In a very dismal but possible future, Obamacare—also known as the Affordable Care Act or ACA—could be repealed and replaced with Trumpcare (ACHA), leaving millions of Americans without healthcare. Including disabled and elderly people. Including me.
This is what will happen to me if Obamacare is repealed and replaced with Trumpcare.
At first, I’ll be okay. It’ll take some time for things to go into effect. My doctors will prescribe me months’ worth of my medications in advance and I’ll fill them at the pharmacy before my insurance officially lapses. Like a dystopian YA character, I’ll have a precious stockpile.
Eventually I’ll run out, though.
The medication that was slowing my immune system’s attack on my connective tissues will go out of my system. I will be crippled and debilitated, trapped in bed again with unbearably stiff and aching joints. But I won’t be able to turn to my pain medicine, because that will be gone too. I’ll try to make due with heating pads, Advil, and Tiger Balm, but that’s like slapping a Band-Aid on a stab wound. My hands will be too stiff for me to write, so I’ll no longer earn a living.
Family members with cancer and degenerative disc disease won’t be able to give me their extra pain medicine, because they’ll have run out, too.
When I need to shower, dress, or use the bathroom, my husband will have to help me again. Usually I’ll be alone, though, because he works full-time. I’ll spend most of my time in bed or on the couch.
We won’t be able to afford the health insurance his employer offers. Under Obamacare, it was already expensive, but after Trumpcare, the rates skyrocketed. Insurance is now precious like gold. And the rule of supply and demand is high prices.
We can’t afford my medications out of pocket, either. A two-month supply of the main medicine I require is $800 before Trumpcare. Pharmaceutical companies recognize the high demand and raise their prices, too. We’re forced to choose between rent and groceries or my medication. We choose shelter and food.
I’m worse off than I was before I got a diagnosis and started treatment. I can’t afford to see my doctors to at least monitor my disease. It develops into full-blown Lupus and begins attacking my organs. My kidneys shut down. I’m hospitalized and the bills begin racking up. My family rallies to try to help, but they’ve also got to take care of my grandmother who has cancer and can no longer afford her treatments because of Trumpcare. There just isn’t enough money.
I leave the hospital with prescriptions I can’t fill and an overwhelmingly high bill that I’ll never be able to pay off. I’m still making monthly payments on my student loan—a degree that’s been useless to me in part because of my disease.
I’ve tried to stay positive. I’m a fighter, after all. A survivor. But everyone around me is suffering, and I can’t even help myself. My husband is so stressed, his health worsens. His arthritis and migraines become completely debilitating and he can no longer work to support us.
We move back in with my parents. My dad stays home full-time to care for my grandmother. My mom is the only one working in the family, and her insurance only covers her and Dad. There isn’t enough money to take care of all of us. My sister and other family members try to help when they can, but they have people who rely on them, too.
And it’s not only our family that is affected.
Across the country, people become sicker. The massive cuts to welfare prevent them from getting assistance. The entire nation goes into a health crisis. Only the very wealthy can afford healthcare. Crowdfunding pages are set up, and some good Samaritans donate, but after a while people get tired of seeing sick people asking for help on Facebook. The donations stop.
The U.S. goes into a widespread state of depression. Millions of lives are lost, deaths that could have been prevented with affordable, comprehensive preventive healthcare. Disease spreads—previously obsolete due to vaccinations, but people can no longer afford them.
People who are wealthy and still healthy flee the country, immigrating to better places. The once proud United States declines. There is no longer an American dream—just a wasteland resembling a third-world country.
That’s because we are one now.
America doesn’t become great by moving back. Only by progressing do we become the place of dreams and great things.
I need able-bodied people to fight for me, my grandmother, my godson, and other chronically ill and disabled people. I need you to do more than just passively share things on social media.
You need to call your senators and insist that they oppose Trumpcare.
My senators have been fighting this from the beginning. There is nothing I can do other than sit and watch, wait to see what my future will be. I’m begging you.
There’s still time. We can still turn this around.
— Celeste P. (@Celeste_pewter) June 22, 2017