Fear of financial inadequacy is the biggest driver of healthcare avoidance in this country. I'm not exaggerating when I say it's often a matter of living with crushing medical debt or risking death. It is really that serious for millions of Americans and the
I should know: it happened to me, though my experience is not unique. This is what many Americans are battling when they need healthcare – if they even get the care they need to begin with.
I was 18 years old when I arrived in the U.S. from England. I think I had about $50, maybe less, to get me by for a few days while I figured out my next move. For the next few years, I would move from east to west, settling in Oregon and marrying (too) young. When I became pregnant with my first child, I was introduced to the U.S. healthcare system. Confusing, expensive,
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I wasn't too far along in my
I wasn't home for too long when the bills started coming in: ambulance ride, emergency room, lab work, scans and X-rays, facility fees, impatient stay, physician fees. I had no idea where to start but I knew, without a doubt, that I couldn't even begin to afford the dollar amounts I was seeing. I spent weeks on the phone with hospital administration who simply told me to get on a payment plan.
I was in my early twenties working a minimum wage job at a shoe store – even a payment plan wasn't viable for me. But I did try. Some weeks I would lessen the grocery haul so I could pay twenty bucks to the lab bill or get an extension on my electricity bill and give a little to the hospital. But nothing I could do stopped the hammering of bills and collection threats and eventually, the letters stopped coming from the hospital and started coming from demanding collection agencies or lawyers. My deductible and out-of-pockets reset, and it became clear to me that there was no way I could afford to give birth to my baby in this country while I was still dealing with financial harassment from a car wreck.
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I never thought I would return "home" to England when I left. I never intended to. But as it turns out, it was easier for me to sell all the belongings I had acquired over my first few years in the states, quit my job, break the lease on my apartment, buy a plane ticket and return to my roots. At seven months pregnant, I found myself back in the cloudy town of Bristol with more healthcare support than I had experienced in years. I was immediately assigned a midwife and began receiving regular well-visits. Unfortunately, through ultrasound, we detected something called polyhydramnios in my pregnancy, and I became high-risk.
My daughter, who is still just as stubborn these days, had to be induced at 42 weeks and thankfully, she presented as a perfectly healthy 7 lb. 4 oz. beauty. No bills. No demands from the hospital. In England, regular postpartum healthcare is required – so I continued to receive in-home visits from my midwife to help me recover and ensure the health of my baby.
When my daughter was 4 months old, I returned to the U.S. knowing what was waiting for me. I was a new mom in massive medical debt but determined to make the American Dream a reality for myself and for my little girl. Unfortunately, my credit was shot, aggressive collection agencies seemed to have me on speed dial and no one cared whether I could afford to pay. So, I just kept trying. For years I tried to get ahead of it as the debt was sold to new agencies over and over again. At some point it became hard to track. The hospital washed its hands of the issue, and the agencies were cruel, threatening and cold.
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Ironically, when my daughter was a year old, I was placed by a local staffing agency at my very first corporate job with an insurance carrier and unbeknownst to me, while I was battling this medical debt, I became part of the very system that was tearing apart my life.
Somewhat naively, I thought being on the "inside" would give me some advantage, but it didn't. And although I climbed the ladder and found some professional success in my field, I continued to juggle this medical debt, which had accrued massive amounts of interest and was being renewed repeatedly, so my hope for the seven-year write-off kept coming up short.
In 2017, some 12 years later, I gave up and filed for bankruptcy. I told no one. I was so deeply ashamed. I was a traveling executive moving swiftly into the PPO-alternative space in the industry and became more recognizable by my peers. I'm sure from the outside, I looked like I had it all figured out but, just like the other half-a-million Americans each year, I was not immune to the failings of the system — no matter my job, role or financial status.
The next couple of years were hard. Bankruptcy strips you of any financial credibility and leaves a dark smudge on your future. With a credit rating in the low 400s, I had to claw my way back into the good graces of lenders by using high-interest, small limit store cards. Little-by-little, I built it all back up, but every time I needed to apply for credit, there was that glaring Chapter 13 only telling part of my story and quietly sparking lots of judgment from across banking desks.
I tell my story now to show people in my circles that not only are our fellow citizens similar victims, but even someone in nice clothes with a fancy title isn't guaranteed a better experience. Some of us are just one unfortunate accident away from financial ruin.
I plan to change that. For everyone.
