Cost of being sick just straight-up mugged me last month, and I’m still tasting blood. I’m hunched over my busted IKEA desk in Columbus, Ohio, right now—rain slapping the window like it’s personally offended, leftover lo mein congealing in the carton, and yeah, I’m wearing the same hoodie I bled through in the ER. My left arm still tingles from the IV they jammed in at 1:47 a.m. because I thought, “Hey, chest pain at 34 is probably just anxiety,” but WebMD and my mom’s voice in my head screamed otherwise. Spoiler: it was “just” pericarditis, but the cost of being sick? Nine. Thousand. Dollars. For four hours, a CT scan I didn’t want, and a bag of saline that probably came from a fancy faucet.
Why the Cost of Being Sick Feels Like a Stick-Up
I’m not some anti-vax libertarian or whatever—I got the jab, I floss, I even eat the weird green flakes. But man, the cost of being sick in America is a rigged game where the house always wins your house. I have “good” insurance through my remote tech job—$250 deductible, 80/20 coinsurance, all that jazz. Except the hospital was out-of-network because apparently the closest ER that takes my plan is in another zip code, and when your heart’s doing the Macarena, you don’t exactly Uber 40 minutes.
- ER bill breakdown (I wish I was joking):
- Facility fee: $4,200 (for the privilege of fluorescent lights and a gown with no back)
- CT scan: $3,100 (radiologist probably read it in his boxers)
- IV fluids & labs: $1,800 (saline is apparently liquid gold)
- Doctor who saw me for 6 minutes: $1,050
The Insurance Ghosting That Broke Me
So I call my insurer the next week—still smelling like hospital antiseptic, voice shaky from steroids—and the rep goes, “Oh, that facility’s non-preferred.” Non-preferred? Bro, I was preferring to not die. They “negotiated” the bill down to $6,400, then applied my deductible, then decided my share was $5,200. I laughed so hard I coughed up blood again. The cost of being sick isn’t just the bill—it’s the 45-minute hold music, the denial letter that looks like ransom note, the way your stomach drops when the mailman shows up with another “URGENT” envelope.
Prescription Prices: The Cherry on My Debt Sundae
Discharged with a script for colchicine—fancy anti-inflammatory that sounds like a Pokémon. CVS quotes me $487 for 30 pills. Generic. I stare at the screen like it personally insulted my grandma. Switch to GoodRx, get it for $72, but still—$72 I needed for rent. The pharmacist shrugs like, “Welcome to the cost of being sick, population: everyone.” I paid with the credit card that’s already crying.
My Dumb Hacks to Survive the Cost of Being Sick
Look, I’m no financial guru—I once Venmo’d myself $20 to “budget.” But here’s what I’ve scraped together:
- GoodRx > insurance half the time. Saved $400 already.
- Hospital financial aid forms. They buried mine under takeout menus for two weeks—turns out I qualify for 40% charity care. Who knew?
- Payment plans. $200/month for the next two years. My future self hates me.
- Crowdfund shamelessly. GoFundMe titled “Help Ariel Not Die of Capitalism” raised $1,200 from internet strangers who get it.
The Weird Shame Spiral of the Cost of Being Sick
Here’s the embarrassing part: I felt guilty. Like I’d failed at adulting by getting sick. My boomer dad’s voice echoed, “Back in my day we walked it off.” Sir, you had a union job with Cadillac insurance. Meanwhile I’m rationing pills, skipping the follow-up cardiologist because—guess what—$300 copay. The cost of being sick isn’t just money; it’s the way you start ghosting friends because you can’t afford bar tabs, the way you flinch at every twinge wondering if it’s round two.
Anyway, My Messy Takeaway on the Cost of Being Sick
I’m not fixed. I’m still $4,000 in the hole, still googling “natural pericarditis cures” at 3 a.m. like a conspiracy theorist. But I learned the system wants you broke and quiet—so get loud. Call the billing department and cry if you have to. Apply for every aid program. Tell your story on whatever hellsite still exists in 2025. The cost of being sick in America is designed to isolate you, but screw that.
Your move: Dig out your last medical bill right now. Call the number on the back and ask for an itemized bill + financial aid app. Worst case, they say no. Best case, you claw back hundreds. DM me your war stories—I read every one while stress-eating cold lo mein. We’re all just one rogue chest pain from bankruptcy. Let’s compare scars.
