I’ve been a pediatric cardiologist at Mercy General in Chicago for fifteen years. I’ve seen miracles that defy science, and I’ve seen tragedies that break the strongest men. But in all my time wearing this white coat, I have never seen a billing statement defy the ironclad laws of American capitalism. Not until I met Sophie.
Sophie is nine years old. She has eyes the color of burnt honey, messy pigtails that bounce when she laughs, and a heart that beats to a rhythm only it understands. Diagnostically speaking, she has Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome. In layman’s terms, the left side of her heart didn’t form correctly. She is a walking, breathing physiological impossibility. She has needed three open-heart surgeries since birth just to reach the fourth grade.
In the United States healthcare system, without “Platinum Tier” insurance, a child like Sophie is what the administrative ghouls call a “financial fatality.” Her medical file should be thick with debt collection notices, liens, and “Final Warning” stamps. Her mother, Clara, is a waitress at a diner on 4th Street. She smells like stale coffee and exhaustion every time she comes in for an appointment. She drives a 2004 Corolla that sounds like it’s coughing up a lung and has a passenger door that is held shut with duct tape.
