Archive for August, 2009

My husband does not often give me compliments — it’s not his way.  I can make a huge effort to get all dolled up for a night on the tiles and come downstairs looking better than he’s seen me in years, and he won’t say a word (…until I clear my throat).  I have to remind him to give me a kiss when he gets home from work.  And I know that something’s going really quite wrong in his world when he suddenly looks up and tells me he loves me.

And yet, I don’t worry — I know he loves me.  I don’t know how I know, because the outward signs come so few and far between, but I do know.  It’s an inexplicable sense of security, a feeling of stability that I’ve never known with anyone but him.

By the time you read this, he will be back here with us after spending the past fortnight in Britain — a trip we were all going to take together, but that the present economy and that voice in the back of my head told us would be better made on his own again this year.  And so I’ve been unable to lend much support as he’s gone about the bittersweet business of visiting with old friends, his mother, his brother and sister, and, most importantly, his two older children.  Speaking to him on the phone each night, he never says much — again, it’s not his way — but his silence spoke volumes.  The first week of the trip, it crackled with excitement and, as the second week has rushed away, that crackle has gone and the silence has simply grown heavy and… more silent.  He does not want to come back.

But we are here and he loves us.  And so until I (or he… or we…) can figure out a way to get back to the UK, he will come back to us here.  Because we are a pair, he and I.  And though he drives me mad, and though I wonder regularly how on earth we ever got together, I do honestly believe we will never be apart.

As I drove him to the airport a fortnight ago, I knew he was a mess of mixed emotions — nervous and excited and afraid of the upcoming reunions, all at the same time.  And almost on cue, all those swirling feelings boiled over and he erupted into one of those rare emotional outpourings — he looked at me for a long moment, and then said. “You look nice.”

It had surprised me, but I kept my gaze ahead out the windscreen, and smiled only a little.  “Thanks.”

But he didn’t look away, and I realised there was more.  I turned, smiling amusedly now, and looked at him still looking at me.  The morning sun was ahead of us and I could feel its rays falling golden — and, I thought, conveniently flatteringly — onto my face.

“Yeah,” he said, looking at my face intently, his eyes moving over my cheeks, my eyes, my forehead, assessing me as he might a prize horse.  “You look nice.  I think you’re aging well.”

I laughed out loud at that.  As compliments go, it wasn’t much.  And yet it was — it was a wonderful compliment — and honest too.  As honest as he is, as honest as the way we feel about each other.  I grinned at him, and he reached over and grabbed my hand, and gave it a squeeze.

It’s as much affection as he’d shown in days.  If I’m honest, I wish he were more affectionate — I’d like outpourings of love to flow around us like water, to be as regular and numerous as they were when I was growing up.  But that is not his way.  He is who he is, and I love him.  I cannot ask for anything more.

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Hold on…  lifts hand with index finger raised
Hold on…   I’m be with you in a minute — I’m just reading through these papers…  I’m choosing between some of these military protection plans.  I’ll be getting all the standard coverage of course: basic national defense, overseas campaigns, that sort of thing.  And I’m including all branches of the military on that and the Coast Guard as well.  But… do I want to add the foreign and domestic terrorism riders?  I mean, domestic terrorists could hit anywhere really, so I think I’m going to go with that, but…  do I think foreign terrorists are going to go for Western Pennsylvania?  Probably not, so I could save some money there.  Except, wait… the G20 summit is being held in Pittsburgh next month, so maybe I do need to worry about foreign terrorists.  And… oh, what’s that in the fine print?  The domestic terrorism rider does not cover terrorist activities of any person, foreign or domestic, who received training at any time lasting more than two months in any of the following countries: Pakistan, Afghanistan, Yemen… Hmmm, that complicates things.  I don’t know how likely…  Mmmm… Well, I’m not sure what to choose there…

Choosing the school options was much easier.  The girls are bright and I want to give them the best chance in life, so I went for the most comprehensive choices I could get.  I didn’t take the remedial tutoring option, of course — they won’t be needing that and I feel confident I can ensure that by taking a greater hand in their studies at home.  And I saved quite a bit by opting out of the school lunch option — with their allergies, they can’t eat the school lunches anyway, and I don’t want to be paying for anyone else’s peanutbutter sandwiches.  I’m only going to pay for what’s right for us!

