there was a long pause, and it wasn’t clear if her attention had strayed for a moment to the set of keys she had just dropped on the floor beside her black patent leather sneakers, or if she was taking a moment to deeply ponder. as she stood up, her face red from the bend-over, she shrugged her shoulders.
“i guess it all depends on how many people have the furthest to fall.”
she taught piano in her home during the week and yoga on the weekends, always complained about how hard it was for an artist to make a half-decent living and as a sixty-something mom of a kid with complex needs, she often said that healthcare was her “jam.” she was sweeping snow off of her step as we talked about whether better healthcare can be had if we paid for it. i was most interested in how she thought a decision on whether private healthcare was better than public was made — she said she hoped that it would be based on whether or not people could actually pay.
she told me about one of her adult yoga students who had signed up at one of these full-service medical clinics, the kind with membership fees, doctors in pricey italian suits with handmade buttonholes and a smooth lapel roll, and a platter of fresh, healthy food in the waiting area. he had paid a few thousand dollars to spend a day there, she said, banging her broom on the metal railing to shake the snow off, getting a swath of tests — and some juicy strawberries — consulting with a seemingly limitless supply of shiny-faced experts who cajoled, comforted and calmed his fears about an early demise. his father had just died of colon cancer and he wanted to ensure that his destiny wasn’t the same. at the end of the day, he had a referral to a gi specialist — the appointment was within days.