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Showing posts with label health insurance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label health insurance. Show all posts

Monday, August 24, 2026

GRINDIN’ OUT A DEAL

by Rick Pongratz



After a public contract dispute that led an East Idaho hospital to become out of network with a major health insurer, the two businesses agreed to a contract. The deal brings Portneuf Medical Center in-network for Regence BlueShield of Idaho, according to a joint announcement made Saturday by the hospital and insurer. For two months, the hospital had been out of network for Regence, the insurer for state government employees and other private plans. —Idaho Capital Sun, August 18, 2026


You need to pray for the negotiators
to reach an agreement and resolve this.
Dan, my health insurance customer service rep,
tells me this over the phone.
 
I can’t see him.
I can’t see the words either,
but his voice and tone 
remind me of the youth pastors 
from when I was a kid. 
The ones that never studied 
at a seminary—but, by golly, 
they sure loved Jesus. 
 
My insurance company and my hospital refuse 
to agree on who gets most of my money. 
My doctor wants me to get x-rays 
for a bone spur under my toenail. 
It causes the nail to rise up—inflating 
is the word my insurance company uses 
for the prices of the hospital. 
And that nasty nail just won’t let go—greedy 
is the word my for-profit hospital uses 
for the insurance company 
that won’t agree to terms.
 
And this little toenail, 
it’s quite a small thing, 
but it’s holding a whole foot hostage. 
All the other toenails lie in their beds, 
just taking the space they need. 
They don’t hold out for a ransom, 
expecting a kick-back 
in exchange for not causing pain 
when I knock the soccer ball 
around with my kid.
 
But that’s toes for ya.
So this little fella needs 
to have a bit shaved 
off the top of that bone. 
But the doctor wants
to see what he’s looking at. 
And the hospital tells me my portion 
of the x-ray price is $293, up front. 
I tell the billing specialist 
that Dremels are on sale 
at Lowe’s for $39.98. 
I can buy seven Dremels to grind off 
my toenail, just like the doctor does,
and still have enough money
left over for ice cream. 
I show her the Lowe’s website on my phone. 
She says I’m wasting her time,
and it seems we are at an impasse,
so I call off negotiations. 
 
I go for the ice cream. 
I never was the best with delayed gratification. 
But it seems that sometimes miracles,
they do happen, 
and my hospital 
and my insurance company 
have agreed 
on how rich they should each get. 
 
I haven’t called to see how many 
Dremels the x-ray will cost now. 
I’ll probably just have to settle
for the words spoken
by youth pastor Dan 
and pray for the negotiators;
as I know they prey.


Rick Pongratz is a poet and mental health clinician. His writing appears in Rattle, Bellevue Literary Review, The New Verse News, Unbroken, and elsewhere. Rick specializes in ecotherapy and studies creative writing at Idaho State University. He currently resides in Idaho where he enjoys getting lost in the woods with his family and dog.

Friday, November 14, 2025

A POET'S SELF-PORTRAIT AS A HOSPITAL BED

by Gil Hoy

More particularly, one of many hospital beds 

in a hospital where my son is being treated

 

for the bone sticking out of his leg 

from a soccer game

 

using my insurance that I bought for him 

because he is too young, only twelve

 

to have bought any insurance of his own. 

Nor has he any right to vote in a country 

 

where his elected representatives 

are about to take away his health insurance 

 

by making mine too expensive to afford.  

This morning, the news shows how easily 

 

this President and this Congress can take away 

a person’s health insurance, my child's, mine

 

or yours, for example, this President 

and this Congress a bit like a hospital bed 

 

in a country as ill as ours is now. 

Whatever hope we now have lies in a hospital bed 

 

and the medicines we can use to remove 

this pestilence, if we can just take them off 

 

the shelf—for there they sit—and use them 

before it’s too late. My son is still young enough 

 

to love me unconditionally, as much as he 

loves soccer, even though I wasn’t strong enough, 

 

nor my countrymen strong enough, to rise up 

and stop this thing from happening. But there is still 

 

time to act if we are strong enough, 

if we are determined enough, to find a cure. 

 

But judging by how things have gone so far, 

who can foresee with what success 

and with what result?



Gil Hoy is a Master’s Class student in fiction and poetry at The Writers Studio in Tucson, Arizona and previously studied at Boston University. Gil's been nominated for a Best of the Net award in poetry. His work has previously appeared in Third Wednesday, Flash Fiction Journal, Tipton Poetry Journal, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Chiron Review, The Penmen Review, Bewildering Stories, Literally Stories, The New Verse News, and elsewhere.

