love in the time of fists and choler

When you look back on your college years, you won't remember doing homework. You'll remember studying abroad, volunteering, playing sports, participating in student organizations, [not remembering at least a few "last nights,"] and spending time with your friends. 

- American proverb

I woke up yesterday morning on a crinkly bedbug-protected mattress on the floor in a guest room of what I know as Karin's Convent. Audrey rolled over on the mattress next to me, and instead of getting up and booking it over to Brooklyn Bagel, we talked for at least an hour about life, love, and the pursuit of happiness.

And then we got up and booked it to Brooklyn Bagel.

Anyway, somewhere in the course of that conversation it occurred to me that I really don't remember doing ANY homework.

Those who know me might legitimately question whether that's because I really didn't do any homework or if all the papers and projects and case studies and readings just melted into the hectic humdrum of the Life of a Lib Artiste.

Judging by the fact that I did in fact manage to pass college, and by the blank look on Audrey's face that mirrored my own awe at the sudden, tangible truth of this cliche, and the fact that my grandparents are still (for some reason) proud of me and also read my blog, I'm going to say it's the latter.

And yes, I will begrudgingly acknowledge that there are some other, more notable experiences throughout my college career that overshadowed the time we spent doing homework. (I almost wrote, "time spent in the library," but to be honest I don't even remember where I used to do my homework, and I remember the library pretty well. Using the logic I gained presumably from doing my homework, I can infer that my time spent in the library was not homework time. Weird...?)

In the process of writing this post I made a list of a few things I do remember from my college years, which I will not share because if I do then none of you will buy my memoirs in the future, and also because you would get pretty bored pretty quick. But my favorite thing on the list so far is watching "The Bachelor" with a living room full of friends at a house called Huggs.

The name of the house was entirely coincidental; but it is not a coincidence that our driving subject of conversation this weekend was love. Specifically, open-handed love. Inviting-the-fickle-and-fateful-whims-of-the-universe love. Agendaless love.

The kind of love my mind doesn't like to wrap itself around.

But, as Audrey so wisely and beautifully put it, "You have such a range of motion when your hands are open. When they're closed, the only thing they can do is punch."

I would like to add that closed hands tend to grab things. Like a baby who gets hold of a chunk of your hair. Infant vice grip = pain.

Closed hands don't really facilitate the most love-inspiring activities.

And as I discovered this sunny Sunday morning, I struggle to understand and accept open-handed love. Which is ironic since as a baby I used to sleep belly-up, hands fallen open at my sides. Now, though, they spend most of their time in various degrees of curled up. But throughout the course of this conversation Audrey gently took my hands (literally and figuratively) and opened them up, smoothed out the crinkles and the clenched knuckles and the terse palm.

And just in time, too.

By evening I was back at home and on my way out the door to see Jason when I noticed some dental insurance letterhead sticking out of the pile of mail on the kitchen counter. I pulled it out, expecting the relief I'd been promised the week before my surgery, but what I saw shook my hands and closed my throat and churned my stomach. I felt like I was going to puke. Covered by insurance: 0.00. Patient responsibility: Over $2,500.

Now, this is really getting to me. I am upset that the original estimated amount I would have to pay, and a condition of me going ahead with the surgery, ended up being less than one third of the final amount that now falls under my responsibility. I am upset at the fact that it will take me months to pay this off, even if I give up every penny of my paychecks until I'm out of the red. I'm upset that at the very least I will have to give up some things I wanted to do this summer and into the fall because of this outstanding balance. These are my selfish complaints.

On a fundamental, societal level, though, I am angry that a fairly routine and preventative procedure is so financially out of reach for me, someone in a stable financial position, to say nothing for the millions of people in this country who struggle to make ends meet. I am angry that nowhere in the surgery office is there a posted list of prices: anesthetic, single tooth extraction, extra dose of anesthetic, stitches, markup for skill and precision. Nowhere in the pharmacy nor the GP's office are those costs posted either. I am angry that income influences so many doctors' decisions to enter the medical field, and that income influences so many families' decisions to stay out of those doctors' offices at all costs, until they can no longer put off a trip to the emergency room. By this time it is too often too late.


[Note: For an easy, enjoyable read that addresses a lot of these societal factors, check out T.R. Reid's The Healing of America: A Global Quest for Better, Cheaper, and Fairer Health Care.]

I'm angry for the people I know bearing the burden of exorbitant medical bills on top of the burden of pain and illness those bills could not cure or even ease. I'm angry for families left with tens or even hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical bills to fill the void left by the death of a loved one who couldn't have been saved with millions. I'm angry that health insurance is so expensive, so exclusive, and so apparently worthless (if my personal experience in the last 8 months is any indication). I am angry that business owners oppose healthcare reform because of the added cost it will place on their straining bank books. (I understand the threat this added cost can pose, but where does the cost come from? Something is wrong here.)

I'm angry that this country is growing increasingly obese, increasingly over-medicated, and increasingly polarized in political debates about public health. Public health. The very title indicates an issue that affects every constituency in the nation. People in every party die of cancer, stroke and heart disease. People in every party get colds and break bones and live with chronic diseases.

I am saddened by all of these things, and perhaps most of all saddened by the fact that there is no easy fix, that there is something broken in our system that I can't pinpoint, cannot package into the perfect legislation, cannot encapsulate in a widespread activist campaign. There is something broken in our system and it is too broken to fix itself. And I don't know what to do about it.

Anyway, I tried to contain this wave of anger and sadness and general unrest by fleeing to the basement to gather my things and my thoughts. But it wasn't going away. It's not just going to go away.

A few moments later my dad came down the stairs after me, and my impulse was to push him away. But I thought of Audrey opening my hands, and tried not to resist.

"You're not going to have to pay that," he said. And I launched into all the health-related angers and sadnesses and general upsets I just spelled out here. And his reply was something along the lines of, "Yes, but don't lose hope yet. Don't lose control. Just go there tomorrow and try to sort it out."

"But I don't have TIME!" I broke down.

"I do," he said. "I don't have to work tomorrow. Let me go for you."

I shook my head. "I don't have time or money to deal with this right now!"

"I have time!" he said again, more forcefully this time. "Let me do it."

"But I want to take care of it MYSELF!" I wailed, collapsing like I was 6 again and feeling like the world was caving in on me.

At which point my dad just burst out laughing, and squashed me into his arms. "You've been taking care of everything yourself since you were 15," he said. "You've been taking care of some things since you were 2." (That's the year my brother was born.) "I want to help you. I want to take care of some things for you. We are a community and a family and that's what we do. We help each other and take care of each other. You don't have to bear the weight of the world on your shoulders, all by yourself."

And suddenly I felt my hands unclench. Literally and figuratively. I felt this wave of universal whim swirl around us and it made me dizzy, so dizzy, but in that corkscrew I caught a glimpse of love sans agenda. Hands spread wide, flat, open. Reaching out toward my fists and waiting. Just waiting, so patiently, for my stubborn flailing fists that might just keep pulling farther and farther away forever.

I'm still terrified of this. I'm still working on faith and I'm still working out the kinks in my palm, tied up in there from years and maybe even decades of clenching and punching and pulling. I still cringe when someone approaches me open-handed. But I am starting to understand. I am circling closer every time, and I am finding it easier to resist biting the hand that feeds me. Open. Agendaless. I know that I am very lucky to have many sets of open hands around me, despite my thorns and bristles. There are too many hands to count.