When Survival Comes with a Bill

How My 12 Rounds With the Healthcare System Reinforced My Stance on Universal Healthcare in America (and Why We Need To Kill The Bill)

The original version of this piece appeared on Blue Virginia in 2020 right at the beginning of the pandemic. I actually wrote this piece from my hospital bed at the Virginia Hospital Center in February of 2020, right on the verge of lockdown. (With a little hindsight, I should have maybe been more skeptical about a respiratory infection at that time.) I had not wanted to share it at the time due to being overly private about my health but was convinced by friends and allies that it was an important perspective to share.

At the time it was trying to convince the front runners for the Democratic Presidential nomination in 2020 that Medicare for All Who Want It wasn’t going to be enough. But now with Trump back in the White House and Congressional Republicans wanting to cut back drastically on Medicaid 5 years later, I want to retell it:

One thing has always rung true to me: it takes a real, firsthand experience to fully grasp the gravity of a situation. I’ve long supported universal healthcare for all as a policy —but I didn’t truly understand how broken our healthcare system is until I found myself in crisis.

In February of 2020, I woke up with some back pain on my right side. As a lifelong athlete—15 years of competitive swimming and 6 years of rugby—I’m no stranger to muscle aches. But this felt different. I had chills. Something was off. I went to urgent care (thankfully covered with no co-pay through my employer-provided insurance), and the doctor gave me painkillers and sent me home.

That turned out to be a band-aid on a bullet wound.

Four days later, I was back at work. The pain hadn’t gone away, but I told myself it was one of those “walk it off” injuries. Then, while sitting at my desk, it felt like the entire right side of my torso imploded. I knew something was seriously wrong. But I didn’t call 911—that would have cost at least $600. I didn’t go to the nearest hospital in D.C.—it might be out-of-network, and I couldn’t risk being denied care or transferred.

So, I called an Uber to take me to a facility that was in-network—30 minutes away.

I made it about halfway before the pain and shortness of breath became unbearable. I had to go to the ER. At that moment, the need for care overpowered every financial fear. That moment almost cost me my life.

At the ER, I was stabilized, medicated, and diagnosed. X-rays revealed I had pneumonia. Fluid had built up in my lungs, and I had gone into respiratory arrest. If I had pushed through that Uber ride, I might not be here today. I nearly died trying to save money.

Even in the worst pain of my life, one thought wouldn’t leave my head: Will this be covered? What will it cost if it’s not?

I was incapacitated. I was dying. And I was thinking about the bill.

Thankfully, I have employer-covered health insurance. I’m incredibly privileged to have it—and it saved my life. I spent 12 days in the hospital, receiving round-the-clock care from extraordinary nurses and doctors. Because of them, I’m alive and recovering. Let me be clear: healthcare workers are not the problem. The system they’re forced to work in is.

But what about the 27 million Americans who aren’t insured? Or the 45 million who are underinsured? When I found out my hospital stay was covered, I breathed a literal and metaphorical sigh of relief. But most people don’t get that comfort.

No one chooses to go to the ER. No one plans to get sick. I didn’t choose to need two surgeries. I did it because I wanted to live. So why does our healthcare system treat survival like a luxury vacation? Without insurance, my stay alone would’ve cost around $120,000—not including medicine or procedures.

That’s $120,000 just to avoid dying—not to lie on a beach with a cocktail.

People go bankrupt every day over emergencies they can’t control. We treat medical care like it’s a luxury when it’s a necessity.

I’m also lucky to live near high-quality medical facilities. Many uninsured and underinsured Americans live in rural areas where the nearest ER might be hours away—because it’s not profitable to build clinics there.

And that’s the root of the problem: profit.

It’s not profitable to insure people who are already sick—so they don’t.

It’s not profitable to build clinics in rural areas—so they don’t.

It’s not profitable to lower drug costs for low-income people—so they don’t.

In a just society, human lives must come before profit. Period. End of discussion.

Universal Free Healthcare and universal medical coverage aren’t radical. They’re human. They’re moral. They’re necessary.

Preventative care, emergency treatment, and affordable medicine are rights—not privileges. Our founding documents say we are entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. So shouldn’t we ensure people can stay alive?

If the pandemic has taught us anything, it’s that we are only as safe as the most uninsured person in America. Why are we all at risk just because a few refuse to help others get care?

We already pay for public schools, public transportation, and public safety—even if we don’t personally use them. Why should healthcare be different?

Yes, we can fund it. Even a modest tax increase could cost less than what Americans already pay in premiums, deductibles, and surprise bills. There are many models, but all roads lead to the same truth: every single person deserves access to high-quality, affordable healthcare.

If we can spend $15 billion on Space Force and $25 billion to fund Israel’s ongoing war and genocide in Gaza or wade into another war in the Middle East no matter the cost, we can afford to save lives.

With spending like this, how can the President and Republicans on Capitol Hill justify their incredibly drastic cuts to Medicaid in their One Big Beautiful Bill?

America can’t afford to let healthcare remain a business. It must become a basic right. It’s time for universal healthcare. And at the very least, it’s time to kill the bill and protect medicaid.