At our house, insurance coverage consists of:1)
essentially, catastrophic care ($5,000 deductible),
the privilege of a twenty dollar co-pay whenever we visit the doctor (rarely*),
the implication that we are getting a special discount on services above andbeyond that (supposed to make us feel better about the whole deal & does if we don’t think too hard, which is easiest when the martini bucket is close athand).
* because the kidlets are super-skinny and otherwise physically and psychologically sound, and we strive toprovide them with healthful habits they will carry through their teenage years, during which they will not engage inrisky behaviors that threaten life and limb (their own or others) because they are as aforesaid psychologicallysound, and will therefore survive into adulthood, during which they will be energetic and productive members ofsociety because they are, as aforesaid, physically sound, and will continue to live out the good health habitstattooed on their foreheads by Old Mother and Old Father and so continue to be no burden on society health-spending-wise (the lion’s share of healthcare spending being on obesity-related illnesses), insofar and inasmuchand in point of fact being the actual individuals who will
the value in the marketplace which will then betaxed to provide health spending for
members of society who are not so favored and so is there a tax creditfor this yet please?
For all of the above Old Father and I pay about the equivalent of the annual GDP of asmall, newly-minted Balkan republic. This is in pre-tax dollars, because we are self-employed. It all works fine, if as I said you’re not thinking too hard about it, UNTILsomebody has to go to the emergency room, because they are bleeding from an openwound and it’s a Sunday.This brings us to:
THE EMERGENCY ROOM.
Ah, the Emergency Room. Why is it whenever I walk into the Emergency Room I feellike there are huge arrows and flashing lights over my head spelling out GOLDENGOOSE?
(I was going to title this little ditty the $350 popsicle, because until my recent triple-header I hadn’t been to theemergency room since 2006. I’m here to tell you that it’s now the $640 popsicle. And by the time you read this, itwill probably be the $656 popsicle.)
Suffice it to say that a single visit to the Emergency Room can blow a big, wide hole inthat personal household TARP plan. Yes, that sucking sound you hear is the dread musicof our wallet being sucked into the black hole of deficit spending. In a quaint attempt tostem the tide I have strategically posted around the house signs which read, to wit,heretofore, and hereunder: