"Really poor children in really poor neighborhoods have no habits of working and have nobody around them who works." --Newt Gingrich
I was born and raised in poverty. Both of my parents worked full-time, over-time, and extra jobs from my earliest memory until the present. They have never accepted government aid or charity. They just work, and work some more.
I'm writing this today, not because I see myself as a political activist, but because our daughter lives with an on-going, critical need for healthcare, and because I want everyone to be able to put a face to the idea of healthcare reform. And what better face than our goofy, gorgeous, brave baby girl's?
Meandering down a Santa Barbara side street in the twilight I was not at all surprised to encounter Andreas, last seen where? Paris? Berlin?
My friends do tend to wander. Though right now I would prefer to have them over for a dinner party at my own house.
Summary, Week 4, Great American Road Trip: I miss London.
Today we decided to go to Malibu and live out our Rockford Files fantasies. Except, you know, the car.
In theory this was our anniversary, but of what exactly? It has been fifteen years since we rocked up at the 24 Hour Church of Elvis, got hit with a magic wand, signed some papers, accidentally ended up on the evening news. Though in my view that was simply the day we scammed a discriminatory system, the day I became officially eligible for health insurance.
The only vows we took, the only promise I could have made given the distrait circumstances? To remain friends.
The first and fundamental principle is simple: always tell the truth. No matter how difficult, unwieldy, or frightening, it is better by far to acknowledge what is actually happening.
I dare you to read this interview: click for more.
When I moved here people would ask why I left the states, and I inevitably replied Because I wanted to live in a place where everyone has equal access to medical care.
Bonfire Night: the first time since moving to the UK that I do not need to move & guard my boat on the holiday!
I would say I miss her, but she sends postcards.
Instead of festivities and fireworks I found myself consulting the internet for guidance on subjects such as best or favourite emergency room then whisking my charming companion away for a night of frolics in the A&E.
Seventeen years ago I went to a conference with my friend and colleague Jenni. We were both students, idealistic and outspoken, committed to making our society accessible to people with disabilities. We were making this happen by forcing the campus to comply with the ADA, and coordinating a task force for the Governor's office with the objective of reforming structural (translation: boring) policies.
This is a journal of displacement, documenting my decision to leave behind a place and life I loved in search of something different and somehow better. Not because I wanted to, but rather because it was necessary.
The rationale is simple: to stay alive I need medicine and access to doctors. To get that, I need health insurance, money, or to live in a country with socialised health care. One foot followed another from school, to marriage, to England.
I am thankful every day that I chose England over Germany, but events this week illustrate the reasons in a specific way.
Private health insurance companies, with few exceptions, are able to refuse cover of pre-existing conditions. If, like me, you have a dominant genetic disorder, a secondary cancer diagnosis, and a free-floating auto-immune disorder variously acknowledged or disputed by specialists, it is rather hard to define anything as a "new" symptom.
