After my father lost his job in November 2008, my family’s health insurance coverage lapsed. Although he found work — and, consequently, coverage for himself — in April, the rest of the family can’t join until March 2010. So, for the only year my mother and I have ever been without insurance, we have tiptoed through our lives, avoiding what health risks we could.
My mother rationed out her thyroid medication at the expense of her memory and happy temperament. I stockpiled over-the-counter pain relievers and cough suppressants in case I had to ride out an influenza storm. It never came. Instead, a week before fall classes started, I felt stabbing pains in my abdomen, which a walk-in clinic doctor diagnosed as either appendicitis or pain from a cyst. Against my will and money-driven mentality, I went to the ER for a night and left with a bill for $18,000 in my name. That didn’t include surgery. The doctors wouldn’t perform any but the most imperative (lifesaving) operations on someone without insurance.
Perhaps you can see how walking around campus with a 10-centimeter cyst would tune me into the rumblings of required health insurance for UF students.
While shocking to students still on their parents’ plans or with insurance through work, a chunk of the Student Body goes without insurance each year. In fact, estimates by the Student Health Care Center and UF surveys indicate the number of uninsured students is somewhere between 10,000 and 15,000. Why would all of these people take the risk of not buying health insurance, especially when the university provides a discounted policy? Much of this 20 to 30 percent of the Student Body is comprised of stereotypical starving students. We just can’t afford it.
With phrases like “7 percent annual increase in college costs” flying around, I checked the math. Accounting for my normal spending, a purchase of the comprehensive Aetna plan offered through the school would result in a 20 to 25 percent increase in costs. Of course, this calculation applies to my own situation.
Faced with a spike in costs, students on an already tight budget would have to choose to leave the college, take out a (second) loan or get a (second) job. These options stink.
Beyond the payment problem, the argument for mandating health insurance is on shaky ground to begin with: Why would medical bills cause students to drop out of college? Yes, collectors ask for bills to be paid, and the sums inflate to massive amounts when not negated by insurance. However, unlike with other payments, the collectors don’t demand the bills be paid immediately. With the burden of time lifted, a medical bill acts almost like a student loan: Most collectors are satisfied if the patient makes plans to pay the debt.
Even if everyone can scrounge up money to pay for insurance, I have problems with the proposal. Although pre-existing conditions don’t affect all Gators, they cause kinks in the argument for mandated insurance. As I know from experience, obtaining an insurance plan covering known conditions can prove exhausting. My mother called around to sign me up for a plan immediately after my hospital visit. She was prepared to spend money we didn’t have to guarantee an operation, but while the insurance companies would readily take the cash, they wouldn’t provide funds for surgery.
If forced into health insurance, people with pre-existing conditions — which can range from asthma and high blood pressure to cancer and heart disease — may be denied coverage for their worst medical problems.
In spite of the unanswered questions, kudos goes to Student Body President Jordan Johnson for understanding this predicament and the widespread impact it could have on the Student Body. Everyone should fight for what’s right for this university. Required health insurance could make our school more exclusive on a financial basis rather than on an academic one, and that’s not what the Gator Nation stands for.
Cynthia Despres is a journalism junior.
