'Sicko' no mas

Iwas in New York last week, but after a brief bout with a still unidentified ailment that resulted in a nine-hour stay at a hospital emergency room in Brooklyn, I felt like I was really in a scene from “Sicko,” Michael Moore’s revealing documentary on our broken health-care system.

As a bit of background, my memoir solo show, “Now That She’s Gone,” was featured in the New York International Fringe Festival, meaning I got to perform at the SoHo Playhouse, a prestigious off-Broadway venue. Our five shows were scheduled over a two-week period, and if you’ve ever been to New York you know just how pricey a proposition that can be, to say nothing of the loss of income from being away from home and the office for that long a time.

Actors, writers and other artists are sometimes dependent on luck and generosity of others; members of the “village” that support the arts. And — having hosted others over the years and never shy since then to sometimes beg for temporary housing — my fiancé  Ken Gruberman and I were fortunate to have free housing for the entire time at a borrowed apartment right across from the Brooklyn Museum of Art.

But terror struck soon after we moved in. I was short of breath, wheezing and nearly unable to speak — not good news for a singer and performer. I was terrified at the thought of croaking through my next show.

Thank goodness Ken was with me. He’s good friends with a pulmonary specialist in Los Angeles, whom he called. Ken then had me croak and cough over the phone to his physician pal, Dr. Jim Roach. Roach, aptly enough, urged me to get to urgent care. Hey, you only have to say “possible blood clot” to me once and I’m taking immediate action.

So we walked to New York Methodist in Brooklyn. Since Ken and I aren’t yet married, I couldn’t avail myself of his generous health plan. I’m still on Blue Cross, for which I’ve been paying exorbitant monthly premiums — premiums that only cover an accident or catastrophic illness but still go up every year, even though I have a gigantic deductible.

As we were walking, I became more and more terrified, not just about my health but what this little adventure was going to cost.

After we arrived at around 2:30 p.m., everyone at the hospital was great, for the most part. Our paperwork was processed in relatively short order. And I was happy I didn’t have anything broken or bleeding. Still, even though I like hanging out with Ken anywhere at any time, I was especially happy he was there to run interference for me. We were finally ushered into the hospital emergency care ward, where we got our own little curtained room. Then the fun began.

We were placed right next to an elderly woman who had not slept for a week. Her daughters were with her as the old lady began an agonizing hours-long chant of “Ay, ay, ay, Mamita, no mas,” saying it several hundred times. She was 87 and I was thinking that she just wanted to go see her mother in the great emergency room in the sky. Poor thing, I thought. But after a couple of hours of this, my empathy turned to a homicidal rage. No mas, indeed.

In the next curtained area was a young man who looked like a gang banger. But he was actually even more frightening than all that. He was alternately passing gas through his mouth and rectum — a literal gas bag if ever there was one. During our brief time together I heard a cacophony of sounds that should only be shared with loved ones — not blasted through the impersonal curtained hallways of an emergency room.

Finally, after nine hours, I was poked, prodded, X-rayed, scanned and then pronounced … drum roll, please … perfectly healthy. There were no blood clots! Certainly, I was elated to hear that.

Unfortunately, however, I didn’t feel any better. My lungs were still not right, and eventually we concluded that I was probably just not acclimated to various microbes that were in our apartment. It may have been a matter of nothing more than mere allergies. Meanwhile, I’m still waiting for my ER bill, which is likely to run thousands of dollars.

Are you OK with living in a country where you can’t afford to be sick? I’m not.
Don’t you think it’s a good idea to make quality health care available for the common folks, and not some sort of privatized privilege? I do.

Don’t you think it’s time to echo the words of my former ER roommate and yell, “No mas!” to our current health system? I do — thousands of times if we must.

Ellen teaches a writing workshop in Altadena. Contact her at www.snortland.com.