Having made an ambitious campaign pledge and staked his domestic credibility on the promise to radically reform and restructure the health insurance industry, Barack Obama has been forced to endure a sticky summer of sliding poll ratings and sustained Republican attacks. One gets the impression that even die-hard Democrats are slightly ‘over’ their initial enthusiasm for an overhaul, and it’s starting to look as though it may take a lot more than a spoonful of sugar to help this particular medicine go down. There’s a pervading and impatient urgency awaiting Mr President’s next move. Even Facebook devotees tried to jump on the political bandwagon; urging quasi-acquaintances to join forces and virally reiterate a simplistic and watered-down message. ‘No one should die because they cannot afford healthcare, and no one should go broke because they get sick. If you agree, please post this as your status update...’
I somehow doubt my new ‘friend’ Eileen bothered to copy and paste in sympathy. I met her in New York the morning after I landed. Jet-lagged and savagely nicotine-deprived (New York can now boast a new tourist distinction: it is officially the city that neither sleeps nor smokes), I wandered down Lexington inhaling a Marlboro Light, searching for a bookshop. I remembered Barnes & Noble as opening early compared to all the smart department stores, and wanted to stock up on new reading material so that I could be productive during my inevitable sleepless nights ahead.
Standing in line to pay for my books, I caught Eileen’s eye. She was directly behind me, engulfed by bulging carrier bags. Prada, Hermès, Ralph Lauren, Dior; she was a veritable walking advertisement for consumerism. ‘I see you’ve been busy,’ I nodded in a friendly fashion. ‘Where on earth did you find that was open this early?’
‘Oh, I am a shopping addict and this is my return day,’ she announced with absolutely no shame considering she was making tiny talk with a complete stranger. ‘I got up early and I said to myself: Eileen, enough already. Today is the day you do your end-of-summer returns.’
‘Right,’ I said.
‘I have a rich husband who works for Merrill Lynch and three kids who don’t like anything I buy. I shop: they reject. I have a jacket to go back to Ralph Lauren, a gift my husband bought for my wedding anniversary that I hate, and two purses that were bad impulse buys,’ she said busily pulling a pile of hardback books out of another bag.
‘More rejects?’ I enquired.
‘Yeah,’ she said, wiping a bead of sweat off her forehead. ‘More gifts. My husband just got outta hospital. Brain tumour. Nine-hour op.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I murmured.
‘He’ll be fine, trust me. Big but benign. He got the very best people looking after him.’
‘Nevertheless, must be a huge worry for you,’ I said, edging to the front of the queue.
‘Nah. I’m the one that needs worrying about now,’ she said lowering her voice. ‘They think I got multiple sclerosis.’
‘Whoa,’ I said at a total loss for words.
Eileen tried to ease my discomfort. ‘Listen, honey, don’t be concerned. We have the greatest healthcare system and doctors in the world. And I can afford it.’
I paid for my books, went back to my hotel and changed my status update.