Obama's Hidden Health Care Agenda

Betsy McCaughey wrote a disturbing article in Bloomberg recently regarding health care provisions that were subtly slipped into the stimulus package. In short, this article suggested that the federal government will track each American's health care record electronically and then monitor treatments or other courses of action to insure that the doctor is performing in a way the feds deem is appropriate and cost effective. Are these words simply a scare tactic? Maybe, but only time will tell. For now, I am scared. I work in the health care industry, which, according to McCaughey, is the largest employer in the United States. Interference with, and tracking of the physician/patient relationship has the potential to disrupt the quality of patient care and erode confidence in the overall health care system. Limiting repeat exams and illuminating mistakes by careful assessment of patient care are not at issue here. Diagnostic exams and treatments should be medically necessary. What American's should be concerned about, is who is getting to make the decisions about patient care. I do not want a nameless, faceless bureaucrat with little or no medical education or knowledge making decisions about what exam, consultation, or treatment I may receive. I want my doctor to make those calls, in collaboration with someone who will be most dramatically affected by them--me, the consumer.
McCaughey suggests that those hit hardest will be older Americans, because the government will use a UK-employed formula to determine if treatments or exams are approved--this formula divides the cost of health management by the number of years the patient is likely to benefit. Forgive me for being nostalgic, but didn't our ancestors throw an abundance of perfectly good tea into Boston harbor, and engage in a passionate, bloody conflict so that we could be free from government influence such as this?
This new legislation could do much harm to retired and aging Americans. In addition to facing unsteady footing, loss of spouses and good friends, and fear of the End as we get older, it appears that we will also face an increased uncertainty in they way we are able to seek and receive medical care, even after years of splitting our paychecks with the government in order to fund social programs designed to help us maneuver the mine field of our later years. Apparently, the only thing we have to fear is fear itself--and the Golden Years.
In closing, I respectfully submit a suggestion to you, President Obama: please don't presume that you, or any other anonymous official can make informed decisions about what clinical path best serves my health. After all, I would never presume to advise you in your realm of expertise, such as leading a multi-million dollar Presidential campaign, writing successful books about your life, and what to do with your Blackberry.

To Stimulus or Not to Stimulus

The stimulus jargon sounds like bad rap lyrics to me, but apparently it's our future. It's our children and grandchildren's future too. Dart Guy, not surprisingly, is against the stimulus, not only because he can't stand the sight of the Barack Obama coin permanently burned into the screen of a one of the home shopping network channels, but because he fears the ultimate in excess. He believes it may overshoot the mark and leave a legacy of debt--even more colossal than our current legacyof debt--to our zealous warrior children, Destructo and Spitfire. (About a third of the American public support the package currently in Congress) If, against all odds, these children grow up to become productive members of society and bless us with grandchildren, they may pass, at least a portion of the debt on to their own unsuspecting offspring. I am certainly not a Great Economic Mind--I have trouble remembering to pay the water bill most months--so I can not even begin to unravel the intricacies or decipher the impact of the Great Stimulus Puzzle ahead of us. What is clear to me, though, is that we have a lot of work to do, one way or another, and it may take a healthy dose of good, old-fashioned, American Pioneer Spirit to achieve success, as well as require an undetermined amount of natural, minimally processed, non-hydrogenated, organic, green tea-containing salve to ease the sting of the Bite.

Pride and Prejudice

I sit listening to Spitfire read a book from BFF Ben's shelf today (Happy Birthday Pirate Ben!). She has already prepared a Pirate flag, acquired a pirate ship tattoo, played Pirate bowling, and walked the plank in a not so graceful manner. I hear her reading words like Mountain, Tumble, and Toad, and larger ones I can't recall. This leads me to ask myself a complicated scientific question: Is it possible for the human body to become overly inflated with too much pride? Could this cause me future, unspeakable, chronic, leprosy-type health issues? How many just-barely-five-year-olds can pick up a book and read these types of words? I know, I know--there are many. People put their kids in Pre-SAT classes just minutes after the umbilical cord is cut in labor and delivery these days. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to do shamefully inept cartwheels across Ben's room, or run up to the nearest unsuspecting innocent bystander and rave about how well Spitfire can read. Look! She is Reading!
Instead, I put on my best nochalant, sophisticated face. Yeah. That's Spitfire. She reads. In the car she spouts words from street signs--Arapaho!--Custer!--DoNotEnter!--and, because she is currently obsessed with all things related to Mail, she excitedly reads the side of every Fed Ex, UPS, and US Postal truck that we meet. The only downside to this achievement that causes my Inner Pride Bubble to swell to dangerous proportions, is that it's harder to spell words out as a way of keeping Adult secrets. The days of disguising words like ice cream, cookie, and cell phone are over. I fear what's next. Driving lessons?

