I’m apolitical. I’m not Republican or Democrat, right wing or left wing, dark meat or white. I don’t know what I am. I know it makes some of you justice-fighters angry that my feathers can’t be ruffled, but I’m just not wired that way. It’s just not the lens through which I view the world.
So, with all of this hubbub about ObamaCare and health insurance travesties, I have to admit that I’m just biding my time and waiting for the dust to settle. I’m pretty sure God will still be on his throne no matter who is President, no matter how healthcare comes my way.
But here’s where it’s getting to me. I love people. I collect them, it has long been said. And I have built relationships, longstanding and deep, with the providers for our family.
The doctor who has laughed with me in her determination to figure out why I was peeing my pants for no reason and without warning.
The ones who have tweaked this cocktail of medications so I can be a mom who makes dinner and takes her kids to school.
The doctor who gave me his private cell when I was seven weeks pregnant and bleeding, bleeding, bleeding.
The nurse who held my hand and explained that miscarriages can happen for so many reasons and this wasn’t my fault.
The pediatrician who sewed up Tyler’s cheek when the picture fell on his face.
The team who set and reset and reset Tucker’s arm when he was 18 months old and kept taking off his cast. The nurse who helped me lie down when I fainted twice over my son’s stitches and pain.
The doctor who delivered my sons, who knew my husband and let him watch over his shoulder as the C-section was underway. (Which could creep you out if you didn’t know my husband, the scientist he was, and how he fell more in love with me having direct sight of my uterus.)
The nurses who answered the call when I said, “Call my pediatrician. I want them to know my husband died this morning.” And my friends looked at me oddly, wondering why, but I knew it would matter to these people.
The pediatric doctor and nurse who came to the calling hours with hugs for my children and tears for me, and promises that they would help us, help us, help us.
Those who offered healthcare when my insurance relapsed because the carrier had died and I couldn’t get insurance because of grief-induced depression.
The ones who have celebrated when I didn’t need Ambien every night anymore.
The one who says, “Text me, Trish. I’ll get you in.”
The ones who have treats behind the counter and stickers in their drawers for boys who are brave and loved.
These are my friends. This is my support network. And now I have to decide if I can afford to keep my ongoing history with them.
It’s hard on a girl’s heart.