Choosing the police coverage was pretty straightforward — we want full coverage there — and I chose the elite force even though it costs a bit more, because the faster response time is worth it.  Same with fire, although I did opt out of the cat-stuck-in-a-tree rider, seeing as we can’t have the cat with us anymore-.  For public roads, I went for all the entire local road network, and added the option for occasional roaming.  It doesn’t include the Erie-Cleveland network though — I can’t see us ever needing to go there…


The response to my blog post on the NHS was overwhelming, and I found it fascinating to read the comments as they came pouring in.  It’s been equally interesting to Google my blog post and see all the various sites that have linked to it, and then read the comments that have been left there as well.  But time and time again, there have been replies from people who say that they like the current American system because they want “choice” in their healthcare.  They want to “choose the right plan” that suits their personal situation.   Being  covered for anything and everything that might happen in their lives doesn’t fit that scenario — they want to be able to specify exactly what ill may befall them and what benefits they’ll be entitled to.

Several people said they liked choice in healthcare because they didn’t want to pay for someone else’s maternity care or stomach-stapling operation.  It makes me wonder if they just don’t understand how the insurance they’re buying actually works.   If they’re getting major medical, of course they are paying for other people’s benefits, even the ones they don’t receive themselves or perhaps don’t want to support.  Insurance companies take everyone’s money — whether they’re paying a lot for comprehensive coverage or a just little for bare-bones coverage — and then put it into one big pot to use when they have to pay out on claims.  In choosing a plan, these people are only limiting the benefits they will receive, not controlling how their premiums will be spent.

But to the rest — the ones who do understand how insurance works and are still saying that, instead of being covered for everything, they want choose  a plan that will suit the healthcare they personally will need — to them I want to ask, how do they know?  Yes, major medical covers a wide spectrum and catches the most likely scenarios in its net.  And yes, there are armies of actuaries working out the probability that one person will be more likely to contract Disease A over Disease B, so that people can make “informed” choices.  But nature can (and does) defy even mathematical probabilities.  The unexpected does happen.  The unforeseen is… well, unforeseen.   Aside from the obvious probability that most single men and nuns won’t require maternity cover, it defies my understanding how someone can actually know ahead of time what kind of medical care they will need in the future.

The girls’ insurance does not cover seeing a nutritionist.  It’s a moot point as to whether I would have chosen a plan that did, because this was the single only long-term policy that I could find that would cover them under our circumstances, but if it had been a few years ago and I’d have been in a position to choose between several plans, I never would have even considered that we’d one day need — be desperate — to see a nutritionist.  I mean, I know how to cook, we have a varied diet, and we’re none of us really overweight.  What do I need a nutritionist for?  A few years ago, I’d never have guessed that I’d have a baby who would suffer from food allergies so severe that she’d drop from the 98th percentile to the 1st percentile in her first year, who would stop gaining weight for seven months and grow so thin I could count her ribs, who wouldn’t double her birth weight (something most babies achieve by four months) until she was nearly two years old.  And so, not knowing that, but guessing that we wouldn’t need a nutritionist, I would have happily foregone that option.  And though it wouldn’t have been a disaster in our case (nutritionists being at the more affordable end of medical care), it serves as an example that people simply cannot really know what kind of care they’ll need in the future.

Or even that they’ll need care.  When we were preparing for our move and I was speaking to insurance agent after insurance agent (before I realised that none of their policies could cover us due to residency requirements), they all asked me the same questions: “Are you generally healthy?” and “How often do you feel you’ll need to the see the doctor?”  I hardly knew how to respond.  The first question implied that past performance predicts future results — in which case I’d have made millions in the stockmarket — and the second assumed I could see the future — in which case I’d have made sure I’d won the lottery by now.  But we were relatively healthy and we didn’t see the doctor that often, and that satisfied the agents.  “Then you probably won’t need very extensive cover,” they all predicted, and suggested low-premium high-deductible plans.  And then we immediately turned all that on its head by developing significant health problems as soon as we arrived, and running up thousands in medical bills within a couple of months.

Now I realise that most of the time, when people talk about choosing a plan, the “needs” they are talking about are not the diseases they think they’ll get, or even the structure of their care, but the premiums and deductible they can or want to pay.  They are not making choices about their care — they are weighing up their probable future health against what’s in their wallets and then hoping what they’ve bought will align with whatever may befall them in the future.  And therein lies the unappealing truth that we all know: in the choice between care and money, we tell ourselves that it’s all about care, but the system — and thus the choice — is all about the money.  The idea of having that choice, of picking amongst a series of plans — with varying (and often confusing) benefits, various (and confusing) restrictions, and a range of prices — is appealing because it gives people the feeling that they are in control, they are tailoring their coverage for themselves.  And it blinds them the fact that the NHS system that I described — and so many disagree with — gives no such choice because it’s simply not necessary, because the system’s mission is to cover everything, for everyone, for their entire lives — and that where it is restrictive, it is no more restrictive than the insurance companies who take their money and then decide — sometimes retroactively — whether their claims match the fine print.