The Great Potty Escape

I sit blissfully on the floor in our master bathroom, feeling completely insulated from the day's beginning chaos, and peacefully roasting next to the electric heater. Ever since Dart Guy installed child proof knob covers on the bedroom door, our quality of life has improved considerably. It is much harder for little warriors to invade our honored room of last resort--the Master Potty. This morning, though, Destructo is already in a strategic position, having allowed us to sleep until 6:00. He lies in bed next to Dart Guy holding a one-sided conversation--Dart Guy's replies are incoherent blurbs (also known as grunts), straight from the annals of cave man edict. When I leave the shower, I hear Dart Guy calling--a desperate sound.
"Hey Enviro Girl," he calls. Since this is not exactly a pet name for me, I ignore him. "Did you know 30 minute showers are not environmentally friendly?" Ignore, ignore, ignore. Surely it wasn't 30 minutes?
"Your son is calling for you," Dart Guy continues. He knows how to get my attention, even after only five years.
I cautiously open the door to the Outside World. Destructo is not crying, but, instead, is delivering a dissertation, which must have been too much for Dart Guy to bear at this hour of the morning. I pick him up and find a remote control lodged in his pajamas. I guess this means my Great Potty Escape is over.

Birthday Thanks

Thanks to all who came and perservered! All the presents have been appropriately dissasembled and tried out and are very appreciated. The Guess Who game is a big hit--thanks to the Cullums. The dinosaur puzzle was great fun during Destructo's nap time too--thanks to the Walkers. Thanks to the Phillips for the great Playdough bucket--in our house, we live by the motto: one can never have too much playdough! it's awesome. And thanks to Gma Janet for duty above and beyond regular Grandma duty. We love you.

Happy Birthday Spitfire!

One bouncy day later and you are five years old. Thank you for enriching our lives. I value your questions ("do you nap while you're at work?"), your answers ("no, I did not put Destructo's pacifier in the fish tank"), and your aspirations ("I don't want to move out when I grow up"). Each day with you is a gift.

We love you, Spitfire!

Communication

As a kid, the index finger lifted slightly over the steering wheel while driving, was a form of communication. Between two precariously passing farmers on a narrow dirt road, it might mean--"surely this path is big enough for both of us?" or "what's the warrenty on your truck?" The downtown cafe was notoriously crowded at the crack of dawn each morning, where the locals gathered to talk weather, peanut prices, or what the neighbor had worn to Friday night's basketball game. I think about this as Spitfire, freshly annointed five-years-old from a rousing bounce-house party extravaganza, sits with a friend from next door awaiting gourmet chicken nuggets from our kitchen (a product of my microwave expertise, since Dart Guy makes most of his stuff from scratch to show me up). At her age, I lived a fair distance from any of my friends, and the internet was still just a speck of an idea in Al Gore's mind (lol). I couldn't jump on Facebook and see what the whole world was up to, or send a text message containing highly evolved acronyms to my best friend. I had dogs and cats and my sister and a very large blank slate out my back door. Friends had to come over to visit or I was stuck creating strange imaginary worlds in my favorite stand of trees behind our house (which, quite possibly, explains a lot). I think social networking on the internet, email, and text messaging is just fine, and, believe me, I do my share. It's a very useful way to stay in touch in this age of far-off families and loosely, connected suburban communities in which few people really know their neighbors. But I do worry about my kids growing up in this age of digital communication, what it will mean for their friendships and other relationships they will form. For the moment, I am extremely grateful that she can walk out her front door on many days of the week and yell across to one of her good friends, whom she can see, face to face, and exchange a hearty hug with, given both fickle preschool hearts can agree to do that.
Just before the nuggets are finished, I ask the girls what they would like to eat along with them (carrots? corn?) as they play a cool new game from Spitfire's birthday, called "Guess Who?" at the dinner table. They reply, "ketchup!" in unison, which I think is a sure sign that, although a generation and multiple advances in communication separate us, some things remain the same.