Friday, April 04, 2025

HE COULDN’T CARE LESS



No eggs I can afford!
     Couldn’t care less
No job with government
    Couldn’t care less
Can’t pay for room and board
    Couldn’t care less
Can’t afford a car.
    Couldn’t care less
Can’t keep health insurance
    Couldn’t care less
My children have measles
    Couldn’t care less
But cod liver oil’s sold out!
    Couldn’t care less
Campaigning again
    Dems should care more
Because He Couldn’t care less

By Joe Blow who couldn’t care more




Ralph La Rosa invented this Joe Blow.

Saturday, March 04, 2017

DON'T GET SICK IN AMERICA

by Alan Walowitz




Despite not being a doctor, I give him my best advice:
AARP, I tell him.  Always, At all costs, Remain Perpendicular.
My old pal Willard would laugh if his hearing aid hadn’t come loose
and we’d been sitting at the diner,
shooting the breeze over coffee, him telling me the same story
the third or fourth time.  I love the guy.
But now he’s lying on a gurney in the ER corridor for the 4th straight hour,
getting edgy, and who can blame him after all this time,
and against my best advice, parallel to the floor
along with all the others, quiet on their gurneys
or writhing gently in pain,
even the pain-energy wrested out of them?
Each either has or doesn’t have insurance—
they’re black and brown and grey and young
and the doctor--who hurries by from time to time
gives me a look that signifies, I know, I know, it’s crazy—
she’s a beautiful yellow-beige, with a face shaped like a heart
and I think I’m in love. The ER, this is America,
the great equalizer, no one’s special here,
no one gets to see the doctor first because he’s middle class or white,
or he used to be a Protestant from Rochester back in the day
and he was famous for clicking his heels and proclaiming,
In Germany they stand up when I enter the room!
And everyone would tell him, Sit down and shut up, Will!
Though I’m not next of kin,
a nurse figures I must be close, so stops by and tells me,
he’ll have a stress test first thing in the morning,
after spending the night in the hall
cause the treadmill’s booked the rest of today.
And just in case you needed a reminder,
Don’t get sick in America,
you gotta have patience to burn,
and one way or another,
you’re gonna have to pay.


Alan Walowitz has been published in various places on the web and off. He’s a Contributing Editor at Verse-Virtual, an Online Community Journal of Poetry, and teaches at Manhattanville College in Purchase, NY and St. John’s University in his native borough of Queens, NY. Alan’s chapbook Exactly Like Love was published by Osedax Press in 2016 and is now in its second printing. He’ll be reading at the Cornelia Street Café in Greenwich Village on Tuesday, March 7th at 6 pm.

Monday, March 18, 2013

NURSES' STORIES

from a series by Joan Mazza


Paul Ryan Caricature
House Budget Committee Chairman Paul Ryan (R-Wis.) rolled out his latest budget proposal, offering an ambitious blueprint that promises to balance the budget in a decade by repealing President Barack Obama's health care reforms and slashing Medicare, Medicaid and programs to help the poor. --Huffington Post, March 12, 2013


Home health nurse arrives, she says, to ask
a million questions. I acquiesce although
I’ve answered them too many times.
She puts her laptop at the foot of my bed,
gets a chair from my office, and checks
off boxes on her touch screen.

Religion?
Atheist.
That’s not one of the choices.
Then fill in NONE or NON-BELIEVER.

She chuckles. I’m a reverend.
Maybe we’ll talk.


I guess she’s early fifties. She complains
about hot flashes, wiggles and giggles when
I tell her I’ve used a men’s urinal, but now
can make it to the bathroom and back several
times a day and night with my walker.

Any accidents?
No.
Chest pain?
No.
Abdominal pain?
Yes.

She looks up from her screen.
In bed, I have to sit up from flat on my back.
That must add up to a hundred sit-ups a day.


Her first husband drowned when she was
twenty-one, two weeks before she gave birth
to their second son. Remarriage, three more kids.
She takes my vitals, looks at my clean incision,
arranges for OT and PT, asks me to sign
the contract, which states I will be charged
nothing if my insurance doesn’t pay. I sign.
She’ll be back in a week, thanks to Medicare.


Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, sex therapist, writing coach, and seminar leader. She is the author of six books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Perigee/Penguin/Putnam), and her work has appeared in Cider Press Review, Rattle, Off the Coast, Kestrel, Permafrost, Slipstream, Timber Creek Review, The MacGuffin, Writer’s Digest, The Fourth River, the minnesota review, Personal Journaling, New Verse News, Playgirl and many other publications. She now writes poetry and does fabric and paper art in rural central Virginia.