Three days in a US hospital convinced me that America needs ObamaCare

The bare-faced callousness of the American healthcare system is obvious. This isn’t a hospital; it’s the Wild West.

But is it really? Image: Getty

 

“Yeah, you’re going to need to go to the emergency room with that.”

In a healthcare drop-in centre in Brooklyn, I’m paying a man in a white coat $130 to prod my puffy red hand.

I last set foot in an A&E when I swallowed a piece of Lego, aged three. An emergency room, though? It has that “let’s not fuck about with unnecessary words” sense of American urgency to it. An emergency room is where you go when you’ve been shot seven times in the spleen. It’s where humans reduced to bloody slabs of gristle are careered about on trollies, and doctors need amounts of things, “stat”.

It started with a mosquito. For unknown reasons, a small bite on my finger ballooned and left me with a buoyant ham where my left hand used to be. Despite having been told by a dead-eyed pharmacist, “It’s fine. Take Benadryl”, there was no way (as a formidable hypochondriac) I wasn’t going to get it checked out.

My sister lives in New York, so I’ve spent a lot of time in the States, visiting her. But this is my first time navigating my way through the USA’s Kafkaesque healthcare system. First comes the paperwork, a War And Peace-thick pile of it, on which I write my name so many times that the words “Eleanor” and “Margolis” become hilariously absurd. Good thing I’m right-handed. I’ve been an American patient for fifteen minutes and I’m already starting to sweat. I bought health insurance at home, but I’m convinced that the company will play dirty; trying every trick in their sputum-dripping book not to cover me. While my hand is getting bigger and redder right before my eyes, I envisage a bill for a mighty stack of dollars. This is met with a peel of laughter by my insurance company, because I forgot to specify on their forms that I have one tit bigger than the other. “I’m sorry,” they’ll say, “We only cover the evenly-breasted. Enjoy prison.”

As the US government shutdown draws to some kind of close, maybe, I find myself lost within the system that started the whole thing.

I’m in a hospital bed, on an antibiotic drip. Some kick-ass painkillers have started to take effect, and I feel like human cheese on toast. I’m sharing my room with an elderly Hispanic lady called Carmen. Carmen is motherly and flatulent. Worried that I might catch a chill, she covers me in a blanket, then retreats behind her curtain and loudly farts.

My attempts to get to sleep are intermittently interrupted by the nearby calls of a nurse with a thick Brooklyn accent.

“Mary!” she says, again and again. I hazard a guess at Mary being a difficult patient.

Day two. I’m woken by a man’s voice.

“Miss Margolis?”

Medicated and soporific, I murmur something.

“Uh,” I say, perhaps.

The owner of the voice draws back my curtain and, to my drowsy horror, I’m met not by one person, but a crowd. I’m sprawled out in a star shape and half my face is coated in dried-up saliva. The man (a doctor) has brought along an eager troupe of young med students, to ogle my freak hand. A few pretty blonde girls in white coats jot down notes as the doctor points to bits of me and says sciencey things. Blood rushes to my cheeks.

“I am not a monster!” I want to say.

The doctor ushers the students away, and I go back to sleep. I’m next woken by the Food Bringer.

“Breakfast,” she says as she drops down a tray containing something that might be egg. I pick at whatever it is and endure a rush of overwhelming sadness. I can’t clear my mind of the fact that I’m in a place where a lot of people come to die. In another room, someone is hacking up a lung. Unable to concentrate on even the trashiest of American TV, I spend what seems like an hour poking holes in a polystyrene cup with a pencil.

“Mary, don’t touch that!”

My brother-in-law arrives with coffee. Having just been doped up with more painkillers, I gaze blankly at the ceiling while he speaks gibberish over the phone to my insurance company. Kind and attentive as the hospital staff may be, it’s hard to appreciate that you’re recovering when you have that constant, underlying fear of a giant bill.

“I know you’re in there, Mary!”

Carmen is arguing with a nurse in Spanish. I make out the words “Medicare” and “Medicaid” – America’s vestiges of socialised healthcare. Poor Carmen. I hope she’s covered.

Somewhere nearby, I can hear a nurse talking about the government shutdown.

“They just have to have their ObamaCare,” she says, her words oozing contempt.

