As I limped into that busy hospital quite near my apartment, I didn't yet know I'd be their guest for a full nine days. I didn't yet know I'd be diagnosed with not only the problem in my leg, but with cancer as well. And I certainly didn't know about the ridiculous heaps of paper work I'd soon be given or the eye-popping bill for my treatment.

It was about three weeks ago that my left leg began to swell. This swelling didn't stop until my entire calf was blood red and rock hard.  I assumed I had somehow unknowingly sprained my calf muscle.  But when the vessels at the surface of my left ankle began popping, I realized it was time for a doctor visit. Fortunately, last year I purchased my first medical insurance in a decade. Still, I was quite concerned because my policy only covers bills accrued after hospital admission; doctor visits and outpatient services must be paid in cash at the time of service.

After waiting in line for a surprisingly short 20 minutes, I met with a doctor who quickly ascertained that I suffered from a severe case of deep vein thrombosis; my leg was heavily populated with families of blood clots threatening to pack their suitcases and take a deadly vacation to my lungs. The GP said he would have to admit me. Good, I thought, my insurance will kick in after all -- so how bad could my end of the bill be, right?  But then the doc followed by saying I must pay his fee right then and there because the consultation was given prior to admission, thus not covered by my insurance.  My heart sank; so that's how they getcha, huh?  You see, though I have a temporary, low-paying job at the moment, I've spent these last years as an unpaid orphanage worker and itinerant writer (read: bum), so you might say carrying wads of cash isn't really my strong suit. 

When Doctor Greedy finally dropped the hammer, I couldn't believe my ears; his seeing me for just 15 minutes that morning cost me $8! Yes, eight whole dollars.  I peeled off the bills and handed them over, convinced he would add another $500 for the rubber gloves he'd used while handling my leg, but no such charge was given. Eight bucks and ten minutes later, I was sent to the emergency room so they could get me started on an IV drip for the pain (yes, it was morphine and yes, I was awful happy about that).

The small stuff: My first three days were spent in the cardiac intensive care unit. During that time, I was on a blood-thinning heparin IV drip and under the constant watch of a nurse who was assigned to me and me only.  Though I tried to put on a good face, she could see the fear in my eyes when I was initially wheeled into my wall-less cubicle. Next to me lay an old man who, between his frequent, violent convulsions, somehow found the energy to give me the hard stink-eye every chance he got -- I gave it right back and raised him one unfriendly frown. While sleeping that first night, I apparently had a bad dream and awoke to find this young nurse sitting at my bedside, patting my back and telling me everything was going to be okay. I'm not used to being taken care of, but I hadn't the choice, so I believed her and let myself be comforted by her smile and the warm hand on my back.

I was pleasantly surprised to find the food was not the stuff of 80s standup comedy; in fact, it was better than any hospital food I'd ever had or even heard of others having. I can't prove this, but it stands to reason that niceties such as these -- the individual care and even the tasty food -- must have a positive impact on the recovery of a patient. I was feeling a hundred percent better by the third day and was moved to my own room. (I missed that angel of a nurse, though!)

The big stuff: Over the course of several long days, my doctors ran extensive tests: two CT scans, an exhaustive MRI, three lengthy sonograms, numerous blood tests, and the list goes on.  I was relieved they were doing everything they could for me, yet I could also hear the bell of a cash register ringing up a future life marred by debt and the inevitable depression I would surely endure because of it.  The tests confirmed the worst case scenario; my left leg was riddled with clots that began at my left ankle and continued their dam building all the way up into my abdomen.  I underwent an invasive angiogram to test for a problem in which one vein is being compressed by another, perhaps causing the thrombosis in the first place.  At the same time as this procedure, my three cardiolostists inserted a filter into my vena cava to protect against lower extremity clots making that trip to my lungs -- something called a pulmonary embolism.  I'm not exactly sure what that is, but it sounds ugly enough and I was happy to have these very competent mechanics attach an oil filter to this aging machine of my mine.  

In the end, these doctors found out exactly why I have DVT and have formulated a plan to cure me.  Having discovered a second problem during the course of testing, the GP sat at my bedside and calmly explained that my 39 year old prostate is cancerous. My being on blood thinners precludes prostate surgery for now, but he assured me I would be taken care of soon and that there wasn't yet a cause for concern. 

A few days later now and I feel great.  I am not depressed -- as I thought I would be -- about the cancer and my having never had children.  A urologist said that after my clots clear up, they'll operate on me only after they've stored some sperm just in case I find a woman mad enough to let me impregnate her.  (Fingers crossed for me, 'kay?)

The great stuff: But now for the tab.  As I said at the beginning of this, I had no idea what I was in for.  You see, my insurance policy costs only $110 PER YEAR.  After filling out stacks and stacks of paper work, I was given the big number: the total tab for all those days in the hospital, all those high-tech tests, and that fancy surgical procedure came to a whopping $5200. And let me stress that that number was not on my tab, that was my insurance company's bill.  Out-of-pocket, I paid $8 to Dr. Ananth Kumar.  And all of this was done at Apollo Medical which is considered to be a very, very expensive hospital.

I live in India.  There is no free health care for all.  India is not a "socialist" country.  And there are millions living in poverty who cannot afford even the lowest priced plans of around $50 per year.  But there is another side to that: I'm no mathematician, but when considering quality of care and ease of insurance application/acceptance, the cost for a lower-middle class to middle class, working Indian is not relative to the cost of insurance in the U.S.  For example, at the bottom of the pay scale for people who do have jobs is someone like Sondeep, the houseboy at my flat.  He is paid Rs. 4000 (80 U.S. D.) per month, though his room and board are paid for.  Sondeep is 16 years old and he can pay for both his schooling and medical insurance on his salary.  Together, his education and medical insurance policy are just three months' salary.  

And as far as quality of care goes...well, let's just say America is not "number one" as the lemmings of the right so oft repeat.

So back to my broken body...what would have happened to me if I were back in America when these illnesses came on?  I certainly could not afford American insurance. Full disclosure: I'm a smoker, a recovering drug addict, and I live near the poverty line.  Simply put, even if I could afford the 400 bucks a month it would take to insure my ailing body, I highly doubt I'd even be given insurance by most companies in America.  The initial problem of my throbbing leg might have been given some basic treatment in a Los Angeles emergency room, but would that emergency room have run all those tests?  Would they have found my prostate cancer while doing so?  Would I be able to afford the blood thinners I now have to take each day (and which cost only $12.50 a month in India)?

I'm guessing 'no' to all of the above .  I'm quite certain that, considering my liberal sensibilities and alternative lifestyle, I am the exact type of person those town hall crazies detest.  I'd even venture to say that they would consider my life not worth their tax dollars.  Thing is, though, I have a ton of friends who think I'm swell and I know hundreds of orphaned kids around this globe who would say that my life is, indeed, worth something -- even if that 'something' isn't easily given a pricetag. I've also made laugh countless readers who enjoy following the travails of a mentally unstable, globally transient, goofball.  So...no, my life is not worthless.  

But in my home country of America, it seems, I would not be worth the cost of keeping me alive.