Flu Season in NC

We were all hunched over in flecked mauve chairs made of a polyester blend with the local channel 14 news playing in the background. There was me, of course, a 45 year old mother of two. There was a mother with a young son in her arms, whimpering almost inaudibly. There were a few 20-somethings in standard 20-something uniform of leggings and Uggs or sweatpants and North Face jackets. There was an elderly gentleman, grandfatherly and youthful on his better days, I imagine, but weak and frail on this day. And the two men who looked like regular tough guys whose energy had been drained. Each and every one of us wearing a mask. 

The waiting room was eerily quiet. Only the TV anchor’s voice droned on, too much stimulation for any of us to bear in our withered states. No one made eye contact. No one spoke or even uttered “Bless you” when someone sneezed. This is the South, where such niceties are de rigeur so the lack of response speaks volumes. There was muffled coughing, nose blowing, and deeps sighs. It was a veritable symphony of malaise.

This is flu season in North Carolina.

 

We were escorted back one by one. Each unable to stand up with proper posture. Each of us shuffling and barely uttering a word. The nurses treated us with a certain reverence reserved for people like us, the infirm and quiet sufferers. A pathetic lot we were. 

I was given the once over. The doctor declared the flu that I knew I had. Rest. Fluids. Something for my cough. I left, insurance card in hand. I checked out easily, making a small payment to cover my services. It’s the beginning of the year so deductibles haven’t been met. It was a modest amount I had to pay. We are fortunate to have solid health care coverage. I don’t take it, or my health, for granted. Ever. 

And then one by one bills were being negotiated. More people filed into the waiting room, donning the day’s latest in surgical mask fashion. More negotiations. Debates about what the affordable options would be to get treatment, the ER or urgent care. Not-so-hushed tones overlaid with more discrete murmurs played out in a verbal ballet of payment options. The ever so patient staff worked diligently with each patient, trying to find affordable care for them all. Some left without being seen by the doctor, unable to pay. My heart ached. The staff looked on in despair, never inured to this scene that must play out daily.

I made my way out the door and just sat in my car for a moment, wondering how we got here, to this uncompassionate place where money talks louder than the whimpering and wails of sick children. How can there be a room full of suffering, sick people, children among them, who are questioning if they can afford treatment? The choice between feeding your child and getting medicine for your child is a real issue in this country. In every town in America people are suffering, being denied the very right to live a healthy life. It’s especially dire in North Carolina where the governor has blocked Medicaid expansion.

This isn’t meant to be a political diatribe. I’m simply extraordinarily sad and angry. Are we as a nation making a Darwinian selection to determine who carries on, leaving the poor in our wake? I felt guilty leaving the doctor’s office, having paid my small bill and leaving with nary a thought, knowing a $5 prescription was awaiting me at my local pharmacy. I never questioned the affordability of my care. I do, however, question the compassion of this nation. The mere fact that we have politicized health care says it all. At what point do we stop and see we are talking about people, not politics? Sometimes I think we’d be better off to just have a room full of regular people solving our country’s problems instead of politicians politicking. I don’t have the answers, but I have a million questions. 

For starters, can you imagine being the person behind a desk denying a mother care for her sick child who lies feverish and withdrawn in her arms?

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