When Experts Shrug

I can’t say for certain what gave birth to the noise, but I have my suspicions. Thanks to a monstrous but clearly fragile cypress tree in my uncle’s front yard, it would not have been prudent to leave my Ford Taurus in the driveway for the hurricanes that welcomed me to Florida. So as the first rain bands whipped across the I-4 Corridor, I drove my car to Magnolia Plantation golf course to get as far away from trees as I could. My uncle felt confident in my car’s safety, but a part of me knew that despite minimizing the threat of falling forestry I was still leaving my car to endure the brunt of days worth of incessant rain and wind (with the occasional triple-digit gust).

Therefore, it didn’t surprise me when I retrieved my car and found the mechanics a tad dodgy. I heard a rush of water when I first put the car into gear, and the brakes were more sensitive than a supermodel on a public scale. I didn’t sense that the car was on the verge of breaking down or anything, but the drive back to the house was still touchy, clumsy, and awkward. It was like I was losing my virginity again.

Once the hurricane season waned and I began my daily routine in the Sunshine State, my car shrugged off its battle with Frances and Jeanne and operated as it always had. It wasn’t until my brother came to visit that the noise was brought to my attention. Because I usually turn my habit car into a speeding karaoke bar, abnormal sounds go unnoticed beneath the din of Robbie Williams and Kelly Clarkson (That’s right! Kelly Clarkson! What?). Unless a problem results in some sort of driving difficulty, I don’t notice. But as the courteous chauffeur that I am, I turned the radio off when I transported my brother and my uncle to Uno’s for dinner. It barely took my brother a block to point out the malady.

There’s nothing much to the sound, really. It’s not the definite squeak of worn brakes or a more foreboding grinding of engine parts. It’s just this repetitive thrumming (almost like a flat tire but more metallic sounding) most noticeable in the lower gears.

I gave this description to the mechanic when I took the car in for an oil change, and he took a drive around the lot to see what he could find. After the work was done we met to discuss the problem; they could clearly hear the noise, but they couldn’t locate its source.

“Has it caused any driving problems?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “It’s just the noise.”

He nodded and recommended continued observation. If the sound got worse or if I started to have operational problems, I should bring it in for a second look. I left the dealership knowing something was not right with my car, but also knowing that at the moment there was nothing I could do. Though accepting his advice meant I would continue to drive with shaky confidence, I had no choice but to swallow that pill and move on. It’s really not a major concern. Even if something does go wrong with the car down the line, I’m looking at a few annoying bills and most likely an afternoon’s worth of inconvenience. It’s not life or death.

Yet, there’s something about this plot that bears a striking resemblance to another area of my life, one that’s life and death at its core. In high school I was diagnosed with IGA Nephropathy, or Berger’s disease, a devilishly vague and inconspicuous condition that is characterized only by (microscopic) blood and protein in the urine. Despite my everpresent awareness of the disease, there are no physical indicators to remind me of it. I’m taking somebody’s word on my condition. Considering the adjustments I’ve made to my life to stay this internal attack, it’s asking a lot without being able to see results (negative or otherwise).

Though I feel relatively well from day to day, I’m my knowledgeable yet horribly frigid doctor annually reminds me of the clouding horizon. So I take his advice: I’ve been taking two fish oil pills a day since college, and have spent the past two years on an extremely rigid and difficult low-protein diet that has devastated any attempts to preserve my ex-linebacker physique. I put up with these insanely frustrating requirements and what I basically get in return is the promise that it might help. If it doesn’t? Well, we’ll know when something catastrophic happens.

For a proactive problem solver like me, this strategy is maddening. I’m sure my doctor knows his stuff (my mechanic too for that matter), but the expected peril has choked my life with incessant dread and a colored view of my future opportunities. How does one commit to the future with determination and passion when they are programmed to expect the other shoe to drop any minute? Now that I am in the final days and weeks of my time in Florida, the dangling shoe of my health has become Shaquillean in size.

If I am earnest about pursuing a career as a writer (and I am) it means accepting that a luxury like health insurance may be years in coming, if it is coming at all. I’m no longer the type of person who can hedge his bets when it comes to my dreams. I cannot live a life where I hunt down a job and then write in my down time. I have to live a life where I write and then get a job to fill my spare time. If I want to write, it’s at the risk of living without health insurance. I could be suffering from severe myopia in this case, but I know what it's going to take to get myself in the right frame of mind to write every single day and having a full-time job (that would supply me with health coverage) does not fit into that plan. Some might call this laziness, but they’re mistaken. It’s about priorities; I want to spend every waking moment working on what I feel I am meant to do. That means no health insurance, possibly none for several years (I’m either in the Writer’s Guild or I’ve given up).

This seems sort of silly considering I did the same thing, giving up my health insurance, a year ago when I left home for Florida, but unfortunately my first horrifying experience with the health care industry shattered the naiveté that made moving down here so simple. As I watched the claims list for one night in the hospital grow (the submitted charges reached nearly $20,000), I couldn’t help but think how a person without insurance would manage not just a one-time anomaly, but a devastating illness. Thanks to some personal research, I’ve learned the answer: they wouldn’t. Nearly 18,000 people die in this country each year because of inadequate health coverage. For those who get treatment without coverage, many of the following years are spent digging out from under oppressive debt. Many will file bankruptcy. In fact, the majority of bankruptcies in America are filed to relieve medical debt. This is one of the pictures I paint for myself and my future. It's a watercolor, and I call it Sick and Uberbroke.

I wasn’t scared when I left home for Florida, but I’m terrified of leaving. One completely unnecessary night in the hospital rattled me in a rather unexpected way: health insurance means something now. And living without it means even more. As I walk through each day wondering whether today is the day my body decides to turn on itself, it seems somehow irresponsible to avoid preparing for that. But how much can you prepare before your preparations become your entire life. Should something catastrophic happen down the line, will I find some solace in this upcoming attempt? That's the hope that I take into tomorrow. I can't stand to see the picture of Sick, Uberbroke, and Regrettful. Regret has become quite the powerful motivator in my life. Since I piled up so much of it in my past, I want to eliminate it from my future. Carpe diem, etc. etc.

In a way, my fear is encouraging. It means I believe I can succeed in this next stage in my life, even as I’m waiting for something to undercut those pursuits. Waiting for life to smack me back to reality in horribly dramatic fashion. Waiting for that peculiar noise to finally reveal itself.