With all the hue and cry about this “Health Care Bill” that’s, hopefully, being passed this weekend, we’ve all heard a lot of stories about the “system” and just how bad it really is. Stories of people getting bounced for getting sick; getting jerked around on policies they’ve paid into for years; of 46,000 people who’ll die this year for lack of affordable insurance; and on and on. A bill that’s meant to rectify the situation for the “victims” of the Health Care system.

I don’t particularly like the word, (or concept), “victim”. Until now. I guess that now applies to me, and for me, that’s unusual. It’s taken me 5 days sitting alone, in mostly silence, to get my thoughts together enough to write this out. That’s even more unusual for me.

On January 1, after having spent the day with my great friend Jan, I felt fine and went to bed healthy (?), and happy… really looking forward to the New Year. New business partner in the management company, 3 projects about to pop, the handyman business going great guns… things seemed really great and on a serious rebound.

On January 2, I woke up to loud screaming. It was me. I was drenched in sweat and barely breathing. Worst pain I've ever felt, in my lower abdomen.

I was rushed to St. John’s in Santa Monica, the closest hospital to my home (and where 8 years ago my son, Cole, was born). I sat in the ER waiting room for an hour while they did I-don’t-know-what. Finally, at about an hour and a half, they moved me back into the ER and put me on a gurney in a common area. Two excruciating hours in, they finally gave me a painkiller and told me a doctor would see me soon. The painkiller not working at all, at 3 ½ hours in, they finally took me for an X-ray, then a scan. Still no doctor, and no one could tell me what was wrong.

At 6 hours, a Physician’s Assistant came in to tell me it appeared I had Diverticulitis. She could barely explain to me what that was, how I got it, or ANYTHING, and I asked to see a doctor. She was offended, and rather snidely said, “I’ve met with the doctor and was told what to tell you”. I asked for the doctor to come in and was told he’d be in to see me shortly after I was admitted and moved into a room. I asked for another pain shot and was told that would come in the room also.

At least the pain shot showed up when I got in the room, because no doctor did. Gratefully, at least the nurse was able to detail what Diverticulitis is, and said the doctor would be in shortly. Long story short, no doctor ever showed up that first day, Saturday. In fact, the designated physician, Dr. Ghodsian, didn’t show until about noon on Sunday, (30 hours after I arrived), and was as curt, uncaring, and hardly present as a doctor could possibly be. Hippocratic oath, anyone? He spent, literally, less than 5 minutes examining me, telling me what was wrong, and bidding me adieu promising to be back the following morning at 8, likely to release me. I asked him to be more specific and he told me “It’s Sunday, I don’t have much time, so I will be in first thing tomorrow morning to give you all the time and answers you need”. Even the nurse thought this was rude because she chased him out into the hallway and, loud enough for everyone to hear, told him what an ass he was.

Dr. Ghodsian showed at 7:10pm Monday night, with a release order and prescriptions in hand. He still hadn’t really told me what was wrong, how bad it was, what recovery would entail… pretty much bupkis. Just, “I looked at your chart; your blood work was fine, the scan normal, so you can go home. Fill and take these 2 antibiotics and the painkiller, as needed, stay on a mild diet for a few days, and you’ll be just fine”. I knew this wasn’t right as I was still at an insane level of pain, and asked, “Are you sure I shouldn’t stay overnight to make sure this doesn’t flare again?”, to which he responded, “I’m the doctor, you’ll be fine”. Again, even the nurse thought this was bullshit, but this one didn’t speak up.

I checked out, and stopped at the pharmacy to fill the scrips. They couldn’t be filled because Dr. Compassionate had written them on the wrong pad. They called the pager number on the scrip and it was disconnected. Frustrated, and still really wasted from the pain shot I’d gotten right before leaving the hospital, I went out to the car to get ALL the papers in hopes of finding the proper number. I did, we called, and got it somewhat straightened out. They wouldn’t have one drug until the next day, but the doctor said I’d already had all the meds I’d needed for that day and could start these meds the next. I had some pain pills at home (from back troubles last year) so figured I’d be okay. I went home, took a couple of Vicodin and went to bed.

Well… I awoke 7:15 Tuesday morning in worse pain than Saturday, (but at least had a few Vicodin which I took immediately), and headed back to St. John’s. When I walked in the ER doors, the admitting nurse said “See, Mr. Hassman, that’s what you get for sneaking out to party!”. I wished it’d been funny enough to laugh. I was not only freaking from the pain at this point, but fuming that Dr. Ghodsian had released me. I said, “I was released by Ghodsian last night at 7” to which he replied “No way. The only reason I even remember you is because we discussed your case Sunday, it was so severe”. Nice. Just what I wanted to hear.

This time, after a few minutes of forms I was led quickly to a private room off the ER, and made comfortable (can you say "fear of medical malpractice"?). Jan arrived to sit with me. And within a few minutes, lo and behold, the warm, compassionate, speedy Dr. Ghodsian appeared, feigning shock that I was back, and backpedalling like a pro. “Your charts were fine…”. “My ass”, I said as politely as I could, “I asked you not to release me…”. (I later had it confirmed to me, he probably never even looked, because the original Saturday admission chart showed a sky-high white count and the Saturday scan showed leakage, meaning perforation).

