Happy Birthday, Dad

In April of 2018, my dad died of a type of kidney cancer that did not respond to any form of chemotherapy. I don’t mean that chemotherapy did not work, I mean it did not exist for this cancer. About a year and a half before that, he signed up for Medicaid for the first time.

Dad had quit his job and, as a result, stopped receiving his employee-sponsored health insurance. Before considering government assistance, he liquidated his retirement and paid out of pocket to stay on his previous healthcare plan. He decimated his savings to avoid taking money from the government, and partially to avoid the bureaucracy that came with applying for subsidies through Obamacare. But by 2017, he no longer had any savings or income, so he did not have that option. He started on Medicaid in January of that year, and in February was diagnosed with cancer for the first time. It is, without question, one of the most fortunate things that could have happened to him. You know, assuming he had to get cancer. All us taxpayers paid for my dad’s healthcare for the rest of his life.

Through Medicaid, he was eventually able to be transferred from our local hospital (St. Mary’s) to the Cleveland Clinic, where he underwent a complicated surgery that involved removing a massive tumor while his heart was on bypass. The surgery was so complex, we were told nothing like it had ever been performed at St. Mary’s. In Cleveland, I walked past a man in the hallway who had a very similar procedure just a few days before my dad’s. Clearly it was where he needed to be. Some might stop here and say that this is proof that we need government healthcare. But I’m not going to sugarcoat this and tell you it was all smooth sailing to that point. Medicaid questioned the need for the transfer, and the transfer to Cleveland specifically. It was only after dad was turned down by two other hospitals that the transfer to Cleveland was approved, and that was a couple of days after the transfer was initially requested. But, he did get the transfer, get a full workup, an extremely complicated surgery, and several days of recovery. He came home to in-home nursing and physical therapy, and outpatient follow-up locally. Pretty comprehensive services.

Here's the thing, my dad chose to quit his job. He didn’t lose it because of economic problems or because he wasn’t physically able to do it. He also wasn’t being lazy. He wanted to continue working, he just wanted a change of scenery. He found some other part-time work to try to make ends meet, but never found a job that offered health insurance again. He worked in “unskilled” manual labor for over 20 years in one place, and in several other places before that. He didn’t have the kind of wealth it takes to pay for his own healthcare for the rest of his life, short as that ended up being.

What I’ve been wondering about in the last couple of years is what we, as a country, think should happen in situations like this. If someone quits working, do they deserve to lose the benefits of living in the wealthiest country in the world? Do we value hard work so much that someone who stops doing it, however briefly, loses access to basic healthcare? And what about the poor souls who legitimately lose their jobs because of problems in the economy? There’s been a fair amount of that in the last year, and a lot of folks lost their health insurance as a result. Some of them fell far enough to land on Medicaid, but some of them didn’t. Do we really believe that offering healthcare to every citizen, regardless of their employment status, amounts to *gasp* Socialism?!

Frankly, I wish I could write this without bringing politics into it at all, but that’s just not possible at this time. I want you to know that for me, personally, it’s more important that your dad gets the care that my dad got, regardless of whether he “deserves it,” by some arbitrary standard. I’m willing to pay more in taxes to see that happen. And I don’t see any way forward except to have the government guarantee access to healthcare. I’m not smart or informed enough to tell you if that should be public healthcare for everyone, or an option to buy in to Medicare, or some other thing nobody has dreamed up yet. But I appreciate that my dad could put his focus on his fight, and not on how he was going to pay the bills afterwards. That’s exactly what I want you and your family to have when it’s your turn to fight.

I’m going to be voting for people I think will work to make this happen. And then I’ll be calling them and writing them and harassing them to keep doing the work, because voting by itself isn’t enough. And while I’m not telling anyone how to vote, I am asking, if you read this far, to consider how you are voting, and how it might affect you and the ones you love down the road. Because down the road can come at you a lot faster than you realize.

Quandary 2019

I’m pretty sure the last thing I wrote outside of work was my dad’s obituary. The urge to write things down has come for a time since then, but never long enough to commit words to page. I decided it was time to start putting them down and see what comes of it. The first thing that really pushed me to write again was the trip I took with my brother and sister to Colorado in September.

Calling it a vacation seems silly. I was not working, and I was away from home, and some of it was certainly delightful and relaxing. But it was emotionally and physically taxing as well. It’s been nearly two years since my dad died. Feels like ten years ago or two weeks ago, depending on the day. But while in Colorado, it seemed often like he was right there. Four years ago, my brother and I did this trip with my dad, hitting nearly all the same spots. We did what was at the time, and perhaps still is, the hardest physical challenge of my life. We climbed Quandary Peak, a mountain 14,265 feet in altitude. The trail is a little under 7 miles, and it is hard terrain. At places we had to choose each step to make sure our ankles stayed intact. Granite is unforgiving in all its forms, from large slick rocks with sharp edges, to small gravel churning underfoot. And on Quandary, there is a lot of granite.

My dad struggled his way up this mountain, proud in the end that he only quit once before deciding to persevere and get to the top. We took the last few steps up the mountain together, soaking in the views and reveling in our accomplishment, before facing the next struggle of getting back down. This time, it was my sister’s turn to struggle up the mountain. And struggle she did. She never officially quit, not even once, though I’m certain that the thought more than danced across her mind. Nothing about this trip was easy for her, including the “warm up” hikes we did in the days leading up to Quandary. But, just like before, we took the last few steps together and made it to the top eventually. And just like before, we realized the job was only half done, and trudged our way back down.

I remember years ago going to Israel with some of my family. The most beautiful part of that trip for me was walking through the Bible stories of my childhood. It was as if Narnia had come to life and I could see with my own eyes what had only been described in words before. Hearing those stories again, in the places they occurred, brought them to life and made history real before my eyes. Whatever your beliefs, it’s hard to underestimate the historical significance of the life of Jesus. Walking where he walked was an experience I’ll never forget.

Similarly, walking these steps I last walked with my father brought him back to life for me, in a way. It sounds beautiful, and it is. But it is also torturous. I think Colorado is unique because I’ve only been in those places with him, my brother, and now my sister. Everywhere around “home” I’ve been with him, I’ve also been with lots of other people. And everywhere else I’ve traveled with him has been brief, or crowded, or too anonymous to be memorable. But in Colorado, we walked where few people do. Being that close to him, but not being able to see him or talk to him, reminded me what is missing all over again. Time has not yet healed that wound, and I suspect it never really will.

The funny thing to me about that trip four years ago is that we had no idea we were nearing the end with him. It was not a “do it before it’s too late” trip. It was a “do it and then later do it again” trip. We thought there were decades of adventures left, and were planning the next one when he got sick. But I love that about my dad. The older he got, the more he lived. He bought a motorcycle in his 50s, went to a bunch of concerts with Dee, and was up for more adventure than I ever would have guessed. I even convinced him to try seared tuna once. Rare fish. Rare indeed. I try to remind myself of these things on the days I don’t want to get out of bed. There is much life yet to be lived, and no excuse to put it off. Some days though, it is the best I can do to put one foot in front of the other. Inch my way along the trail. One more step.