Here is a satire based on many years of living in the U.S. without affordable health care. I'm grateful for what I have gotten when in need. But most of the past 40 years I did without adequate health care, for the simple reason that I couldn't afford it.
Rather than write a chronicle of my own adventures with doctors and hospitals, the good, bad, and ugly, I'll just say that this story was greatly inspired by the experience of acquiring a serious iatrogenic disease conditon from a psychiatric drug (clonazepam) whose secondary side effects were never mentioned to me until it was almost too late. I'm almost recovered now, after twelve months gradually tapering off of it.
This drug is thought to be "mellow". It is, at first, but it is a devil's bargain if I ever saw one. Klonopin and similar drugs such as Xanax and Ativan are so powerful that in the pure state an amount weighing the same as a penny, (2.5 g.) could tranquilize five thousand people (0.0005 g. X 5,000 = 2.5 g.)
However, this story isn't about >that<, only inspired by it. This is about the health insurance/physician complex. <br> The frustration of not having any recourse for the harm I suffered from this drug seemed to coalesce into this little fantasy about "Bob" and his troubles.
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