For those of us that are still negotiating the sturdiest rail of the fence on the issue of health care, there may be a way to see it all more clearly. First, you must have a parent spread two pats of butter on a slice of bread. Then wait sixty years until you feel your first unmistakable incident of chest pain.
Convince yourself that it is not heartburn, then make an appointment with your physician, although still waffling as to whether the pain is a pulled muscle from your last maneuver in weight training... nine years ago.
Your doctor will ask how you feel, and you will reluctantly mention the chest pain. With a concerned look that you never wanted to see on the face of your doctor, she schedules you for a stress test, the mere mention of which is stressful enough. So on Friday the medical people begin the process of entering you into the system. They tag you, lay you down under a mountain of paper work, and run a humongous x-ray machine all around your body for a 360-degree view of what can only be described as your personal neglect of the only body you have. They want a picture of your heart at rest. Secretly you know that the picture will be incomplete without the double cheeseburger in your hand, but you chose not to mention it. These people have no sense of humor about those things. At this point, it all becomes personal.
A young intern escorts me to the treadmill room, where I remove my shirt and he attaches little sensors all over my chest. He tries to make light conversation, mentioning the fact that he has plans to break up with his long distance girlfriend this weekend. He doesn’t love her anymore. His only problem is that he doesn’t know how to do it over the phone. All of a sudden I’m very worried that this apparent sadist has his hand on my treadmill controls. As Master Po, I try to advise Grasshopper with a pearl of wisdom: a woman prefers this kind of honesty face-to-face, as opposed to over the phone. But Dr. Strangelove is having none of it, determined to end it this weekend; unlimited minutes, I guess.
As I walk the treadmill at slow speed, it's easy. I mention to the intern that I’m tempted to do a Chuck Berry duck walk or, at the very least a Milton Berle. But doctor peachfuzz shakes me back to reality with "Milton who?" The pace quickens every 10 minutes until finally I begin to feel that same chest pain coming on. He makes notations then returns me to x-ray to take pictures of my heart at stress. I’m only comforted to know that my heart is in better shape than his girlfriend’s heart will be on Monday. But I digress.
The senior doctor – the one with the serious face - comes in to tell me that the stress test was "inconclusive," which is medical-ese for "we’ve found a way to get more money from your insurance company." So they schedule me for a cardiac catheterization on Monday morning. I’m assured by the doctor, who is black (and, yes, it made a difference from a standpoint of this patient's comfort with no other AAs on staff), that it will be an out-patient procedure, using a local anesthetic, which will check out my arteries for blockage. If an artery is partially blocked, they will insert a stent to open it up. If the artery is too far gone, they will do a bypass. OK, now they’ve got my undivided attention. He further explains that he has personally performed about 2,000 of these procedures and never had a complication. It’s an easy sale; I buy it, promising him a copy of my new book.
The procedure is executed flawlessly, and no blockage is discovered. Major relief, while trying to back-peddle on some of the promises I made to God. He tells me that He never really bought it, but He will insist on the Smart Balance replacement of Land of Lakes. Cool.
One week after the procedure, I’m my old self again – feeling great and ready to restart light exercise and embark upon a new dietary journey that will inevitably lead me through someone’s vegetable garden. But when the mail arrives with a copy of the invoice being forwarded to my insurance company, the total of $6,100 stops me on my treadmill. "Wow! Is this what President Obama is talking about?" Six thousand dollars for a little outpatient procedure? Outrageous! A few days after that another bill arrives. Turns out that the six large was just the charge for the stress test and x-ray. Suddenly, I’m jealous of the intern’s girlfriend. She got screwed, but at least, I assume, she got flowers. The invoice for the outpatient procedure is $11,995. Brother Doctor must be a Republican. He won’t get a copy of my book. Oh, he’ll receive it...
but he won’t "get it."