We fund the police, the military, and our public schools in a collective, socialised way, and we accept that when we receive the services they provide, they will be comprehensive — we don’t pick and choose the “package” we want because we know they will cover (or attempt to cover) whatever needs may arise.  In fact, the concept of trying to anticipate our potential future needs to these services and limiting our access that way just might look a little silly, if someone were to write it out.

Does it make a person lefty to support comprehensive universal health?  No more than it makes a person lefty to support their local schools, their police and fire departments, or our military.  These are socialised institutions that have been in our midst for generations, and which we have chosen to support and fund this way because they are so vital to the fabric of our society that we are willing to work collectively to ensure these key services remain in place.  And yet our national character has survived!  Having a public schools, collectively funded police and fire services, and socialised military has not wrought havoc on the nation — our country has remained capitalist.  Healthcare — with its ability to bankrupt overnight; with its ability to create a life-sentence of astronomical on-going costs; with its central role in the health of the nation and of its workforce and its economy — is one of these same essential services.  We have ignored that fact for too long and now that we face this rare opportunity to reform healthcare, it’s essential that we see the situation for exactly what it really is.  A public healthcare option — like public schools, like our police and military —  is not something to be feared as some sort of Great Socialisation of America.  It is simply a logical step that will ensure this one other essential service is accessible to all Americans — for the betterment of our countrymen, our businesses, our economy, and our country.

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“This house!” M muttered under his breath as he kicked a tangled pile of laundry out of his way. “This bloody house!”  And then he turned and stormed back upstairs without even looking at me.

I sighed.  But I understand why he’s frustrated — this house, indeed.  It’s always on the edge of mess, always verging into chaos.  I feel as though I fight all day just to maintain it, just to ensure that the mess is no worse at the end of the day than it was at the beginning.  But it never gets any better than it was.

The worst of it is the laundry.  We are perpetually buried in the piles of clean laundry — washed and dried quickly enough, but rarely folded and almost never put away.  Folding laundry with the girls is an exercise in pure crazy-making.  I have not made sorting piles — I have made fall-breakers!  I have built obstacle courses!  I have amassed fascinating collections of dressing-up clothes!  When I do manage to fold a couple of baskets’ full, I am so exhausted at the end that I can’t be bothered to haul those baskets upstairs and put them away.  Not right now… maybe later… maybe tomorrow.   But instead, we raid those same baskets daily, still sitting in the corner of the family room, for knickers and socks and today’s outfit, until the whole thing is such a mess that it couldn’t possibly be put away without being dumped out and refolded.  And that does not happen.

And there are always dishes clogging the kitchen — from breakfast, or the snack, or lunch, or the snack, or dinner…  And a pile of papers that needs filing over there, and stacks of magazines half-read.  There are still boxes to be unpacked from the move.  And certainly, oh certainly, this place does not yet feel like a home — it still feels like we just moved in… or are just about to move out.

“What was that?!?” I prodded angrily at M, as he disappeared up the stairs.  I couldn’t help myself — I just can’t let a muttering go.

He paused and turned, casting an eye across the chaos, and said hotly, “Well, I just think this place should be… tidier.  It should be getting tidier!”

I was defensive now.  “You could help, you know.  I only have two hands!  You could pick things up when you see them instead of stepping over them!”  It’s true — he’s as likely to step over a mess the girls have made as clean it up.  He’ll clear dishes but leave the mess all over the table.  And he opens his mail, and then drops it back on the table for me discover,  and deal with, later.

“You’re home all day!” He countered.  “You should be dealing with this place!  It should be…”  he glanced around the room, his eyes lighting on any number sins, “It should be getting better.”  Ah, of course, I’m home all day.  I should be spending all that time getting the place sorted.

Plus two

As every weekend approaches, we have conflicting expectations that cause… well… regular conflicts.  I see the weekends as a chance for me to get a break from the intensity of full-time care for a four-year-old and a two-year-old.  I’d like to wake peacefully, rather than be yelled from my bed at whatever hour the girls awaken, to take a shower alone without interruption, and then to slow everything down a bit and spend time as a family.  M sees the weekends as his chance to catch up on the myriad projects that need doing about the house and to quietly recover from a tough week at work.  In both cases, the three of us just get in the way of his plans — hinder rather than help — and, understandably, he spends most of his weekends trying to escape us.

I was on my own in the kitchen, drinking a cup of tea and contemplating the pile of dishes in the sink, when I heard it all begin to fall apart in the other room.  The girls’ voices rose and quickly became shrill, both of them screeching over some great injustice.  M’s voice started quiet and weary, but soon followed their lead and, within moments, he was bellowing at them.  And then for me.  When I walked in the room, I found him standing by the front door, holding a cordless drill in one hand and with two little girls practically hanging off his other arm.  A mess of his tools and their toys were strewn in equal measure at his feet.