I begin to wonder how the Republicans have managed to convince even those in the very midst of a system that punishes the poor, that the slightest implementation of state-funded healthcare is an evil, communist conspiracy.

Day three. A good-natured Polish nurse has just hooked me up to a drip and given me an injection of blood-thinner in the stomach. Carmen is leaving.

“Get better, darling,” she says, “And remember – if you need anything – money talks.”

She chuckles and exits my life. With her final words to me, Carmen may have been joking – but she’s neatly summed up the bare-faced callousness of the American healthcare system. This isn’t a hospital; it’s the Wild West. As a foreigner with travel insurance, I’m lucky enough to observe American healthcare from a safe distance. But to someone fully enmeshed, like Carmen, ObamaCare is a tiny drop in the murkiest of quagmires.

Eleanor Margolis is a freelance journalist, whose "Lez Miserable" column appears weekly on the New Statesman website.

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The internet was supposed to liberate us - let’s claim our freedom

This week the Women's Equality Party launches an e-Quality campaign against online bullying and harassment in all of its forms.

Yesterday – a sunny, energetic day in our office - someone appeared on our website, wrote that he would like to “rape all the sluts” in the Women’s Equality Party, and signed off again.

Our team of female staff read his comment, deleted it and continued working.

If we paused at every message like this, we’d never get any work done. Facing up to daily abuse might not have been formally included in my job description – or in that of our administrative officer, or our digital officer, or any other member of WE staff. But it has swiftly become part of our daily duty, nevertheless.

The abuse has heightened as our party grows. Wearying perhaps, but also a reflection of the space we now occupy on the political scene. After the fantastic results of our first election in May – when the Women’s Equality Party won more than 300,000 votes in London alone – WE provoked as much rage in some quarters as jubilation in others.

Since May we have been pressed to say what we will do next. All of those questions focused on which election we would next fight.

Our next move in fact was to prepare our submission for the Women and Equalities Select Committee inquiry into sexual harassment and sexual violence in schools. Evidence submitted to that inquiry showed the torrent of sexual abuse that young girls now face in school, including pressure to take and send sexual images that are sometimes shared widely without their consent.

Women’s rights offline have a long way to go. Women’s rights online are practically non-existent, and worse, there is an even more ingrained acceptance that this is just the way it is.

So this week WE launch our next fight for women’s rights: our e-Quality campaign against online bullying and harassment in all of its forms. We’re focusing on revenge porn because if we can get that faulty and ineffective one-year-old law rightly focused on consent and compensation, we can set a template for wider use.

Later this year we will be rolling out a national campaign for mandatory sex and relationships education in all schools; we refuse to accept the government’s opposition to this vital tool that can help end violence against women and girls.

No, it’s not the Tooting by-election that many people expected us to contest. But politics doesn’t just happen in Parliament. It happens in our communities and in our homes and in our schools.

And we want to do politics differently. We will always be looking to engage in electoral contests. But we are also looking for other ways to empower people to take action and build the broadest possible movements for change.

So with this in mind we are calling on all parties of all sizes to work on this with us - and we are optimistic as we initiate those conversations they will bear fruit.

Later this week Yvette Cooper and a group of politicians will re-launch their campaign to reclaim the Internet for women. WE are delighted to hear this and extend to them for inclusion in that campaign the specific policies that today we are unveiling:

  • To refocus UK law on revenge porn on whether the victim gave consent, rather than primarily on the perpetrator’s intention to cause distress
  • To give victims of revenge porn recourse to civil law in order to seek justice and compensation not just from the perpetrator but also from the website operators that repost non-consensual porn for profit
  • To construct digital legislation that adequately protects against online abuse and harassment in all its forms and particularly recognizes the double discrimination faced by BME women, disabled women and LGBT+ women.
  • To build equality into technology and the forces that police it by increasing the numbers of women in both fields.

The Women’s Equality Party was established with the aim of doing politics creatively. WE showed in May’s elections that we have earned the right to be heard. Now WE are asking all of the other parties to listen to our voters, set party politics aside and ensure urgently-needed protections for women and girls online.

You can read more about the campaign here. To support equal rights for women online, tweet your support with the hashtag #CtrlAltDelete so that women’s voices are no longer controlled, modified and deleted online.

Sophie Walker is leader of the Women's Equality Party.