2. But I’m going to have his pictures made anyway, and I say why not?

3. What do you think of the healthcare reform bill? (Nah, don’t answer that.)

4. At Starbucks it’s free Pastry Day til 10:30…not today, but Tuesday, March 23rd! Mark your calendars–free baked nom-noms–and lucky me has a fully-loaded gift card. Oh yeah!

5. People say that what we’re all seeking is something to fill the void inside that was made for God alone.

6. The image I cherish most is the first time I saw the face of each of my children.

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I’m looking forward to sleep, tomorrow my plans include a nap and Sunday, I want to rest!

For more Friday Fill-Ins, click here.

I fear that many who are adamantly supporting HR 3200 have never personally experienced the realities of government-run health care. Most people have never had to wade through the VA or military health care systems. Most Americans have never had to access health care through another country’s socialized form of care. It seems that most get lost in the utopian idea of how wonderful it would be to get health care for “free”.  So when I was asked why I was so opposed to this thing that sounds so wonderful, I had to tell what I’ve seen with my own eyes, and how it led me to the conclusion that the proffered “solution” was not something I want for my family.

When I was going through those situations, I wondered if the stories would ever be useful for anything. I hadn’t begun my writing career yet—didn’t even know I was destined for one—but they were disturbing or incredulous enough that I had to journal about them. (Yes, before blogs, we kept handwritten thoughts in these blank books called “journals”.) LOL That is how I remembered the details after so many years.

I chose my “Reform or Deform” title for the series because it illustrates my biggest concerns: is this truly the reform we need—and we do need some changes—or is it the start of a permament deforming of our system, one that we may end up regretting yet be unable to get out from under?

I don’t have time at the moment to go into this much further, but I found so many fascinating tidbits of information online, including impressive statistics about the US’s cancer cure rates compared to the rest of the world. I’ve also been amazed at how, just within the past two weeks, the topic has simply exploded–there’s almost TOO much to read about it online.

Even so, I suppose my point in going there at all is to encourage others to research this topic. I think Americans have been too complacent in recent decades, too willing to just to open our mouths like blind little birds and accept whatever we’re being fed from Washington (and our state leaders). We have the freedom to research things for ourselves and speak out in favor of—or against—the things we believe in. We should never, ever take that right for granted.

We’d held a donation drive to send packages to deployed soldiers. The boxes were neatly stacked along one wall, waiting for the volunteer to take them to the post office. Who could’ve known they’d become rat bait?

There were clues that a critter was among us, but I was unable to connect the dots until presented with irrefutable proof. When my sofa cushions were covered in fluffy white stuffing several mornings in a row, I just thought another coworker had let his kids jump on the ancient thing.

The mangled leaves on my aloe plant didn’t tip me off. Nor did the disgruntled assistant manager who found his phone and computer cables severed in half twice in one week. He believed that one of us in the building had it out for him and cut the lines for fun.

Then the man came to take the Christmas packages to the post office.

As he lifted a stack of boxes, candy spilled onto the floor. “You have a rat,” he said, pointing to the droppings scattered beneath the gnawed box.

Mortified, I whispered, “Are you sure it’s not just a mouse?” This gentleman owned an exterminating company and assured me that it was definitely a rat; and a big one at that.

I donned rubber gloves and began sanitizing all the surfaces in my office. I had two guys remove my sofa from the building. Since I worked for the government, I looked up the number for the extermination department.

11 calls later, I found the right person. I was told that I would need to submit a work order before they could send anyone out. I immediately printed the order, obtained the necessary signatures and sent it in. And then I waited.

And I waited some more, spending the majority of each day re-sanitizing my office from the rat’s nightly visits. Even though his source of food and bedding was gone, he still came back. The gnaw marks along the bottom of my door, the urine stains on my shelves, and droppings in the corner attested to that fact.

Weeks passed, then a month. I played phone-and-email tag, only to find they’d never received the work order. I asked a manager to resubmit it. Nothing happened. Another month passed as my work became more that of a janitor than an office employee.

The morning I came in and found a half-gnawed granola bar atop my desk—–the same granola bar that had gone missing when the stuffing appeared on my sofa—–I told my boss that I was teleworking until they got rid of the rat. That is when the Grand Poobah Rodent Czar finally graced us with her presence.

She was a female combination of Barney Fife and Al Gore. “Yes, you have a rat! Yes, we must take care of the problem!” Then she proposed what I thought was the most insane thing I’d ever heard.

“I’ll leave you some sticky traps. When the rat gets stuck, take it to a field far away and set it free. Just rub some cooking oil under its little feet to release it from the pad.”

I laughed before I realized that she was serious. Then I asked if she also planned to give me a set of chain-mail gloves to wear during that procedure.

After she left, I Googled “sticky rat traps” and learned that some countries have banned them because they are considered inhumane. Stuck rodents scream like a woman and often dismember themselves to escape. The thought of that was worse than sharing my office with a rat. I pictured my office spattered with blood, the drained animal dead atop my desk.

I’d had enough. My husband and I went to Lowe’s that night and bought some old-fashioned snap traps. We baited them with peanut butter, set them in the office and went home.

He went with me to work the next day because I too cowardly to face any gruesome remains. When he exclaimed victory, I didn’t want to look, but I had to. The rat was brown and white, its body the length of my hand, its skinny tail even longer. I didn’t know whether to celebrate or feel sorry for it. I was just relieved that it was over. And we never had rodent problems again.

How is this story the third installment in my series about concerns over governmental control of health care? It is perhaps the best illustration from the many true stories of bureaucratic ineptitude collected over the years that my husband and I have worked for the government. We achieved in 12 hours what dozens of government officials and procedures could not accomplish in months.

Our government is legendary for the miles of red tape that coil around even the simplest of actions. I for one, don’t want to be tangled up in it when it’s a cancer I hope to excise instead of a lowly rat wreaking havoc in an office.

It is a Wall Street Journal editorial by Whole Foods CEO, John Mackey. Here are the first two paragraphs:

“The problem with socialism is that eventually you run out
of other people’s money.”

—Margaret Thatcher

With a projected $1.8 trillion deficit for 2009, several trillions more in deficits projected over the next decade, and with both Medicare and Social Security entitlement spending about to ratchet up several notches over the next 15 years as Baby Boomers become eligible for both, we are rapidly running out of other people’s money. These deficits are simply not sustainable. They are either going to result in unprecedented new taxes and inflation, or they will bankrupt us.

While we clearly need health-care reform, the last thing our country needs is a massive new health-care entitlement that will create hundreds of billions of dollars of new unfunded deficits and move us much closer to a government takeover of our health-care system. Instead, we should be trying to achieve reforms by moving in the opposite direction—toward less government control and more individual empowerment. Here are eight reforms that would greatly lower the cost of health care for everyone…. MORE

A poll conducted July 24-27, 2009 by the Wall Street Journal asked people whether they thought President Barack Obama’s health plan was a good or bad idea. 42% called it a bad idea while 36% said it was a good idea. Only 15% of those with private insurance thought their health care would improve under his plan.

Count me among the privately insured who have little hope that things will improve under the proposed legislation. I’m all for fixing what’s broken, but this bill worries me.

Last week, I told how the substandard healthcare my family received through the military influenced my ability to trust a government-run program. This became clearest during our assignment in Scotland, when a miscarriage forced me to utilize the UK’s National Health Service.

The Navy sent me to the NHS hospital, a dark, depressing cinder block building. I was given a rickety old bed in a ward of newly delivered mothers. There was one small bathroom for the 12 of us. I actually lost my baby alone in that public toilet stall as the cries of newborns filled my ears.

Nurses made rounds once a day. There were no TVs. When thirsty, I got my own water from the shared bathroom sink, and my husband had to bring in food. The beds were so ancient; raising the head was like adjusting a cheap poolside lounge chair.

I miscarried on a Sunday. Because ultrasounds were only performed on Monday mornings, I had to stay overnight. At the crack of dawn, all patients needing ultrasounds were rounded up, given huge cups of water to ensure the full bladder needed for the procedure, and sent to wait in the radiology department.

After sitting for ages on a hard wooden bench, I felt sick from my near-bursting bladder. A nurse followed me into the restroom and actually stood over me as I went, scolding me not to void too much, or I would have to wait another week for my ultrasound.

It doesn’t sound like things have improved since my experience 17 years ago. A British friend, Danielle, recently suffered a miscarriage. She and I share the same endocrine disorder that can make it difficult to get—–and stay—–pregnant.

This side of the pond, it has been common knowledge for at least a decade that taking a simple hormonal supplement through the first trimester can usually prevent the repeated miscarriages we often suffer. American doctors routinely prescribe this inexpensive cure the moment the test comes back positive. I wouldn’t be pregnant now without it.

But when Danielle asked her NHS midwife to check her hormone levels, the woman didn’t know what she was talking about. Testing went against policy; if you miscarried, that was just bad luck.

When Danielle began spotting at 8 weeks, she was told to wait for the standard 12-week ultrasound. One Friday night, just a few days before she reached 12 weeks, Danielle began bleeding heavily.

She went to the ER, only to be sent home for a familiar reason: they didn’t do ultrasounds on the weekend. Excruciating pain led her back to the hospital hours later.

Left alone in a cubicle, her bleeding became too graphic to write about here. A nurse finally gave her some Tylenol and towels to clean herself up. At Danielle’s request, she was sent to a different hospital that had a mobile ultrasound unit. But when she arrived, she was once again denied, told that the machine was too old to detect anything. After spending a day alone on the maternity ward, not knowing if the miscarriage was complete, Danielle checked out of the hospital. She returned later that week for the long-scheduled ultrasound, to verify what her heart already knew: her baby was gone.

A couple of months after my NHS hospitalization, my husband needed a minor surgical procedure. Luckily for him, the only doctor available was part of the private health care system.

As much as the NHS hospital resembled a dungeon, the private hospital was like a castle. The walls were covered in rich walnut paneling. Chandeliers, oil paintings and Persian rugs completed the decor. His beautiful room had the amenities of a five-star hotel.

When they took him back for surgery, the nurse brought me a lace-covered tray topped with a full tea set and a plate of cookies. I couldn’t help recalling the paper cups of water in the maternity hospital as I kicked back in my velvet chair and sipped the soothing tea from the delicate china.

Our government promises to lessen the gap between healthcare for the rich and poor, but I fear it’s more likely to end up as exaggerated as our experiences in the UK. People who can afford to pay for better care, will, while the rest us will have the same choices we had in the military: take it or leave it. I have no desire to go back to that.

Congress is on recess, so we still have time to study the details of this bill, H.R. 3200, and let our representatives know what we think about it. One word of advice before diving in: make sure you have some coffee nearby, because it is filled with enough mind-numbing legalese to send you into a coma. It’s no wonder some representatives don’t want to actually read the bill before voting. But I say it’s time we hold them accountable for doing what we hired them to do—–represent us.

Text of H.R. 3200 (Click on the comments if you have time; some are quite interesting.)

Defend Your Healthcare (Thank you to Beth C. for sharing this site with me. Be sure to check out the articles in the red sidebar.)

Ross Hall Hospital (The luxurious private hospital in Glasgow that’s mentioned in August 9th’s column. Too bad there aren’t photos of the interior on the website. Click here to read reviews from patients; ours would’ve been just as stellar.)

People have asked why I’m concerned, so this is the first of three columns written to answer that question. These are stories of my experiences; simple food for thought. I won’t delve deeply into the current health care reform bills or the politics behind them. Those details are found easily enough online.

Some are concerned about this from a fiscal standpoint. Others are troubled by the prospect of an even bigger government. My apprehension is rooted primarily in practicality, as is often the case with mothers. Based upon my own experiences with various forms of health care, I am anxious about how these proposed changes could impact my family’s well-being. Truly, we need to fix what is broken—–but I cannot, in good conscience, support this legislation as it is now written.

Over time, I have hit just about every point along the health care spectrum. I have lived through tough years without insurance, utilized pregnancy-related Medicaid, been covered by my husband’s active-duty military service, and have paid out the nose for coverage through big health insurance companies.

Because of that, I have compassion for the uninsured, sympathy for those who depend upon government-funded services, and understand both the blessings and curses found in military health care and HMOs.

Several disturbing experiences occurred while my husband was an active-duty sailor and our only medical choices were to take it or leave it. Because of what we saw, I have no desire to see my country choose that kind of system.

I remember coming down with a nasty case of pneumonia one winter. Although Tricare—–the military’s version of an HMO—–existed, we were not allowed to use it. When a military dependant came down with something, she had to go to the base hospital’s clinic.

Herding cattle always came to mind during those lengthy clinic visits. It didn’t matter why you were there—–it always became an all-day event.

That morning, I was weak with a 104-degree fever, and the clinic was packed. Every metal folding chair in the sterile waiting room was taken and the only place to sit was on the floor in the hallway. So I, and several dozen others, sat shivering for hours on the linoleum, against an icy cinderblock wall. My only comfort was the pillow I made of my husband’s shoulder, and later, his lap when I could no longer sit up.

When my name was finally called, I was mortified to discover that the waiting room was set up like a classroom. Rows upon rows of people faced the front of the room, where the nurse and the scales were positioned. My face glowed red with embarrassment as I got weighed and had my medical history taken in front of an audience.

After a brief visit with a doctor—–conducted atop a gurney behind a thin curtain—–I was diagnosed and sent to the in-house pharmacy. At least we sat on chairs as we waited several more hours for my antibiotic and the military’s miracle cure-all: a prescription for 800 milligrams of ibuprofen.

Since I eventually became well again, I suppose one could call the health care adequate, even though it was drastically below the standards most Americans are accustomed to. I’m well aware that other recipients of free military medical care haven’t been as lucky.

After a night on the town, one of my husband’s shipmates tumbled over the ship’s railing and fell two stories onto the metal deck below. The medics gave him 800 milligrams of ibuprofen and sent him to sleep it off. He never woke up, dying that night from a massive cerebral hemorrhage that they just—–missed?

Certainly, medical negligence can happen regardless of who is paying the bill. But free health care can often be the costliest of all, as we learned while stationed in Scotland and were forced to utilize its National Health Service.

Come back next week to hear about the babies and the tea—and why America’s supposed gap between care for the rich and the poor is nothing compared to what it could be.