“I can’t get anything done with them here!” he roared. “You have to take them.”  And then with a little less volume, “If I’m supposed to make any progress with this,” — he waved the drill in the general direction of the door he’d been working on — “then you can’t expect me to be looking after them as well!”  I ushered the girls and their screeching away into the kitchen, and smiled to myself.

He’s quite right — it’s impossible for him to get his projects done with them underfoot.  I know that.  They are wonderful little girls, but it is the nature of their ages to create mischief and mayhem where-ever they go.  And keeping that under control brings everything else to a complete halt.

Unless, of course, that everything is folding laundry, and filing the paperwork, and unpacking boxes.  And you are home all day.

Equals three

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A letter came in the post last Friday and after I read it, all I could do for a few minutes was stare at it in shock.  I sat down and put my hand on the couch to steady myself, and then read it again.  It wasn’t so much the news that it brought — though that was bad enough — but the way it made me feel: vulnerable… so, so very vulnerable and out of control.  The letter was from the girls’ insurance company and it informed me that, due to “increasing [insurance company] financial losses”, the premiums for their cover will be increased from October by 350%.

The girls are covered by the state’s CHIP programme — the only long-term cover I could find that they qualified for when we lost our health insurance because M was suddenly laid off three months after we arrived in the US.  Because the girls are US citizens, they did not qualify for the insurance policies that are usually offered to incoming immigrants.  And because we had just moved from abroad, they did not qualify for most normal insurance policies which, I discovered to my utter bewilderment, all seemed to have “residency requirements” that disqualified anyone who had not lived in the US for the last 6 to 24 months.  My daughters had both been recently diagnosed with potentially life-threatening food allergies (my elder daughter to eggs, my younger daughter to no less than eight foods, which later rose to 12) which had had a huge impact on our daily lives, and I was desperate to get them onto a good, long-term policy that would give us some peace of mind.  We were still reeling from a string of devastating events that had begun almost as soon as we arrived and had consumed nearly all our mental, physical, and financial resources (besides M losing his job and our insurance, I suddenly developed incredible pain that debilitated me for months before we got on top of it, the medical bills started rolling in and  ate up half our moving fund, we found we had to pay the IRS a huge sum which wiped out the other half of our moving fund, the house we were renting was put the market, we were going through  all the stress, isolation, and disorientation that an international move almost always brings, and it felt like we were doing everything wrong).  Looking for insurance under these circumstances was turning into a nightmare and when I found out the girls qualified for CHIP, the relief  was so strong I burst into tears.

The coverage was excellent; the price surprisingly affordable.  The programme is funded by the state, but administered through a choice of several large insurance companies.  I picked the one that we’d been on with M’s previous job, out of sense of familiarity more than anything, and got the girls signed up as fast as possible.  Each month a bill arrived with bold letters telling me that one missed payment would result in permanent cancellation of the policy — I began sending the premiums in two months in advance just to make sure I never paid that price.  In a world that felt like it was falling apart, knowing the girls had such excellent coverage gave me a sense of stability that I clung to like a rock in a stormy sea.

So as I read that letter — and reread it, and then read it again — all that stability seemed to drain away and the horrid, terrifying, desperation of a year ago rushed in to fill its place.  Could they do this?!?  Could they just casually send me a one-page letter which matter-of-factly stated they were increasing the premiums not once, not twice, not three times, but a full three-and-a-half times what they were now?  No warning, no alternatives, no choice…  This is our only option, this is our salvation!..  Could they do this?!? I rang M up at work and he listened patiently while I told him the news, then began to cry, and then composed myself and told him I’d be alright and thanked him for listening.  My tears were more out of fear and uncertainty; we will  be able to make the new payments (just, and with sacrifices), but it’s what they represented — the lack of control — that put me over the edge.

When I told my mother, she was shocked, then horrified, and then began to rant.  Was this what Obama had in mind for the middle and lower classes?!? Or was it the Governor’s doing?!?  It didn’t seem ethical!  I pointed out that it wasn’t Obama’s doing — his reforms haven’t even taken shape yet, let alone been enacted — and it wasn’t the Governor’s either.  It wasn’t to do with the CHIP programme itself at all.  It was the insurance company’s doing: they take the money the state gives them and then set their price within an approved range — but times are harder now than were before, there are these “increasing financial losses”, and so they’ve raised their price.  And, no, I told her, it didn’t seem ethical… but I don’t know that I think ethics plays any part in this.

I have to admit to feeling rather annoyed with her, to harbouring some deep-set and mostly unjustified feelings of blame.  I had been concerned about healthcare before I moved back to the US… concerned… afraid… frightened…  But my mother and my father and my sister had all assured me that I was making a mountain out of a molehill.  It’s fine, they told me.  It’s a system!  It’s not the system you’re used to, but it’s a system.  As long as you work hard, you’ll be fine.  My husband, I thought to myself, does work very, very hard.  And I do too, in my own way.

My had mother added that she didn’t know anyone who had a healthcare problem.  What about my sister?, I asked, pointing out that she’d gone for years without health insurance, avoiding going to a doctor even when she needed one.  “Oh… yes… ” my mother’s voice trailed off, and then came back again with strength, “But she never had a problem!”  I felt misgivings at that, paused, and then… brushed them aside.  It would be fine.  It would be fine.  …And so if there is blame to laid, perhaps some goes to my mother for closing her eyes to the problem, but some goes to me too for choosing to believe.

There is series of ads for one of the largest insurance companies in the region which they run on television all the time.  It shows someone walking a dog, or jogging, or riding a bike.  At some point the camera closes in on the person, and they look directly into it, before raising a hand and pressing it with palm forward and fingers spread, so that it appears to be just on the other side of the glass of the television screen.  And as the person fades out of focus, the handprint remains, glowing blue and pulsing gently, and a warm and reassuring voiceover says, “Giving you a greater hand in your health.

As I sat there staring at this letter, with its incredible, horrible news, I had to wonder: is that hand meant to be pulling us up… or pushing us away?

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As the healthcare debate picks up pace, I find myself being asked with increasing regularity what I think of Britain’s healthcare system.  Six months ago, I’d have jumped into the answer with gusto, but these days…  I don’t know, I am just so fatigued by all the fear-mongering and hysteria, the ignorance and the downright idiocy of the current debate that I can hardly summon the energy to add my voice to the cacophony.

But the other night when a friend of my mother’s emailed me and asked that now-familiar question — what was my experience and what did I think of British health care? — and I was surprised to discover that, once the initial weariness had worn off, I found myself turning her question over and over in my mind, composing my answer.  When I sat down last night and started my reply, the words fell out me, my fingers tapping rapidly at the keyboard and my mind so engrossed in the assignment that I was stunned when I finally looked at the clock: it was 2.30 in the morning.  I had been so consumed because what I had to say had been bursting to come out, an outraged truth that was tired of being bottled-up and was begging to be told.

When I lived in the UK, I railed against the NHS (the National Health Service).  I cursed every delay, every perceived inconvenience, every way it differed from the care I had received in the US.  But I moved to the UK only a few months after graduating from university and, until then, I had been covered on my parents’ very generous insurance so I had experienced American healthcare only as a dependent.  I was judging my British experience from a lofty and privileged position of someone who’d always had gold-plated insurance.  And I was naive, because I’d never had to pay for it, never had to worry it wouldn’t be there, never really had to deal with the paperwork.  I never really understood what I was comparing the NHS to at all.

I also realise with hindsight that a lot of what I held against the NHS had nothing to do with the system itself and actually were issues that could happen in any system.  I blamed the whole system when the loo in my local doctor’s office or hospital wasn’t clean enough.  I blamed the whole system when the only space I could find at the hospital carpark was miles away in the very furthest corner.  I blamed the whole system when the doctors’ receptionist was grumpy or I didn’t much like my doctor’s manner (or his diagnosis).  But the truth was that I believed in the healthcare system I had grown up in and I didn’t like the idea of socialised medicine — I didn’t like socialised anything — so I saw problems with it where-ever I chose to look.  And I held onto that belief right up until I arrived back in the United States, and discovered that grumpy receptionists and dirty hospital bathrooms and annoying carparks can happen in any system — because they have nothing to do with the system itself.  They’re management issues, human nature issues, and they happen everywhere.  And a lot of the fear that Americans have about change in their healthcare actually center around these kind of issues that have nothing to do with the system itself, be it socialised or for-profit.

So my return to the US and my sudden immersion in the American healthcare system was a rude awakening for me and it made me look at both systems a little more realistically.  There are great things about healthcare in the US — great things — and I truly do believe that the quality of the care here is second to none.  But there are great things to be said about Britain’s system as well and the trouble is that, at present, far too few people are saying those great things and far too many here in the US are beginning to believe utterly ridiculous things about the NHS.  Let me play a small part in putting that right by outlining my experience of the British healthcare system.

  • First, I’ll start by pointing out that the NHS is truly one of the most socialist — almost Soviet — healthcare models that a country could possible choose.  Unlike the health systems in France, Germany, and most of the rest of the developed world, it is totally government-run, almost totally centrally-controlled, and supported entirely through taxation.  It is mammoth — the single largest employer in Europe, which is incredible when you realise it serves a small country with only 60million people.  And with that kind of size come huge problems — consultation times are too short and it takes too long to get test results, amongst other things.  It is not a perfect system by any stretch of the imagination.  But it’s important to realise that when I talk about my experience, I am talking about the kind of system that truly is the very far extreme of what the nay-sayers are claiming will be the end result of public health provision in the US.  The British system is the very stuff of their nightmares and yet, the truth is, it’s nothing like what they imagine.
  • My healthcare in the UK was never dictated by a bureaucrat.  Decisions were made by me and my doctor alone, and whatever we decided was the right course of action was the course that was taken.  The scope of care available to me was far, far wider than what is covered even by the ‘very good’ insurance policies I’ve had here in the US.  There were no limits on the number of times I could see my doctor, or the number of tests/procedures/consultations/etc that I could have in a year (or month or lifetime…)  Whatever was deemed medically necessary by my doctor was covered — period.  In fact, I’ve experienced a lot more limitations on my care since I’ve moved back to the US — the most memorable of which was when I had to beg the insurance company to cover a single visit to a nutritionist when E2 was diagnosed with 12 food allergies and was severely underweight.  That simply never would have happened in the UK — if she needed it (and she did), she’d have got it (as her sister did after being diagnosed with a single allergy). To illustrate the point further, when I gave birth to E1, I stayed in hospital for five days because she had problems with breastfeeding — and that was entirely my decision.  I was free to leave hospital whenever I wanted, be that after one day or after a week, and I had the full support of the midwives to stay until they were sure we were breastfeeding properly and ready to leave — no administrator/bureaucrat/insurance company made that decision for me!
  • There are delays — there are delays — but to be honest I have experienced delays just as bad here in the US.  In the UK, I might have to wait weeks or months to see a specialist if my case was not urgent, and that was frustrating.  Here in the US, when I was in excruciating pain last year (so bad that I lost control of my bodily functions when the pain hit), I was referred to a breast surgeon by the ER doctor (7 hour wait in ER) — but the trouble is that we had to call five medical centers before we could find a surgeon who could see me any sooner six weeks, and even then it was only because they had a surprise cancellation.  And the last time I needed to take E2 to the allergist here in the US, the earliest they could fit me in was two months later.  There are delays in both systems.  And by contrast, you can get very speedy service in the US… and you can get it in the UK too.  When I needed to see my GP in the UK, I rarely had to wait until even the next day.  When I thought I’d found a lump in my breast, I saw the doctor the next day and was sent to a specialist within the week.
  • I had my choice of doctors.  My small rural town had two GP offices (a GP is a General Practitioner, a family doctor) with about 5 GPs in each office — I could choose either office and any GP in that office I chose.  I could choose to go to the GPs office in a neighbouring town if I prefered (though some offices limit the regional area they’ll cover).  I could change GPs at anytime for any reason, no questions asked.  When I had my babies, I had my choice of any of the hospitals in the region, or a homebirth (the midwives in my area loved doing homebirths!).  When my GP referred me to a specialist, he’d send me to whomever he thought best, but if I wanted someone or somewhere else, I could request that, no problem.  And I always had the option of a second opinion, either through another NHS doctor or a private doctor.
  • I never once received a bill in the UK.  There are no copays, there are no deductibles, there is no such thing as max-out-of-pocket.  I have an NHS card which I showed at my GP’s office when I registered, and from that point on, I never had to fill out any forms or show any ID ever again. In fact, I think I lost my NHS card years ago — I have no idea where it is. It doesn’t matter — I don’t need because I am covered for everything once I am registered with my GP.  When I stepped on a piece of glass and sliced up my foot, I went up to the local hospital, was seen immediately (rural hospital on a Tuesday afternoon), they took note of my name and address, patched me up, and I went home — simple as that.  No bills, no paperwork, no hassle.  Yes, Brits pay to cover it in their taxes, but the cost spread across the entire country and so it isn’t nearly the burden that insurance is for Americans.  In fact, Brits spend only 8.4% of GDP on healthcare, compared to the 16% of GDP spent by Americans and what they get back is a system beats the US on so many basic measures of healthcare results.  This is good quality care.
  • Brits believe that healthcare is a human right and are happy to have a system that covers everyone, all the time.  They are HORRIFIED when they hear stories of Americans who have to hold fundraisers to pay for desperately-needed operations.  It blows their minds that anyone goes bankrupt or loses their home because of medical bills.  The idea that someone would lose their coverage because of a pre-existing condition or because they are so sick they can’t work is totally alien to them.  These things simply do not happen in Britain.
