Hippocritic Oath | News and Opinion | Philadelphia Weekly

I never thought I would find myself on the brink of bankruptcy. Never envisioned a time when I would be asking the government for food stamps, utility assistance and medical aid . But that’s exactly where I stand today: A 30-year-old, well-educated, formerly able-bodied professional woman who is now dependent on the government for a “public option.”

I wouldn’t be in this position if I’d had access to reasonably affordable health care in the first place. But I didn’t, and now I’m here.

Today, I’m checking into the emergency room at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania for a routine treatment that is only vaguely connected to my usual ailments: In less than an hour’s time, a nurse practitioner will use a small scalpel and a particularly menacing pair of medical scissors to lance and then drain three grotesque abscesses that have been festering underneath the surface of my armpits, in various stages of regression and regeneration, for nearly six months now. I can’t even begin to count the number of medical treatments, procedures and surgeries I’ve undergone at hospitals just like this over the past 10 years, ever since surviving a car accident that nearly cost me my life.

This is not one of my better days. I feel a tinge of self-pity when I realize I’m starting to fit in quite well with the cornucopia of insanity surrounding me in the waiting area: wheezing and sweaty grandparents in wheelchairs wearing surgical face masks; a bedazzled Bible-toting schizophrenic boxer; an uncontrollably belligerent drunk; and an utterly tragic Iraq war veteran—clearly in the throes of withdrawal—who hasn’t stopped badgering the triage nurse for pain killers since my arrival. 


In most cities across the nation, emergency rooms have become de facto primary care clinics—where those without health insurance, or without enough health insurance, show up on a regular basis. They do this because they have no choice. 


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