Then, the lead attending, Dr. Srikureja, walked in, introduced himself and asked Ghodsian what he was doing there. Ghodsian asked him into the hallway. Jan and I agreed Ghodsian was telling Srikureja he fucked up and asking him to cover. After a few minutes Dr. Srikureja came back in, alone, with a crooked smile on his face. “Let me guess”, I said, “he was trying to get you to cover for him”. “yes he was”, said Dr. S, “and I told him what I’ll tell you; I cover for no one. If he screwed up, he’ll pay for it, as there’s no place at my hospital for doctors like that”. A friendship was born (and yes, I will be using him as my GP from now on). While hmmm-ing over my chart, he immediately ordered an IV with Dilaudid and an antibiotic, and called for Dr. Foshag, the hospital’s main surgeon, for a consult. Within minutes Dr. Foshag’s main associate, Dr.Moran, was there explaining to me what was wrong, how it [likely] happened, courses of treatment…for a geek like me it was information heaven, and what I should’ve gotten that first day. I felt better just knowing this stuff.     

About a half hour later, Dr. Foshag showed up. Turns out, as good a surgeon as his reputation would indicate, he’s an even better human. No God complex here at all, just a really good guy. After a brief exam of me and my chart, he ordered me admitted again. When he completed his exam, he carefully laid out my options, though he had already decided on one.

He had decided I was too young and vital for a colostomy so they would treat me with intense antibiotics, and 2cc Dilaudid every 2 hours for pain. It might take weeks, but it would eliminate the colostomy bag and the lengthy healing that would mean before I could have the “resection” - the surgery to completely repair the problem. They started immediately. Turned out it would take 28 days in the hospital.

The first 9 days I was extremely critical, then 9 days critical, 5 days serious, last 5 days in hospital in good condition. They felt they had it healed enough to avoid colostomy, so they sent me home, and I’ll be on heavy antibiotics at home until the surgery.The tissue is badly impacted from the inflammation so it could be up to 2 months.

In the month and a half I've been home it's been really tough going. The tissue was so inflamed and damaged, healing is almost as incredibly painful as the original illness was. I’m living primarily on BOOST and ENSURE (as I still can't eat much "solid" food), scrambled eggs, WHITE toast, rice krispies, etc...a low-residue diet. I'm down to 168 from 195. Oddly enough, though, I feel amazing this thin, though I have only about a fifth the energy I’m used to. Can’t ride my bike, run, swim, or even walk more than a block without needing to rest.

Have I mentioned yet I have no health insurance? It’s about to become relevant to the story… (When the economy, and therefore both businesses, tanked 2 ½ years ago, the $1k/month became impossible, so I dropped it and got into an Industry based group at the Venice Clinic. But it all seemed moot because I’d never really been too sick).

2 weeks ago, Dr. Foshag decided I was ready for the surgery and called St. John’s to schedule it. My white count went up so we tried rescheduling a few days later. A date was set. Then, early last week I got a call from Dr. F’s office saying I needed to call St John’s immediately. I called the Financial Assistance office, as instructed, only to be told they couldn’t find my paperwork. I was stunned, as I’d already been scheduled once for surgery, and told when I originally submitted the papers in mid-February, I qualified. I re-sent everything and called 3 days later to check my status. They still couldn’t find the paperwork, so I faxed AND emailed the app again.

On Thursday, March 11, I received a very brief call from a Natasha at St. John’s Financial Office telling me I was refused assistance because I am not a resident of Santa Monica! “I was told weeks ago I was approved and scheduled for surgery” said I, feeling the beginnings of the explosion that was going to take place in my head any second. “Sir, I was asked to process your application only 2 days ago for the first time, so I don’t know how that could’ve been possible, but you would qualify if you lived in Santa Monica”.

“Ma’am, this is the third time I’ve had to send in my app, and the first one was obviously approved, then lost. How is this possible? I was treated at, and my surgeon practices at, your hospital. It is the only place I can get this done, and without it, I will likely not survive”. “I’m sorry sir, you just don’t meet all the qualifications”. “How do I appeal?”. “I’m not sure you can, but if so it would be through the Assistance Manager, Samantha”. I’ve now left Samantha 5 messages since that conversation and not received a return call.

This morning, Brandi from the main billing office called to ask when I was going to pay the bill from January. I explained the entire situation to her, she was compassionate and appalled, and she promised to get an intra-office memo to Samantha to have her either call me or send me the appeal papers. I won’t be holding my breath, I’ve got enough health problems…

This has been quite the ordeal, and, honestly, I'm really only scratching the surface. This is long, and sad, enough. You already know about the original malpractice, but there’s the day a nurse gave me the wrong meds (I coded) and the nurse who decided my doctor was giving me too much pain meds and tried to change my “protocol”, not give me the Dilaudid or let me walk around, which the docs were insisting I do (she was reprimanded).

  
Eventually, I will be better, as the resection will repair all the damage I didn't even know I had, (never had bad stomach/GI issues, this came completely out of the blue). That is if I can get the appeal passed and have the surgery before I have another attack. The doc says I won’t survive that…

And the really hairy part, (as if this isn’t all bad enough), is all the meds and scans I’ve been paying for, (which were to be reimbursed under the Financial Assistance Agreement), are now MY out of pocket expenses. More than $15k since I’ve been out of the hospital, with no end in sight if I don’t have the surgery. And I cannot work a full schedule.

The entertainment stuff is constant phone calls and interactions, which are exhausting, and the handyman stuff mostly too physically exhausting. I’m 2 months behind in my rent and bills....ahhh, but that's another story.....