This week I got a shiny plastic package in the mail. Christmas in October? The envelope could not be opened by fingernail, pocketknife or scissors. Eventually I tore the wrapper and found a technicolor booklet: “Here is the information you requested.”
I did not request information. Because it’s time for Medicare re-enrollment, and I qualify, insurance companies are after my money—they figure if they say “you requested,” old folks will say “Okay, I must’ve sent off for this.” But I did not. It’s up to me to get rid of the fancy package. The booklet goes immediately into recycling, but the plastic packaging I must pay to dispose of—expensive garbage I do not want or need.
My father-in-law died December 11, 2008. I have sent letters to various charities that he is no longer here to send them a check. I suppose my kids, once I am gone, will get fancy junk mail begging my corpse for money. It’s a given that old people, with diminishing cognitive and memory strengths, are targets for spurious business. My dad used to get regular mail from Publishers Clearinghouse—is it gone? Now I get endless junque mail from insurance companies—it’s time to re-up Medicare, and there’s gold in them there old folks’ pockets!
A major 2020 campaign issue is healthcare. This is a lie: health care is a personal choice—most of us brush our teeth, bathe, eat with some knowledge of health and nutrition, try to get enough sleep and exercise. Some—if they can afford it—have regular doctor visits and see specialists—chiropractors, gynecologists, dentists, eye doctors and such. People look for emotional or spiritual help from pastors, priests, and psychologists. But these are our decisions, our true healthcare. You rock your baby to sleep, you brush your teeth.
The question here, made abundantly clear in 2020, is what do we do when caring for our personal health is beyond our capacity? I am pretty sure, based on extensive research, if I came down with covid-19, I am likely to die. What role does government play in subsidizing rural hospitals, where I live, or finding a way to keep me breathing for another decade or two?
Insurance companies spend millions of dollars sending me booklets that I have to recycle. Why not government medical care instead?
My dad was career Army. Until the government closed it, my family had access to the US Public Health Service as dependents. My kid brother and sister had minor surgeries there; my mom spent her last few weeks in hospice there. The current “debate” is whether the US can offer universal medical attention for citizens and residents, as most other advanced nations do, or if we continue with the idea that medical attention is a luxury for people with money.
Our federal government does provide free or low-cost medical care. My dad, my father-in-law, and various friends were recipients of the Veterans Affairs system. Cadets at the military academies and troops at bases or on shipboard must have clinics, doctors, dentists, nurses and psychologists to tend them; even federal prisons require hospital services.
We worked for the Bureau of Indian Affairs for 12 years. Our Native American students and Native co-workers had access to Indian Health Service. Granted, the quality of medical care at any VA or Indian Hospital varies, as with private hospitals. But the point is that our government provides facilities and personnel for treatment.
When the president came down with covid-19, he was whisked to Walter Reed Hospital for intensive care and experimental treatment, as befitting his position. Believe that if McConnell, Pelosi, and other Congressional old timers get infected, they will likewise get superb attention on the taxpayer dime. Are their lives worth more than mine merely because I am an ordinary guy and not a Washington bigshot?
Voting begins this week. November 10 the Trump administration will argue for the Supreme Court to strike down the Affordable Care Act, their promised replacement plan still unseen. Vote as though your life depends on it—because it will.