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Friday 10 February 2012

HEALTHCARE: SUCH A DIRTY WORD


Someone recently asked me about the healthcare system as it operates over here in England, or more specifically, they expressed their fears over a socialized healthcare system in America, and this opened the dialogue. This is a subject I am extremely passionate about and figured it’s high time I address it in blog form. Hey, that’s what I’m here for.

It’s one of those subjects, as anyone knows that follows the news in the United States, that is contentious at best, not to mention loaded with misconceptions, fear, and misdirection by our fine media and political machine. As 'socialism' in itself has become the dirtiest word going – how this came to be still causes me to chuckle – especially in our proud capitalist society (that has really been functioning well over the last fifteen years. Don't you agree? Ah hem), I thought I’d dispel some myths when it comes to the healthcare system as it operates over here. At least in my experience, I’m sure everyone will have a horror story for you no matter what side of the Atlantic you are on.

For starters, the healthcare system, in this country I call home, is free. As it's seen here, medical treatment is a basic human right, full stop. I am not worried my government is trying to control me, I’m not worried about paying for the next guy, or who gets what and are they really entitled to it. I am more focused on the fact that when the King and I need to see a doctor we do. If we need to go to the emergency room (and boy oh boy do we often), we just walk in. They don't turn us away for not having the right insurance. To date, I have never waited an excessive amount of time for an appointment or surgery to address a medical condition. If the King or I is sick, we go to our local doctor that day early in the morning and usually they can fit us in. If they can’t usually they can see us by the next day. My doctor in the States has a month’s waiting list for an appointment and I pay for him. So, as far as waiting months to see someone, I suppose it happens to some, but certainly never for a serious medical condition. And well, to reemphasize, it's FREE, so if I have to wait some time to get a hangnail looked at, well it seems worth it to me. 

When it comes to care, I had the King at a modern teaching hospital with some of the top specialists in the world teaching there and felt like I was in very good hands. More importantly, I have the contented feeling every day I walk this planet that if I ever got very ill (which I hope I do not any time soon), I would be taken care of (well, the Tories may have something to say about this, but that's another matter). I would not lose my home to pay crippling medical costs, I would not be beholden to find a certain type of job that had good medical, and I would not have to go to a certain type of hospital or doctor that honored my health insurance. I could concentrate on the things I should be concentrating on which would be kicking the illness's ASS. The other and often overlooked consideration in a system like this is that if you want to take your hard earned dollars and go pay for some high rolling private doctor on Harley Street (medical row, if you will) just like in the States, you can. In fact, you can have private medical full stop, or make use of double insurance (both private and public) if you're a total hypochondriac. For those that can afford it they have that option. It's almost, dare I say it, capitalistic, if you think about it. And yet, for those that can't, afford it, they aren't denied. It's that simple. 

Now, is the National Health system in this country a flawless system? No, of course not. Does it have problems, and backlog and bureaucratic b*llshit plaguing it left, right and center. Of course it does. But show me a system run by humans that is trying to service an entire nation and I’ll show you a litany of issues that could be run in a more effective way. It’s beholden to politics just like in the United States. But saying all this, would I prefer this system to the one where I grew up? Any day of the week. We in the States pay for our insurance, some pay egregious sums of money to be insured in fact, and yet, we still have problems, backlog, corruption and malpractice coming out the wazoo (sorry, not so eloquent, but you get my point). 

Furthermore, I lived for several years with someone who was deemed uninsurable by the American government because he was born with a list of internal problems as long as my arm. He was born with these conditions; he couldn’t not control it as much as I cannot control my height. He’s had transplants and surgeries and more doctor visits that you can shake a stick at, and of course, because of this he is in debt to a frightening sum of money because our government considers him not worthy of insurance – or as I see it, not worthy of care. From where I sit, there is something fundamentally wrong with that. From where I sit, there is no argument in the world why my old roommate, a kind, giving, hard working amazing woman, could not find a job to give her medical so she simply did not go to the doctor, ever. No matter what her ailment was because she simply could not afford to. 

So if you ask me if I’m for socialized medicine. I suppose my answer is a proud yes. And if that answer scares you, go speak to someone who has come down with cancer, living in middle America that has to choose between their mortgage, feeding their kids, and paying their medical bills. Then we can talk. Or better yet, sign them up to your policy and take care of them as a kindhearted good American citizen. :-)

Tuesday 7 February 2012

HOW ABOUT SOME CORN WITH YOUR ICE CREAM?


I don’t know how many mornings of late I have woken up and one of my first thoughts was, ‘how am I going to get vegetables into the King today.’ Yes, I am a college graduate from an excellent university (modesty is for the youth). I have written scripts in the double digits and used to read the New Yorker cover to cover and now all I can muster are obsessive thoughts about vegetable consumption. Toddlers: they drive you to it.

Of late, the King has decided that no vegetable is his friend despite the fact that he used to have a fondness for anything in the food kingdom. Okay, he still likes avocado but that’s a fruit, no matter how many times you tell yourself it’s not. He currently walks into the kitchen, grabs hold of the counter top underneath his snack cupboard (the contents of which are not that exciting – raisins, rice cakes, a bunch of puffed things - but what does he know) and makes this pleading wail that sounds like, ‘Ammmmaaa, Ammmmma’ over and over at the top of his lungs until you feel like your head is going to explode. We aren’t sure if this word of his means ‘more,’ ‘mine’ or ‘come on people, would you just give me what I want already.’ Then again, it could be Polish (what his father speaks to him) and it could be a foreshadowing of what's to come as far as me understanding my son.

Of course when it comes to mealtimes and getting vegetables down him, I’ve tried everything; little choo-choo games, songs about cute little broccoli that look like trees (I hate myself when I resort to this) begging, pleading, and then of course, ambivalence (fine, eat it, don’t, it makes no difference to me, I’ll just be over here pretending I could care less). Ambivalence makes me think I’m winning, but the King knows better. He is so onto me when I’m in ambivalent mode that he actually laughs at me. Of course during this entire struggle, I am laughing at the irony that when I was young I used to tuck my green beans in my big cheeks, eat the rest of the meal (including dessert of course), and then go and spit them out afterwards. 

Of late, I’ve become the master of hiding vegetables in his food. I figure, I’m his Mother, until he’s of an age where he can find me out, it is my duty to be surreptitious. So, if a vegetable can be purified within an inch of its life and then stuffed inside something else, god darn it, I’m going to try it. Sweet potato mashed and hidden under his yogurt - Yup, and he ate it. Broccoli pureed and mixed into his falafel (yes the King is down with his Lebanese roots) – you got it. And yes, he ate it. Smeared vegetable mash underneath the peanut butter on his cracker? But of course. And he ate it. Can you smell the victory coming off me? [And stop making faces, kids could care less about food combining, just today the King was dipping falafel into his banana yogurt).

Of course each time I’m able to get one over on him, I feel like I’ve won the lottery. Purely because for a moment, I can tell myself that I am not raising a child that is living on meat and cheese alone (and of course raisins. He is my son after all). Of course whilst I’m doing a victory dance on the inside, I act super nonchalant in front of the King, as if I could care less if he finishes what’s on his plate. Cause, I have a sneaking suspicion (or feeling of dread) that the King is always one step ahead of me. Come to think of it, I'm going to go and check his cheeks for vegetables.

Monday 6 February 2012

STRIKE A POSE GOLDEN PEACOCK


I was watching the half time show of the Superbowl online – despite living abroad, I still have my moments of American nostalgia even though I only found out who was playing two days before – and couldn’t help but wonder what the rest of the music community was thinking (especially the youth) as Madonna, at 53 years of age, gallivanted across the stage like some sort of futuristic centurion hopped up on Red Bull. Love the lady or hate her, but I know people in their thirties that can’t run around like that on a good day, let alone sing and dance in high heels whilst a billion people are watching to see if you have a wardrobe malfunction. And apparently, the consensus across the board was that she definitely hit it out of the park. Wait, wrong metaphor.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t think she is a great singer (as a lifelong fan I knew early on that was never her thing), and she looked a tad arthritic at moments. Not to mention that she was dressed like she worked the night shift in the Caesars Palace coffee shop, but compared to most contemporary performers of the day, the woman made them look downright lazy and unprepared. But the part that struck me the most was that like any good performer, she knew what her audience wanted (to dance and shake their groove thing) and that was to take their mind off losing, or celebrate the fact that at half time their team was ahead. She also knew that keeping her clothes on, and keep her groin from gyrating too much was the order of the day, and she shockingly went along with it. I suppose age is calming her down some.

Then again, I have to confess that there were also a few moments where I couldn’t help but think, ‘um, she’s 53, shouldn’t she be changing her act up some; maybe dig deep to see what the more mature Madonna can deliver? (Or is this the mature Madonna?) I mean, haven’t we seen her over the last twenty years wear some freaky outfit whilst she thrusts her pelvis and then wraps her legs around the umpteenth male dancer?’ I suppose if it ain’t broke – and her hips are still working and not in the need of a transplant – then hey, why not shake them; It is what what we have come to expect from her, and I'm thinking if she walked out in some double knit pantsuit and sat on a stool with a guitar, we may take issue with that too. And moreover, who am I to criticize, I can barely take the King to soft play without pulling my back out. Kudos to Madonna for being able to pull that off and make it home without needing a wheelchair.

Congrats Giants and Happy Monday.


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