The Real Death Panels

Last night, I made a trip to the pharmacy to pick up the medications that, well, keep me alive. I left, instead, empty handed because I could not afford my medications. My insurance had changed its plan on me, so that it no longer paid $2,000 per semester for medications, but rather, $2,000 per year. As someone with a chronic illness, that is absolutely nothing. Had I paid for my medications last night–Advair, Singulair, and Allegra–I would’ve been less more than $400. As I walked back home, I pondered my options. I couldn’t beg my parents for money every month. They can’t afford to pay that much every month, either. I once looked into a prescription program through the state, but I wasn’t eligible because I’m not a legal resident of the state I live in now. It occurred to me on this trip home that insurance companies were the real death panels. It was they who really decided who was to live and who was to die. Because I have severe asthma and allergies requiring medications to keep my airways open, and therefore cost my insurance a lot of money each month, I was marked for death. My previous insurance did this to me once, too, after a concussion. They refused to pay for my doctor visits because it was an accident, then raised my bill, first, by $15 a month, then by $40. My mother canceled her own insurance in order to afford this. When she developed degenerative disks in her back last year, she had no insurance to cover her medications or doctor bills, so she initially refused treatment for months because she knew she couldn’t afford it. She was in too much pain to drive, dress, or bathe herself, and her emails to me began to contain hints of suicide after my father was diagnosed with cancer.

How is it that we praise our country as such a free, democratic society, when our citizens cannot afford their own medications? Did my ancestors fight against what they saw as British tyranny so that, over two-hundred years later, I could slowly begin going into respiratory arrest the same way that my grandpa, who had the same insurance, died? Do we, like Nathan Hale once famously stated, each day regret that we have but one life to give for our system of government that allows our citizens to die for lack of affordable health care?

And why don’t we have affordable health care, anyway? Each day of the Iraq war costs the US $720 million–that’s $500,000 per minute on war, imperialism, and death in the Middle East. That money could be used to provide 163,525 people health care every day. Every day? That’s enough to provide health care for everyone in the United States that needs it. Why must our tax dollars be spent on death, and not life? The Declaration of Independence declares that all have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Where is my right to life if I cannot afford my medications, and how can I be free to live my life or be happy if I am sick? America needs a new system of health care that would ensure the wellness of all people. Instead of protesting an unborn child’s right to life, why not demand the right to life of the already born?

On Being Human

Whenever things go wrong with my body, I find that I feel strangely human. That is, when I feel well, I don’t really ponder the state of my body or my finite existence, or if I do, my ponderances seem different–more far away and eventual than something to worry about at this point in my life. When I feel bad, though, I can’t ignore my own vulnerabilities. I can’t escape to my life of the mind when my body is demanding immediate attention. Today was one of those days, when my routine check-up revealed that I am in the beginning stages of hypertension, thanks to my medications.

I’d known something was wrong for a while, but ignored it. A part of me didn’t want to know something else was wrong. I just hoped I didn’t someday faint in a public place. As I heard my latest diagnosis, I readied myself to inform her that, you know what? I’m not taking any more medications, thank you very much. I’m tired of putting a small pharmacy in my body every day. I’m tired of going back to the pharmacy pretty much every week. I’m tired of spending $700-900+ per month on my medications. The problem is, I still like breathing and staying out of the hospital. So, begrudgingly, I’ll still go to that pulmonologist appointment tomorrow, even though I’m tired of being examined for signs of allergy inflammation and I’m tired of some doctor listening to my lungs and I’m tired of trying to blow out all the candles on the computer screen’s birthday cake (I’m a big girl and can use an electronic peak flow meter without Kindergarten graphics, thanks) and, most of all, I’m tired of my insurance paying about $1,000 per visit, only for me to get another letter from my insurance months later saying that she can bill me for still more, then another letter saying she has graciously decided to not completely squeeze me dry yet.

Of course, what I’m really tired of is having a chronic illness in the first place. I’m tired of having to keep a lookout around me to make sure no one is smoking. I’m tired of having to actually give up my seat at the bus stop to go stand in the rain to get away from some rude smoker who, in this case, actually followed me out into the rain to silently stand next to me as if I were the rude one for getting up and leaving as soon as she sat down next to me. It’s okay. Please do make your little point that you can smoke wherever you want outside and piss off as many people as possible in the process. I didn’t need to breathe. I digress. While we’re on the matter, though, I’m also sick of having to think of the mall as some form of purgatory for all the smells I must endure, from the smokers lining the doorways, sidewalks, and bus stop, to the perfumes everywhere I look, to the dyes in fabrics, to candles and incense burning in stores. In winter, just walking through the mall causes my scarf to smell like a mix of perfumes, which causes me to have an asthma attack as soon as I go outside and put it back around my mouth and nose.

Usually, I don’t really worry about all the medicines I take and all the effort involved in staying healthy, but today I find myself tired of it all and just wishing I could remember what it was like to not be on any medication whatsoever. Unfortunately, the last time I wasn’t on any medications, my asthma and allergies became so bad that my peak flow reading was so low, the school nurse was amazed I’d even been able to walk in the office. If the nebulizer treatment she gave me hadn’t raised my peak flow so much, I would’ve been hospitalized. So, my memories of not being on medications are vague because I was so very sick and didn’t even really notice it, simply because I felt so bad.

It’s strange for me to have gone from being such a healthy child to an adult that seems to be collecting ailments, allergies, and medications. It’s strange to have such a reinforcement of my own vulnerabilities and mortality. It seems much more normal for me to worry about everyone else but myself as if nothing will ever happen to me, but here I am just as human and as fragile as anyone else. Is it too late to be a demigod?

