate intervened. The group that was meeting hopped into taxis on Saturday night and we all sped off to a restaurant where we had reservations. Only when we pulled up did I realize it was a seafood restaurant.

Why is that a problem? Because about ten years ago I had a bad allergic reaction to seafood, and haven't touched it since.

Not wanting to be a party pooper, I figured there'd be chicken or steak or something on the menu, and gamely went in. Sure enough, there were some things on the menu I could eat. After telling the waitress to be careful with my order because of my allergy, I ordered a nice chicken dish, and a Caesar salad.

Now, those of you out there who know better than I did about the ingredients in a handmade Caesar salad will be feeling ominous prickles about now.

I don't live the high life. I don't frequent the kind of expensive restaurant I was sitting in at that moment. I'm used to Caesar salad dressing out of a bottle, and I'd been eating Caesar salads at restaurants for years and thought nothing of it.

Except that when they make real Caesar dressing by hand, they sometimes put in anchovy paste.

Maybe the waitress forgot that detail. I know I did. But I was reminded soon enough. I was just snarfing down the last leaves in the bowl when I felt my chest tighten up. Then my throat. I felt the adrenaline rush, and realized I wasn't swallowing right. "Oh, crap!" I thought. "I know what this is." I turned to the DH and said, "I don't feel good. I need to leave."

We hopped in a taxi and took off in the direction of the hotel. I was thinking we'd pick up some Benadryl at the nearby Walgreen's. But as the feeling of impending doom grew stronger, I said, "I think I'd rather go to the hospital."

Now, the emergency room at a downtown Chicago hospital on a Saturday night -- which coincidentally turned out to be prom night -- is a hopping place. The waiting room wasn't bad at all. We checked in right away, and I shoved a Blue Cross card over the counter, which was practically my ticket in. Since I was still breathing reasonably well -- I was doing deep breathing exercises to keep oxygenated and to monitor my airways -- I had to wait a bit, but they got me into a bed in a timely manner. But behind the doors, it was bedlam. Plenty of car wrecks thanks to the prom, and one woman, perhaps on drugs, who completely lost control and was screaming over and over again. I never saw her, because the curtain in my little space was closed, but I heard the jingling of the straitjacket as they brought it out.

They got the I.V. in and pumped me full of antihistamines. First Benadryl, which about made me pass out, and I had to yell for a nurse or I would have blacked out completely. That's all I needed -- a cracked head from falling off the bed. Then the pumped in another antihistamine, then a steroid for the swelling. About twenty minutes later, I felt the tightness relax. One of the many interns I saw that night said, "Wow, your oxygen levels are really good." After all those deep breathing exercises I'd done, I should hope so. Shows they really work. By then I was exhausted and ready to go back to the hotel. I figured a good night's sleep, maybe sleep in a bit, and I'd still be in good enough shape to take a leisurely stroll down to the garden show.

But oh, no. It was not to be. After being poked and prodded by a whole flock of interns -- this being a teaching hospital -- a doctor came in and said he wasn't convinced it was an allergic reaction because I didn't have a rash or hives. No matter that I told him I never got hives. He declared it must be my heart, and I'd better stay the night.

Oh, crap.

I told them there wasn't a thing wrong with my heart, that I'd been diagnosed with a seafood allergy, and that this was exactly what I'd experienced before. Would they listen? Not a bit of it. Could be your heart, they said. We need to be sure. They took me upstairs, and the DH camped out by my bed, curled up on the floor.

It was not what you might call a restful night. I still had the I.V. needle stuck in my arm, though it wasn't hooked up to anything. One of those "just in case" things, I guess. I had electrodes taped all over my chest, hooked up to a monitor that sat there huffing and puffing and beeping all night, like some kind of electronic octopus sucking at my flesh. Twice in the night they wheeled in the EKG machine and ran tests to make sure the ticker was still ticking. It was. I told them it was. Nothing wrong with this heart. But oh, they said, we'll find out when you do the stress test in the morning.

Oh, crap, crap, crap. And how long would that take? I had a plane to catch on Sunday evening!

The next morning, I couldn't have breakfast until I did the test. Mother's Day, no son of mine, no breakfast in bed. I wished myself a Crappy Mother's Day as the nurse rearranged the schedule so I could get the test done earlier and be off on time.

The echocardiogram was an interesting enough procedure, once it got started, but of course, in a busy hospital, nothing gets started on a schedule convenient for patients. First they wheeled me upstairs and I sat staring at a blank wall in the hallway for 20 minutes, waiting for someone to come and fetch me. Finally a technician came out and took me into a room where the test would take place. I lay on a cot staring at a blank ceiling for nearly an hour, waiting for the technicians to do an echocardiogram on the woman on the other side of the curtain. You'd think they'd at least offer me a magazine or something. The only entertainment I had was the deep breathing exercises, so I breathed sloooowly away, waiting for something more interesting to happen.

Finally it was my turn. They slapped on some more electrodes, hooked me up to another electronic octopus, this one small enough to strap around my waist. Then I laid down and they did an ultrasound on my heart. I wish I had the videotape of it that I could use for teaching. I could see all the valves working away, the atria and ventricles, pumping, blood splooshing through the aorta, the whole works. Once they had that for my resting heart, it was treadmill time. No problem. I walk for exercise, and I was game for the treadmill. Being a west coast gal and very used to hiking, the incline they'd warned me about on the machine was no problem. If I can hike out of Crater Lake, I can walk their little exercise machine, by golly. After my heart rate was up, they rushed me back to the cot and did another ultrasound. The cardiologist took a glance at the results, made kind of a scoffing sound, and said, "There's nothing wrong there."

Well, I could have told them that and spared them all the trouble. But Dr. E.R. was in too big of a hurry to listen.

They wheeled me back downstairs, and the nice nurse rustled up a sandwich for me, since the breakfasts were cold by then and lunch wasn't expected for another 30 minutes or so. Still, it took them a good two hours to finally discharge me.

All this time I was trying hard not to think about how much this was going to cost. I ended up going home with a sheaf full of tests, including the EKGs, an entire cholesterol screen, blood chemistry, and all. At least I know my cholesterol, blood pressure, blood chemistry, and heart are all sound. But the dollar signs kept rolling up behind my eyeballs, registering at least four figures.

I hope, hope, HOPE Blue Cross comes through for me. I haven't seen the bill yet. Even when I do, it'll be a while longer before the insurance kicks in.

And that is why insurance is a necessity in this day and age. I'm lucky to have a good insurance company. If I hadn't, I'd be up to my eyeballs in debt at this moment. Or would I have been admitted to the hospital at all? If I'd been all swollen up and going purple, perhaps, but since I was still breathing on my own, what would have happened without the magical Blue Cross card?

The kind of treatment that I got shouldn't be a privilege of the wealthy, nor exclusively of those employed by corporations willling to shell out for insurance. Everyone needs access to good health care. I don't have a lot in the way of solutions for a system that is so commerce-driven as ours, but there must be a better way.

Not long ago, I read a book called Paris to the Moon by Adam Gopnik, a narrative of an American reporter's five years spent living in Paris. At one point in the book, the author's small son falls seriously ill, and has to be rushed off to the hospital. Once there, the boy is taken into the emergency room for treatment, and spends several days in the hospital before he's well again and can finally go home. When the ordeal is over and everyone is home safe and sound, something suddenly strikes the author: no one ever asked him for an insurance card. Nor did anyone send him a bill. In France, a sick child is simply taken care of with speed and skill. Why is it that we in America don't see fit to do the same?