I am alive today because we had healthcare. My father, like many Japanese Americans in the Los Angeles area, worked primarily for the aerospace industry, dutifully putting in his eight hours a day, five days a week, year after year. His employer provided health insurance as part of his compensation. When I was in second grade, I came down with a persistent fever of about 104 degrees, give or take a degree. My mother took me to my pediatrician’s office, where I was seen by the “new” Japanese-speaking doctor in the practice, who gave me some medicine for fever. She took me back in when my fever didn’t break. He gave me some more medicine. She called him when my fever still hadn't broken, and I had collapsed on the bathroom floor. He told her that there was nothing more he could do for me, that the medicine he had given me was the strongest they had, scolding her as she pleaded, tearfully, to please do something for her daughter. Undaunted, she took me in again, and saw the slightly older, also Japanese-speaking, Dr. Maeda. He sent me to the hospital for chest x-rays, which revealed that I had pneumonia.
I missed two weeks of school and spent a good portion of that in the hospital, and have some random memories of that little adventure. At Little Company of Mary in Torrance, I learned that “Number 2” meant the same thing as unchi, and “Number 1” meant the same thing as shishi. I learned that adults do not always know what they are talking about, even when they think they do – like the mean nurse who demanded that I drink my milk, even though, as I kept trying to tell her, my doctor had told me not to drink it because it made me cough. My neighbor, Aunty Jane, gave me Roald Dahl’s The Great Glass Elevator to read while I recuperated. And, my friend, Mariko, told my classmates in Mrs. Oda’s room that I was missing school because I was in the hospital, and she brought my homework assignments to my parents’ house so that I would not fall behind.
All of these memories I have – well, I realize now that I am lucky to even have them. At the time, I didn’t think about healthcare. I took it for granted. My father was rarely unemployed, and his employers were generous with health insurance benefits, back-in-the-day. But thinking about it now, how would my life be different if we did not have health insurance? Would my mother have felt entitled to take me back to the doctor repeatedly? Would they have been able to afford x-rays and a hospital stay? Would I be alive today?
Everyone deserves to live a life that is free from worrying about something as basic as healthcare. I am so happy today, knowing that our country has gotten one step closer to providing a way for all of us to be able to have that peace of mind -- for all of us to take healthcare for granted.
