The following is a true story. I know. It happened to my wife and I, and I bore witness to all of it. Especially, the "down and dirty, beat me with a rusted tire iron till I bleed out" parts of the tale. Pinky swear. Cross my heart and hope to die. Etc.

As some of you may recall, my daughter came home for the funeral of her childhood friend last Friday. My wife had a chest cold, but insisted she was well enough to take daughter back to college (a 6 hour drive, mostly on interstate highways]. It's actually something she looks forward to doing since her brain injury has not impaired her ability to drive a car, and with GPS, well ... you get the picture. I used to share in these duties, but in the last few years I've been unable to manage it. I tire too easily and am not a safe driver on long trips due to my own disability.

Early Saturday morning at 6:00 am, they hit the road. Arrived safe. My beloved stayed at hotel overnight and then came back Sunday. She looked like [Ed. Note: scatological reference redacted] when she got back. I suggested she should go see doctor on Monday. She told me to go fuck my ... er, to mind my own business. Today, however, after two nights of coughing, wheezing and not sleeping or eating much, she actually asked me to get her an appointment to see our PCP (i.e., primary care provider).

Thereupon, I begged and pleaded and used my not inconsiderable charm [Ed. Note: example of excessive hyperbole] to get the receptionist and then the nurse to fit my partner for life into our doctor's schedule. I also threatened to take her to the ER if they didn't see her ASAP. Not sure if that had any effect, but - to cut to the chase - the good doctor saw her during his lunch hour.

Diagnosis: Bronchitis (possibly pneumonia) complicated by asthma, and weight loss [Ed. Note: Wife weighed ten pound less than the lower limit doctor wants her to weigh because of her type 1 diabetes. This is actually a very serious problem for her - scroll down to Diabetic Ketoacidosis to see why if you are so inclined].

Treatment: Broad spectrum antibiotic for possible bacterial infection, steroidal based inhaler, and force feed patient [Ed. Note: closer to truth than I would like it to be].

My Mission: Pick up the prescriptions, and find food wife will agree to ingest.

Simple right? Here's where the story gets - um - interesting [Ed. Note: inappropriate use of understatement].

Pharmacy texts me her prescriptions are ready. I arrive ASAP to pick them up. My wondrous wife is covered by Medicare because of her disability status - she's a pancreatic cancer survivor, a type one diabetic and also suffers from chemo induced traumatic brain injury [TBI]. After waiting in line for an eternity [Ed. Note: okay, ten minutes tops], I say "Hi" to pharmacist (my family are such good customers that she and I are on a first name basis - almost). That's when I find out that "Houston, we have a problem" is an applicable metaphor for "what came next:"

Wife's insurer (i.e. the US government, Department of Health and Human Services, ad nauseam) refused to approve payment for the inhaler doctor ordered. I know this because my pharmacist tells me so.

"But I was told everything was a go?" I say with a clueless, irritable look on my face.

"We're very, very sorry," my very nice pharmacist friend says, but she explains in short, simple language that the inhaler the doctor thought was the best one for my soulmate [Spousal rebuttal: In your dreams buddy-boy!] is not in Medicare Part D's drug Formulary [editorial note: shorter version - wife is screwed because Medicare won't cover the cost of said inhaler].

Pharmacist tells me that pharmacy has contacted doctor's office for issuance of new prescription for new inhaler that Medicare will pay for, but have not yet received call back from doctor.

I say, "Okay, but this is kind of important. I can't wait around for doctor's office to get its shit together [Ed. Note: pardon my French]. Wife looks like a cast member of the Walking Dead playing a character who is a member of the "walking dead' [Ed. Note: not hyperbole at all], is what I essentially tell pharmacist.

"How about I just pay the full price so she doesn't die on me?" I continue, and then I ask pharmacist, "What is the full price, anyway?"

Pharmacist taps fingers on keyboard, hits enter and checks her computer screen. "FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS," she says [Ed. Note: ALL CAPS used to convey stunned look on my face].

"Okay, let me jsut call my doctor's office to see if we can speed this process up," I say, after awkward pause because $400 fucking dollars! Not in our budget at the moment, no-sir-ree bub, not when we already have gone way over-budget for month because - see above part of story about daughter's friend dying if you skipped over it earlier.

I then call doctor and beg and plead and use my not inconsiderable charm [Ed. Note: redundant use of excessive hyperbole] to get the the nurse to agree to talk to our doctor and get him to choose an inhaler that is covered by the Medicare Part D Formulary. Nurse then calls pharmacist to confirm this is what will be done. Pharmacist takes down my phone number and promises to call me when new inhaler prescription received from doctor. I go in search of food wife thinks she might be willing to eat. Time passes ...

Phone rings as I am shopping at mega-super-dooper market. Pharmacist says new prescription received and will be filled ASAP. "Yay!" I say, and rush to car to drive back to pharmacy. Walk in. Pay for new inhaler - under $20 co-pay! Yay!

But ...

Pharmacist tells me she needs to go over special instructions regarding wife's use of new inhaler. One, I must make it clear to my "bestest best friend" that each time she uses inhaler she must rinse her mouth thoroughly, or risk getting a FUNGAL INFECTION [Ed. Note: ALL CAPS used to convey stunned look on my face]. Ask her to repeat that part. She does - several times. "Okie-dokie," I say, "Will do. Anything else?"

"Yes," says pharmacist. "Tell her it will take about TWO WEEKS for medicine in drug inhaler to build up an EFFECTIVE DOSE in her bloodstream [Ed. Note: All caps because you know why by now].

"Two weeks?" I say in disbelief.

"Yes," says pharmacist, but it will start helping right away ... but, yes, two weeks for the full effect to kick in."

Okie-Dokie. The other inhaler, that $400 DOLLAR one doctor originally prescribed, was supposed to work in less than a week, according to what doctor told wife. Looking at pharmacist, I can tell that she can tell what I am thinking, which is probably why she gives me this sympathetic, helpless, kinda ashamed look, and then says to me, "I'm so sorry about all this." I tell her no need to apologize because it's not her fault.

Because it's not her fault. Or the doctor's fault. Or the nurse's fault. Or my wife's fault. Or my fucking fault.

It's the fucking fault of fucking Congress when they passed Medicare Part D and did not allow Medicare to fucking negotiate drug prices with the fucking pharmaceutical companies, and every other time they refused to even consider a single payer healthcare plan for all Americans that would reduce the ridiculously fucking drug prices we are required to pay because BigPharma owns our politicians, lock, stock and barrel, along with the rest of its legally fictional pals.

And that was my lesson for today regarding how "free enterprise" works to make our country the Greatest Nation on Earth, Ever. Oh, what a lucky people we are.