Had some trauma this week when I accidentally spilled boiling hot water on my hand. I was making my morning coffee, using a cone filter cup over my thermos. I had just filled the filter cup with hot water when for some reason the filter tipped over and sent hot water and coffee grounds pouring onto my left hand, the kitchen counter, and the floor!
Painful, to say the least, but my immediate concern was the huge liquid mess all over my kitchen, just before I had to shower and get ready for work. I quickly wrapped my throbbing hand in a towel, then set about cleaning up the mess. If you've ever cleaned up spilled coffee grounds you know what a hassle that is. After 20 minutes of super-fast motion, I had cleaned up the coffee.
Minutes after the accident.
Next, I had to check my hand. I carefully peeled off the hand towel, and half the skin on my hand came with it! I felt a wave of panic rush over my body. Oh my god, what could I do? I couldn't call 911 -- I don't have any health insurance. Plus, who could cover my classes at UCLA on such short notice? I decided to quickly get dressed, put an ice pack on my hand, and drive to work.
After driving with one hand -- thank god, I'm right handed -- I made it to Westwood and stopped into the pharmacy before class. The Persian lady behind the counter was chatting in Farsi and laughing with another older lady. I looked around for something to treat my hand until they finished their conversation, then I approached the pharmacist and asked for help. I unwrapped my home-made ice pack (a ziplock filled with ice and wrapped in a towel), she barely glanced at it, shrugged disdainfully, and said, "Put some Neosporine on it," before walking away from me as if she couldn't be bothered by some stupid white guy.
Left to my own resources, I did buy some Neosporine and some spray antiseptic plus some gauze bandages. Made it to work just before nine o'clock, gave my students a quick assignment, then excused myself to the men's room to treat and wrap my wounded hand. I managed to make it through the day, but of course everyone asked what had happened. It became tedious to re-explain the situation every five minutes. By the afternoon, a large blister the size of a nickel had formed between my left thumb and forefinger. My co-teachers strongly encouraged me to seek medical attention, so I agreed to stop by the LA Free Clinic on Beverly Blvd on my way home.
Blister the size of a nickel.
By the time I got to the clinic at 4pm, they were no longer accepting walk-in patients without insurance. I asked if I could come back in the morning, but the black lady receptionist told me Friday's were reserved for regular patients only. I sarcastically replied, "I guess only Jesus can help me now." She sighed and looked over her glasses at me: "Jesus can help you get the skills to find help." Then she suggested I head to the county clinic downtown, which was open until midnight. "But you better get going before the traffic gets bad," she added.
Frustrated and confused as to what to do, I decided to bite the bullet and head downtown. After a bit of searching (again driving with only one hand), I located the county clinic at about 4:30 PM. This is when a shitty day entered the world of pathetic desperation. I hope none of you reading this ever has to seek medical treatment in a county facility, and if you have already, you know what a demoralizing experience it can be.
The clinic lobby was filled with about a hundred people, mostly Latinos and African-Americans. I was one of only two white guys there. The entire building looked like some concrete bunker, and there were no clear signs posted as to where to report or what the procedure for seeking treatment was, so I walked hopefully toward window #1. The grey-haired Latino man sat at his desk, busily pushing papers. I cleared my throat and asked for assistance. He looked up at me, paused, then said, "First time here?" I nodded, "Yes." He handed me a clipboard of documents, a wooden golf pencil, and a pink-laminated number card with #114 printed on it. "Take a seat, we'll call your number."
I found a seat between a wheezing, grossly obese black woman with a tiny little girl who kept coughing, and a young black man who held his painful left arm hidden inside his t-shirt. After about 20 minutes they called my number, took my completed documents, and told me again to sit down, "We'll call you." And that was the order of the evening. During my visit to the clinic, I was called up to the counter at least a half dozen times, just to deal with paperwork and answer questions about my injury. And every time the person finished with, "Have a seat, we'll call you."
Neosporiney goodness!
A couple hours later, they called me up and asked me if I wanted to apply for low-income payment options. I replied I probably didn't qualify, and I didn't, so I had to pay $65 to be seen by the doctor. That's right, they collected payment before I could be seen! After processing my debit card, the cashier mumbled, "Have a seat, they'll call you."
At least another hour passed. Names were being called over the P.A. system, which sounded so distorted, it was like listening to Charlie Brown's teacher (with a heavy Spanish accent) making announcements at the bus station (Waa, wa waaa, wa waaa!). Finally, I heard my name and entered the door leading to the nurse's station. The male nurse took my ID card and messed with some more paperwork. He then repeated the questions asked previously by a different nurse, then took my blood pressure and my temperature, and then told me to -- you guessed it -- "Have a seat and we'll call you."
