US health-care reform by numbers

We go behind the figures that have dominated debate on the Senate bill

The US Senate has voted in favour of the historic health-care reform bill today. The bill -- which some critics say has been heavily compromised and others say not enough -- must now be reconciled with a different version passed by the House of Representatives, a process that will begin in mid-January.

This landmark move follows months of political wrangling. It has been a process characterised by vicious partisan debate, wildly varying figures and exaggerated statements (remember the controversy over the NHS having "death panels"?). Here, we go behind the numbers to see what the costs will be, who stands to benefit, and what's been going on behind the scenes.

On 19 November, the Senate majority leader, Harry Reid, unveiled the health-care bill. He said that it would cover 94 per cent of the population, extending coverage to 31 million uninsured people, at a cost of $848bn over ten years.

Are there really 31 million people uninsured?

The number is actually much higher, but the question of which of these people are deserving of government assistance is hotly disputed.

According to the US Census Bureau, there were 47 million people who at some point had no insurance at all in 2009. That's more than 15 per cent of the population. However, the uninsured is a fluid group, and this oft-quoted figure includes the short-term uninsured -- those between jobs, or recent immigrants.

The non-partisan Kaiser Family Foundation found that 79 per cent of these people are American citizens (the remainder are immigrants). Two-thirds of those citizens are near or below the poverty line.

The figure of 31 million in the bill is less than the overall number of 47 million, because the bill is aimed at the long-term uninsured, and caters for US citizens only.

Republicans have disputed the figure, claiming that when you remove nine million non-citizens, about ten million covered by Medicaid or other contingency plans, five million childless adults (apparently not deserving of health insurance) and ten million who are a comfortable distance from the poverty line, the number of those actually uninsured is 10.6 million.

Where did the $848bn figure come from?

The Congressional Budget Office (CBO) cost element of $848bn given by Reid was cut down -- at least in part -- by delaying many elements of the bill from 2013 to 2014. The delayed elements include the establishment of insurance exchanges and subsidies for the poor.

But where is the money coming from?

This is a crucial difference between the bill in the Senate and the one in the House of Representatives. Let's deal with the Senate bill (the one voted on today). Most of the funding for this would come from a tax on high-end, or "Cadillac" insurance. It would be assessed for plans valued at $8,500 for individuals or $23,000 for families, with higher thresholds for high-risk workers and people living in states with costlier premiums.

There would also be an increase on Medicare payroll tax for top earners, with the rate rising from 1.45 per cent to 1.95 per cent for couples earning more than $250,000. A 5 per cent tax would be levied on elective cosmetic medical procedures.

What about the claim that health care will consume 20 per cent of GDP by 2017?

First, it's worth noting that the Centres for Medicare and Medicaid Services, which made this claim, said pretty much exactly the same thing in 2006 (slightly different figures, same conclusion).

It's not true. A study in the journal Health Affairs, published in August 2008, found that covering all of the uninsured within the existing private-based US health-care system would increase national spending on health care by $122.6bn, which would represent a 5 per cent increase in health-care spending, amounting to 0.8 per cent of GDP. It included the caveat that the details of the plan could push government spending higher.

Dr Leonard Rodberg, a US academic, gave testimony to the Congressional Forum on National Lessons for Health Reform in April this year. He argued that a single-payer national health insurance plan would not cost the US any more than it was already spending, while providing every American with comprehensive health care and building in mechanisms to contain future growth in costs.

On the subject of rising costs, the Kaiser Family Foundation found that family insurance premiums (currently paid partly by employers and partly by the employee) will average $30,800 by 2019, if increases stick to the average of the past ten years. This year, the average premium for a family policy offered at work was $13,300, up from $5,800 in 1999.

The money behind the scenes

America's lobby groups are notoriously powerful, and the health-care industry is a big hitter. It has spent hundreds of millions of dollars this year alone.

Most of this goes on donations to strategically important politicians. Senator Joe Lieberman, an independent who caucuses with the Democrats, has received more than $110,000 in donations from a single health insurance company, Aetna, this year alone.

There are six registered health-care lobbyists for every member of Congress.

Meanwhile, the Obama administration has been offering financial incentives of its own. The government will fund Medicaid, the insurance plan for the poor, in Nebraska -- led by Senator Ben Nelson, one of the most conservative Democrats -- at a reported cost of $100m.

It has also been reported that Vermont will receive $600m over ten years, while Massachusetts will receive $500m.

 

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Samira Shackle is a freelance journalist, who tweets @samirashackle. She was formerly a staff writer for the New Statesman.

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad