We all have our own ideas of what public assistance or welfare means. To me, Medicaid meant poverty, a place I didn't think I'd ever be. Even when I became ill, shortly before my sixteenth birthday, I didn't file for Medicaid. My dad had private insurance. I was on his policy. In those early years, we all thought I'd get well. But I didn't.
When I turned twenty-two, I made my first attempt at getting disability payments. I didn't want to, but I would get kicked off my dad's insurance in a couple of years. I needed to get on Medicaid. But wasn't that for poor people?
One day I woke up chronically ill and, after several phone calls that day, I went to bed with a new word for myself:
disabled. I would learn to say it during the two years, two denied appeals, and finally, a court hearing when I was granted my benefits.
I always expected to work and support myself. I would have guessed that when I turned forty, I'd be helping my dad with his expenses instead of him still supporting me. Medicaid is essential, It pays for the Humira shots which keep my Crohn's disease under control. The cost of those shots?
$1500 a month. There's no way my dad could pay for that, too, and no way I would let him. But without them, I would be so much sicker than I am now. In the years before Humira was available, I almost died twice.
I never expected to be in this place. I hate asking for help. I hate needing help. But I know what happened to me could happen to anyone. It's the reason we all put our tax dollars into programs like Medicaid. It's the reason these programs were created and the reason why members of Congress of both political parties have voted over and over to protect these programs even when that vote meant those members of Congress would lose their next election.
When I heard about the new health care bill and its deep cuts to Medicaid, I was stunned. All I could think was
what will I do if I lose Medicaid?
I know I am not alone. I think about other Americans who are chronically ill. About my friends who have children with autism or down syndrome. About friends with schizophrenia or bipolar disorder or post traumatic stress disorder. About friends who have lost their jobs and have young children. About the elderly who just barely pay their bills each month, thanks to the help they get from Medicare. None of us chose these battles. We would prefer independence and self-sufficiency. We are not in this place because we are lazy.
Earlier this year, I watched my hero Congressman John Lewis vow to fight every day and every hour for the health care that Americans need and deserve. Congressman Lewis has been fighting for fairness and justice since he was a teenage civil rights advocate. Now, at seventy-seven, he could retire comfortably, but he continues to fight.
I fight with the gift I have. I fight with my words.
I ask for your help. Call your senators. Ask them not to vote for this bill. Please.
