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I am speechless.
I’m insured? They’re paying for my healthcare? It seems far too good to be true. Surely, I’d know if that was the case.
Then again, the day they granted me the acceptance and scholarship was so wild I barely could believe it. I read all the documents, but there’s no denying that I was too stunned to take everything in.
“Are you sure?” I check again. “I won’t have to pay anything at all?”
The receptionist at the OB-GYN floor smiles kindly. “Quite, Ms. Andrews. And my notes make it clear that any overhead is to be billed to the Raventhorn Society, not you.”
“So, say I broke my leg and needed to be hospitalized—”
“Your insurance coverage for accidents is quite generous, but again, anything over that would be billed to the Society,” she confirms.
I blink several times. Free. Not even free ninety-nine; completely free to me. That’s wild, and a testament to the generosity of the people who have taken me under their wing.
Part of me wonders why they’re so nice. In my experience, there’s always a reason, a hidden motive. But the result is the same.
“I have you down for a blood test, but if you have time, I can upgrade that to a check-up. One of our doctors is available.”
A real check-up.For free.
Bile rises up my throat. If that was an option for everyone, I might never have ended up in foster care. I could still have a mother.
“Sure.”
I’m ushered to a fancy room, and taken care of by smiling nurses and a young, beautifully put-together blonde doctor, who checks first for signs of breast cancer, given my family history.
“I can’t see anything concerning, but I will refer you for a mammogram. I would advise yearly checks up going forward, Ms. Andrews,” the woman tells me. “Down the line, it might be necessary to perform preventative measures in order to ensure you stay healthy.”
I try not to cry, nodding silently.
Preventative measures.There are ways to ensure I don’t get cancer. I mean, I knew that; I’m a pre-med student for Christ’s sake. But that type of healthcare has always been beyond my means.
“Would my insurance cover that? The mammogram,” I specify.
Doctor Hargrove smiles kindly. “I believe so, but I can double check for you. Either way, any cost related to your care won’t be billed to you.”
Holy fuck.
I have this scholarship for another three and a half years; three years of completely free health care. I can’t quite believe it.
"Really?”
The doctor hands me a tissue silently, and lets me wipe my tears. When I’m done, she clears her throat and pretends I wasn’t just crying.
I was three when my mother died of breast cancer; I don’t remember her at all. From what I know from my file, she took good care of me. In my first pictures, I had pretty clothes, my hair was always in ribbons. I wasn’t too thin from hunger, I didn’t have bruises. But then she was gone and I have been fighting to survive since.
Next, the doctor runs through my sexual history, which is more depressing than my childhood. She doesn’t ask for details, but that kind of conversation always brings them to the forefront of my mind anyway.
When I tell her that, yes, I am sexually active—whether I want to be or not—and no, I don’t have one regular partner, she suggests putting me on contraceptives, offering up a list of options. I pick the implant, to avoid having to remember pills on a daily basis. She’s happy to place it in my arm right away, and with that, the highly emotional appointment comes to a close.
I get to work late, which is a first for me, but Larry—a tall, skinny geek—acts like I make a habit out of it, giving me a full lecture and a warning.
“You really aren’t taking this job seriously, are you?” he grunts, taking a step forward toward me.
I step back. He doesn’t look very strong, but he’s still a man, and much taller than me. My heart races.
“It’s just a pit stop for you. A line on your resume while you’re studying up at that fancy school, like every spoiled kid out there.”