  • Even with a comprehensive healthcare system that is available to all and completely free (at the point of delivery) the UK still has a healthy private system running alongside the state system.  There are numerous large private insurance companies providing private health insurance to those who’d like to have it (or whose companies want to offer it).  There are private hospitals up and down the country.  Most specialists practice both within the NHS and also privately (they split their weeks).  You can pretty much get your healthcare however you’d like — on the NHS, through private insurance, or paid out of your own pocket.  I hear people in the US saying that with in the British system, you can’t see anyone but your government-assigned doctor, but that is totally untrue.  And you can chop and change your care as it fits your life — I’ve had my care for an medical issue start on the NHS, and then switched my care to my private insurance if it suited my needs better.  I’ve had other medical issues that I stayed with the NHS for the whole way.  And when my husband had an elective medical procedure done that was covered by neither the NHS nor insurance, we simply paid for it out of pocket.  It’s a flexible system and the private sector has not been quashed by the fact that there is a comprehensive, free public system running alongside it.
  • Because healthcare is not tied to employment, companies are free to focus on their core business and people are free to make career decisions (and life decisions) based on what is best for them instead of what preserves their healthcare.  Brits never worry about keeping their healthcover — they never worry about pre-existing conditions; they never worry about continuity of care if they change jobs; they never get trapped into a bad-fit job because they have to keep their healthcover. They are much freer to be entreprenuers than Americans, because their only worry is whether their business will succeed, not how they’re going to provide healthcover for their families when they’re self-employed.  Companies, particularly small companies, are free to focus on their core-business because they not burdened by the administration of healthcare for their employees — they never have to pay someone in HR to manage health benefits; they don’t have to juggle insurance companies and negotiate lower premiums; they don’t lose employees because their healthplan isn’t as good as some other company; they don’t see their bottom line rocked by a sudden rise in premiums.  Decoupling healthcare from employment is hugely freeing to both individuals and employers, and can actually a very good thing for the economy at large.
  • When things go wrong, the government answers to the people in a way that insurance companies never do.  For example, there was a cancer drug called Herceptin which was not covered on the NHS because of the cost.  A group (led by Ann Marie Rogers) began a campaign to change this, suing their local health trust, and gained huge public support.  They ultimately won their case and got their local trust to offer the drug — but because of the political pressure this campaign had created, the government extended the drug to the entire country.  Imagine trying to convince an American insurance company to cover some expensive drug that they don’t want to cover, and then having that decision convince every other insurance company to do the same.  And again, when I moved to the UK fifteen years ago, wait times in the NHS were much worse than they are now — but the public got fed up with it, made their voices heard in the General Election, and the new administration made cleaning up the NHS one of their highest priorities.
  • There is an emphasis on preventative care and the simplest way this happens is that people actually go to see their doctor when they are sick.  Because there’s no cap on visits and no copay and everyone is covered, hardly anyone hesitates to go to the doctor when they need to, which gives them a chance to catch little issues before they become big issues and spot contagious diseases before they spread to the rest of the population.  And here’s another way the focus is on prevention: when I had my babies, the midwives came to my house to check on us every day for the first 10 days after the baby was born, and then the Health Visitor (a community nurse) came to the house once a week for six weeks, and then I could go to her clinic (held once a week in town) for as long as I wanted after that with any concerns I might have (as well as being able to see a doctor — my choice).  It’s all done to ensure the mother and baby are healthy and well, to support breastfeeding, and to catch problems as early as possible.  I was utterly shocked when I found out that most new mums in the US are simply sent home with their babies, with no follow up in the first six weeks, and left to muddle through as best they can!
  • None of this actually tells you anything.  Isolated anecdotal stories (like these) don’t actually give anyone the information they need to decide the merits of one system over another.  All it does is tell you whether my particular doctor was good or bad, whether the nurse I encountered was having a good day or a bad day, whether the receptionist liked her job or hated it.  There are good stories and bad in both systems, and it just depends on who you talk to.  It’s much like public schools. You could ask parents across the US to tell you what they think of their kid’s school and you’d get a whole spectrum of answers: some schools are good, some are bad, some districts are rich, some are poor, some teachers are passionate, some have lost the will to live. But none of these things tells you whether the overall concept of publicly-funded schools is a good or bad one. If you drew your conclusions based on a bunch of stories from a handful of people about their personal experiences, you’d only be getting part of the story. And it’s no different with the concept of public healthcare.