More time passed. I watched Family Feud, Millionaire, and Dr. Phil on the lobby TV which didn't have an antenna so the picture and sound were fuzzy and hard to make out. Patients were being called in but the pace was getting much slower. Finally, around 8pm, I went back to the nurse's station and politely asked for an estimated time of when I could see the doctor. "What was your name again?" the male nurse asked. "Oh yes, well there's still a lot of people in front of you, so please be patient." I showed him my blistered hand, as I had done at least five times already, and he said, "Yeah that looks pretty bad. You should get treatment. Let me go check with the doctor and I'll get back to you in about 15 minutes. Have a seat and we'll call you."
Impatient, but hopeful, I strolled back to my seat. It was well after dark at this point, and people had stopped coming into the clinic. There were about 40 people left in the waiting area. Another 40 minutes passed with no response from the nurse. Frustrated, I walked back to the nurse's room and peeked in. There was no one there. I sat down again for a few minutes until I saw the nurse back at his station. I went back up to him. "Hi, remember me? You were going to see if the doctor could see me tonight..." "Oh yeah," he replied. "You can be seen but there are nine patients in front of you and there's only one doctor working. Please have a seat and we'll call you."
A few days later.
Dejected and uncertain about what to do, I returned to my seat. This was really getting frustrating. Already I had been waiting more than four hours and had yet to receive any medical assistance. My hand was hurting and every time I peeked under the gauze bandage, the huge blister seemed to be getting bigger. Several times I considered going to the men's room to clean my wound and put on more Neosporine (I brought the medications I had been using just in case the doctor wanted to see them), but I didn't want to interfere with the wound any more than necessary before the doctor had a chance to see it. So, I waited. And waited. And waited. And waited.
After nine o'clock, the clinic started to quiet down. There were just about 15 - 20 people waiting in the lobby, but almost no staff members seemed to be at their posts. Several times I wandered up to the counter, even peeked in the cashier's window, but nobody was in sight. Then the janitor, a big beefy black guy who could have been a linebacker, came in to sweep the floors. Then he mopped the floors. Then he told all of us sick and injured people to get up off our seats and move to the other side of the waiting area so he could mop the floor on our side. People were very disgruntled by this and I scolded him, "These are sick people here, man. Have a little consideration!" To which he replied, "Gotta do it, gotta do it."
On the road to recovery.
I was beyond frustrated by this point, not just in pain from my hand, but feeling the humiliation of being treated like a second-class citizen. What kind of "free" country treats its people -- its sick people -- with so little regard for their welfare? Isn't the first duty of a government to guarantee the safety and well-being of its citizens? I kept remembering Michael Moore's film Sicko which showed the terrorist detainees at Guantanamo enjoying free, first-class medical treatment all at the expense of U.S. taxpayers, including me! That's right -- the enemies of our country receive better medical treatment than its tax-paying citizens and it's all free. Fucked up!!
By 10 PM, the situation was not any better. In fact, I saw one of the nurses leaving with his backpack over his shoulder. The medical staff were actually leaving the clinic with sick people still waiting to be treated. I had had enough, and I thought it would be better just to go home and start treating my wound myself rather than wait there longer and let the wound get worse. So, six hours and $65 dollars later, I left the county health clinic without being seen by a doctor.
I called my band mate, who had asked me to keep him updated on my progress, and he was livid that I hadn't been seen. Luckily his mother-in-law is a nurse so he phoned her and she recommended a course of treatment, which I have been following with successful results. Luckily my wounds are not life-threatening, but it has been a painful, traumatic experience, not just due to the injury, but to realize first-hand how broken our health care system is in this country.
Two things I've learned: first, I've got to get some kind of basic health insurance, even if it has a $5000 deductible, because you can't get treatment in this country without health insurance, regardless of the quality of your coverage. And second, we have got to nationalize the health care system in this country. It is no longer a financial issue, it's a moral one.
The United States is the ONLY developed country in the world without a national health care system, and it's because the powerful billionaires in the insurance racket don't want to lose their gravy train so they buy the politicians and the system gets worse and worse. Do not be duped by the propaganda they've been spewing out for decades about "socialized medicine" (shudder!). It's bullshit. Even those pinko-red commies in Cuba have better access to health care than those of us here in "God's" country.
If you are a baby boomer reading this, be very afraid, even if you have insurance. The largest generation ever to populate the earth are just beginning to enter retirement age, which means they will need more and more medical treatment. Who is going to treat them and how will they afford it? Health care should not be a for-profit industry. America can no longer claim moral superiority in the world and let its people suffer the indignity of a medical system worse than some third-world countries. Access to basic medical treatment is not supposed to be a luxury afforded only to the elite few; it is a fundamental human right.