Asthma, I Hate You

I am once again sick with my asthma. Monday, shortly after writing a post about how much I loved my AeroChamber spacer, I had an asthma attack and had to have an emergency nebulizer treatment (no, the irony of this isn’t lost on me). I was placed on stronger medications and felt wonderful–until Thursday. Thursday, my apartment was completely rewired. I had left a note politely asking that the electricians didn’t open my windows because I am severely allergic to ragweed. When I came home, I had an asthma attack almost as soon as I walked in the door. Not only had they opened my balcony door and window, they had gone out onto my balcony and littered it with snack wrappers and Dunkin Donut cups, keeping both the door and screen door open this entire time. On top of that, they decided to trash my apartment and go through some of my things. I was irate. Friday, I took the liberty of walking into the apartment manager’s office and dumping all of my medications on her desk while I told her exactly how severe my asthma is and what the electricians did. I also calculated exactly how much my medications had cost both me and my insurance during the month of August. As it turns out, her son has asthma too, so she was angry for me.

While I’m happy that she listened to me and is going to yell at the head electrician for me and get back with me on Monday, this doesn’t change the fact that I’ve been getting sicker and sicker since Thursday night. Now, I’m back to the point where I have horrible nightmares because I’m not getting enough oxygen to my brain when I sleep, and I wake up more tired than when I went to bed. My classes begin again next week, and now it looks like I have to look forward to feeling like a zombie.

I write this not in seeking sympathy, but so that anyone who reads this will, perhaps, understand that when someone asks you to not do something because s/he has allergies, s/he really isn’t kidding and your not listening can seriously make him/her ill. So, in short: Don’t be a jerk. That is all.

Asthma, I Hate You

Fate: Write an entry about how much you love your AeroChamber spacer, and you will need an emergency nebulizer treatment only an hour later. Then you’ll be placed on maximum doses of Advair, another nasal spray, and told to buy eye drops.

From now on, I’m not saying I like anything. (That should last about five minutes.) It only serves to jinx yourself. Anybody else feel like crashing some townhall discussions about health care and screaming until there’s socialized medicine in the US?

Love Letter to My AeroChamber

Dear AeroChamber,

I love you. I love the way you sit there, longingly, waiting for me to come back to you without complaint if I shove you in a cardboard box and don’t play with you again for almost a year. Thank you, darling, for making it so much easier to get full doses of my Ventolin in ragweed season. You are, indeed, my Princess Charming, saving me from months of zombification and, so far, emergency nebulizer treatments. When life takes my breath away, you help my Ventolin inhaler breathe it back into me. I love you. I do. I want to take you on a picnic in the park and walk hand-in-hand with you through fields of flowers, but if I did that, I worry I would end up in the hospital from having gotten you covered in ragweed pollen. See you in three more hours.

XOXOX

How Much Is Sleep Worth on the Black Market?

In our commercial-based economy, how much is sleep worth? Speaking as someone suffering from nighttime asthma lately, I’d really like to know. Naturally, I googled this question, just to see what would come up. While I didn’t find out the cost of sleep (how shocking), I did find a handy sleep calculator that lets you figure out your sleep debt. The problem with this creation is expecting the sleep deprived to remember something . . .

So, it looks like this is one we will have to ponder for ourselves, dear readers. Personally, I’m guessing that sleep would be obscenely expensive and only the wealthy could afford it. Or, perhaps it’s as easy as finding out how much sleeping pills cost. According to an online pharmacy I found, sleeping pills range from $59 (for 30 tablets) to $215 (for 120). Thus, this is $1.96-$1.79 per pill. Would you want to pay $2/night for sleep for the rest of your life? That’s $730 a year to be able to sleep, or $36,500 for fifty years. Can you afford to sleep at those prices?

Nighttime Asthma? Well, Join the Club.

This is what youtube is for, after all. (Tell me this isn’t the most awesome video ever.)

There’s Nothing Like Your Asthma Acting Up to Reinforce That Whole “Chronic Illness” Thing

What Does Secondhand Smoke Do to an Asthmatic?

The short answer: It causes an asthma attack, which can potentially be life-threatening, should the asthmatic go into respiratory arrest; likewise, secondhand smoke can increase the severity of attacks of those with asthma. Also, secondhand smoke can cause asthma and a number of other diseases in those who must be around the smoke often.

 

The long answer: It greatly affects the quality of life of an asthmatic. An asthma attack is the most obvious, dramatic result of secondhand smoke, but the effects go beyond the acute attack. Without enough oxygen, the asthmatic’s organs slow down, causing the person to become sluggish. The asthmatic may not even fully realize what is happening, thinking s/he is just tired, until s/he is near collapse. This is when things become truly dangerous because respiratory arrest, and possibly death, are just around the corner. The asthmatic at this point requires immediate emergency treatment at a hospital, which can be very expensive. Being around secondhand smoke can cause asthma to worsen, requiring more daily medications–and more money from the patient. After a while, insurances often cap out on medications, leaving the asthmatic to pay hundreds of dollars every month just to keep breathing and functioning, on top of any other medical expenses s/he might have. Additionally, it often means more trips to one’s pulmonologist later to make sure asthma is still under control, which means still more money from the asthmatic. While you, the smoker, may think you’re just relaxing and taking a smoke, you are significantly affecting the quality of life of the people around you, especially if that person is an asthmatic.