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Staci Backauskas

When I couldn’t find a job after getting my journalism degree, I went back to school and got an EMT license – a pivotal choice that created the set point for my life. I caught a lot of flack for putting the employment search on hold. Some said I was impatient; others accused me of being too ar...

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Who Cares About Health Care-Part I

by Staci B

When Angela moved here from Georgia, one of the first things I helped her do was transfer her Medicaid.  I naively assumed this would be a simple click of the mouse, but Social Security told her she had to apply at  the Department of Children and Family Services.

 We arrived to find a room full of kiosks with phones that linked directly government agencies, computers, copiers and a fax machine – everything someone needed to apply for food stamps, Medicaid and other county administered services.  Except someone to guide you through the process. 

 After wading through the crowd huddled around the two lone DCFS employees, one of them told us we needed a form from Social Security.  A twenty-minute drive away, I was grateful we didn’t have to take the two buses that would’ve been necessary without one. 

 Detoured several times due to airport construction, we finally found the office and waited an hour and a half before being given a form and instructed by the clerk to go to a DCFS address that hadn’t existed in over two years.  We eventually discovered we needed to be where we had started, and four hours later, the application was complete. 

 At 50, Angela was determined to learn how to take care of herself.  The emotional and physical abuse she’d experienced as a child had left her with both physical and mental health issues and her only income was a monthly disability check.  She’d never graduated from high school and had not ever had steady employment. 

 After arguing with God, I listened to the guidance instructing me to support her journey and we talked about what it was going to take for her to become independent.  After creating a game plan, she moved into the cottage behind my house. 

 I knew part of the responsibility I’d taken on included mediating on her behalf with doctors, but I had no idea the depth of the rabbit hole I was about to tumble down.  After receiving her Medicaid card, we found a doctor close by and made an appointment for her to get a physical and have all of her medications reviewed. 

 Dr. Cole kept us waiting about an hour, but was amenable to me being in the room after the examination.  I had encouraged Angela to make a list of her symptoms and any questions she had.  After discussing several issues with the doctor, I reminded her to ask about the night sweats she’d been experiencing. 

 “We’ve already discussed three issues,” the doctor said while writing a note in Angela’s chart.  “And she’s been in here over a half hour.  We’ll have to talk about it next time.”

This was my first exposure to the assembly line mentality of government-subsidized health care – where time is more important than the patient’s comfort. 

 At her next appointment, Angela complained about the pain in her lower back, the result of a car accident three decades ago.  She’d been taking Vicodin for just as long and had shared with me that it hadn’t been working.  As the doctor rewrote the prescription for Vicodin, despite Angela’s comments to her about it not helping, I shared my concern that taking the same dose of any drug for thirty years allowed the body to get used to it and couldn’t possibly be having an effect at this point.  The doctor shrugged.  “That’s not true,” she schooled me.  “It still works.” 

 Angela saw Dr. Cole for over three months and had five appointments.  I didn’t go in every time because I wanted her to become comfortable with taking charge of her own medical care.  I drove her to get blood work done and guided her in positioning questions and suggested she take notes on the doctor’s responses.  It wasn’t until after Medicaid forced Angela to choose another doctor that I discovered Dr. Cole had never even taken her blood pressure, much less given her a physical.