I can sum up my experience of the British and American healthcare systems in one simple sentence:  given a choice between the two systems, I’d choose the NHS in a heartbeat.  And though this is the experience of only one single person out of millions, unlike so much of the propaganda and hysteria surrounding the current healthcare debate, it is the absolute Gospel truth.


Addendum:  This is an incredibly important issue with a lot of misinformation flying about.  If you have experience of both the US and UK healthcare systems, I invite you to please leave a comment here and let us all know what you think of both systems.  This debate needs more voices of experience and a lot less uninformed fear.

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I was bored and hot on Sunday in church and letting my mind wander, when I spotted a family across the aisle and a few rows in front of us.  The two older daughters looked to be in their early teens and very close in age, and were sitting on either side of their mother.  Their sister was considerably younger, probably four or five, and she was sitting on her daddy’s lap, her head curled into his shoulder and looking as bored as I felt.

Ah, the magic third — a term that a dear friend of mine had used to describe that third child who so often comes as a complete surprise to the parents and some considerable years after their more carefully-planned older siblings.  Except that my friend had made a Freudian slip as she spoke, and it had come out as “the magic turd”, which has had me quietly snorting with laughter ever since.

But as I looked at that father holding his daughter, and noted her long legs nearly reaching his ankles and the way her body slumped down to fit against his, I  thought to myself that he won’t be doing that for much longer — holding her on his lap like that.  She was nearly past that age, as her sisters had been for a long time now.

And then a thought occurred to me…  I wondered when was the last time he’d held his other daughters on his lap, and did he remember the last time?  One day he would have held them and it would have felt as natural as it did with his third now, but then it just wouldn’t have happened again… quite naturally.  And, I wondered, did he ever notice?

Because parenthood is circular.  Even though it is the firsts that get all the attention — the first step, the first smile, the first word — the lasts are just as significant, even if they go unnoticed.

I cried the last time I breastfed E1 — sobbed, in fact.  It broke my heart to do it, but I was five months pregnant and it had got to be too much, the way she threw herself with abandon onto the bump when it was time to latch on, the energy she was draining from my exhausted body — and she’d recently begun to bite.  The midwife had told me that older nurslings often self-wean anyway as the milk begins to change for the baby that is coming, so I decided it didn’t matter much if I took matters into my own hands and helped her wean a few months early.  It’s a decision I regretted ever since — not only because I’ve since learned that it is possible to nurse two children in tandem, but also because, immediately I weaned her, my ever-healthy daughter came down with one of the nastiest colds I’ve ever known.  She then passed it onto me and, with my body focused on protecting the unborn child inside me, everything above the bump was left to fend for itself.  Unmedicated, one night the infection moved to my ears and, within a couple of hours, the pressure was so great that it tore holes in both of my eardrums — the loudest sound no one ever heard — and my hearing has never been the same since.

But I digress.  At two-and-a-half, E2 is still breastfeeding and going strong.  And, given her severely restricted diet, that is a very good thing.  My plan is to let her feed until she is ready to stop, and I don’t really care when that is.  Never having done child-led weaning, I’m not quite sure how it will go, but I assume her feedings will gradually begin to grow further and further apart until they just quietly cease.  And like the last nappy change, the last night feed, the last kissed boo-boo, and the last time she sits on my lap, I won’t even realise it’s happened.

And then one day, I will.  And then I will cry.

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I was lying on my side feeding E2, the two of us snuggled up together on the couch with my arm under her head and her feet resting on the top of my legs.  I took a deep breath and drew in the sleep-smell clinging to her hair, then ran my hand down her bare leg to her foot, still small enough to cup nicely in my hand.  She is getting bigger, but she is still small.  Sometimes I look at her and can hardly believe that someone so little can be real, a whole person in herself.

“What a little foot you have!” I said, and she, still nursing, shook her head in disagreement.

She pulled away abruptly.  “I’m not little!” she announced, and then promptly latched back on.

E1, who was sitting tucked into the space behind my bent legs, now stuck her foot up over the other side of my thigh and pressed its sole against E2’s.  Her foot dwarfed her sister’s.

“See?” I said.  “E1’s is big, your’s is little!”  I lifted my leg up in the air and held my own foot aloft.  “Actually, my foot is big, E1’s is medium, and your feet are little.”

This was too much — she pulled off again and paused to contemplate the three different feet on display.  None of this is what a two-year-old wants to hear.  Her world now is one of new conquest after new conquest: she can run and jump, she feeds herself and uses a big-girl cup, she can ride a tricycle, she is starting to use a toilet.  She is a big girl now, and she knows it.  It is eminently important to her.

But her foot was still undeniably the smallest of the three and her face showed her displeasure as she worked to reconcile this in her mind.  After a full minute of frowning, she unfurrowed her brow — she had reached her conclusion. “I am big,” she stated, matter of factly.  ” I am little, but I am big.”

And having thus resolved the problem to her satisfaction, she turned back to her milk and began nursing again with gusto.

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