Untitled Blog Post

"Dad!"

I barely heard her over the noise of the shower. Was that Mady calling?

"What?" I yelled back.

"Martin's calling you!"

"What is it?" I called, shampoo getting in my eyes.

"I don't know!" she snipped back.

By her tone, she wasn't going to find out, either. With an annoyed groan, I quickly rinsed my hair and shut off the water. Another shower interrupted for more important things.

Grabbing my robe, I tried my other information gathering tactic. I called out to my son.

"Martin!" I yelled. "What do you need?"

All I got back was a faint, plaintive, "Dad-dee!"

He was upset, but that could mean anything from he'd misplaced a Lego to he'd chopped off a finger. And, of course, my mind went to the worst case scenario!

"Coming!" I reassured him as loudly as I could while throwing a terry robe over myself. The legs and hair could wait to dry. I had an emergency on my hands!

I popped out of the bathroom into our tiny hall and looked both ways searching for Martin. From the bathroom door I could see into the living room, but the only one I saw there was Mady, lounging across the arms of the big chair, staring at her tablet with her headphones on. It was a wonder that she heard Martin when I couldn't. I used to be better at that.

"Is Martin down there?" I asked her from a distance.

She didn't answer, her eyes glued to the screen.

"Is Martin down there?" I repeated a little louder.

"He's in his room!" she snapped back without looking up. She certainly had a knack for making one feel like they were intruding. I shrugged it off and turned the other way.

"Martin, are you in your room?" I yelled, drawing on past experience. I didn't have time for the guessing game we usually played. If I had asked him where he was, he would have said he was "here", and when I asked where that was, he would insist that he was "HERE!", making me ask again where that was, making him shout in frustration, "HERE!", and so on until I finally tracked him down by the sound of his fury. All I wanted to do was help him with whatever calamity had befallen him this time and get back to my shower.

"YES!" he shouted furiously, bypassing procedure by getting right to the point. I had to admire the efficiency.

"Coming!" I yelled to reassure him, heading towards his room.

I still didn't know what to expect when I got there, until I heard his pained groans through the door. He had hurt himself, after all! I hoped it wasn't too bad, and rapped on the door.

"Can I come in?" I gently called through the wood.

"YES!" came back his annoyed, angry voice. It sounded like he hurt himself pretty bad.

I expected a stubbed toe, again, or a scratch from yet another fingernail we neglected to clip in time, but not what I saw when I opened the door. Not blood everywhere. Not him clutching his hand against a blood-soaked t-shirt. Not a shattered tablet in pieces mingling with the bloody stain on his rug. Not my adolescent son weeping in pain and fear. I instantly dropped down in front of him and put my hands on his shoulders.

"What happened?" I urgently asked. Right now, I don't know why I said that. It didn't really matter what happened, then or now. My son was hurt. My first question should have been, "Where are you hurt?" Though, truthfully, the answer was obvious by how firmly he clutched his hand to his chest.

Luckily, I regained my wits quickly enough, and asked him if I could see his injury. At first, he didn't want me to see it or touch it, and he angrily told me that I was only going to make it hurt. I gently replied that it looked like it already hurt a lot, and he snapped back, "You'll make it hurt more!"

As much as I was squeamish about seeing his injury, I knew I had to assess the situation somehow, so I spent several minutes trying to convince him otherwise. Finally, he let me see, and I immediately regretted it. It was nasty. The cut was big, long, and bloody, and there were still pieces of glass in there. It was definitely beyond my capabilities and far beyond a simple Band-Aid. He needed the E.R!

The problem was, the wife had the family car, the one with the kid seats in it. The work car didn't have them. I couldn't drive Martin to the E.R. and leave Mady home alone, or take both of them safely, or just drive them there and tend to Martin's wound at the same time. I had to call an ambulance.

"Mady!" I shouted at the top of my lungs. She answered, but I couldn't tell if she'd yelled back, "What?", or something ruder. I took my chances on the former, though, and added, "Bring me the phone!"

She might have asked why, but I didn't hear her too clearly. I was busy with Martin's cut, again. I took the cuff of my robe and gently pressed it against the wound, like they taught in Boy Scouts. Martin jerked and tried to yank his hand back, but I held his wrist as tight as I dared.

"We have to get this bleeding under control, Buddy," I told him as calmly as a doctor.

"It hurts!" he exclaimed, throwing his head back and whining in distress.

"I know, Buddy," I tried to reassure him. "I know!"

"Here!" Mady spat from the doorway, thrusting the cordless at me. When she saw the blood on the floor and all over Martin, and caught a glimpse of the cut, her attitude immediately changed. Taken up in the gravity of the situation, she walked the phone to me and then sat by her brother, as if giving him her strength. She wouldn't look at the hand anymore, but she did watch Martin a lot.

I dialed 911 with my unoccupied hand and waited for someone to pick up.

"911!" the professional voice on the other end said. "What's your emergency?"

"My son cut his hand pretty bad," I told the lady. "Can you send an ambulance, please?"

I could feel Martin fidgeting and quietly told him to try to stay still. Mady repeated what I said, adding that daddy was getting him some help. I couldn't have been more proud of her.

"Certainly," the operator replied. "Who's your carrier?"

"My what?" I didn't know what she was talking about.

"Your service provider," the lady said as if that would clear everything up. "Are you with Red Triangle? Or, the Kevin Brothers?"

"What are you talking about?" I demanded.

"Your ambulance service," the lady cheerily asked. "What service do you subscribe to?"

"I don't subscribe to any service!" I practically shouted into the phone. I didn't think she appreciated the gravity of the situation, so I briskly told her, "My son needs an ambulance! He's bleeding badly!"

"Am I going to die?" Martin whimpered softly.

"No, Buddy!" I quickly reassured him. "You have a nasty cut, but it isn't fatal."

Into the phone, though, I said, "But we still need to get you to a hospital to get it treated. Now, lady, are you sending an ambulance or not!"

"I'm sorry," she replied, "But the law requires that I send an ambulance from your service provider."

"Even if it's a matter of life or death?" I demanded, probably in a much more aggressive tone than she deserved.

"I'm sorry, sir, but my hands are tied," she replied. "When they privatized ambulance service, they put strict rules in place. I can't bend them for anyone!"

I knew I should have paid closer attention to the news lately. I'd heard something about that, but I never thought it would impact my life, or my kid's lives, like this. I didn't have an ambulance service! I didn't think I'd need one! And, now, I felt stupid for not getting one!

I thought for a second about lying and telling her I had one, but for the life of me I couldn't remember the name of a single one, even though she'd just told me two of them a second ago. Then, I had a flash of insight.

"I have insurance!" I desperately offered. "Does that count?"

"Certainly, sir," the operator replied. "Can you give me the name of your provider?"

"Blue Bells," I told her.

I heard the sound of typing in the background, then she asked me for my insurance number. Luckily, Mady was there to help. She was more than willing to get my wallet and fish out my insurance card for me. I gave her the number and then there was another flurry of typing, followed by a discouraging, "Oh, dear!"

"What?" I exclaimed.

"Well, there seems to be a problem," she said with only a slight tinge of practiced sympathy in her voice.

"What problem?" I firmly asked. "There's nothing wrong with the card, is there?"

"Oh, no, sir," she reassured me. "The card is fine! But -!"

"But what?" I demanded when she hesitated to continue.

"Well, sir," she said somewhat reluctantly, "the insurance is fine. But it's from an out-of-state provider, and they don't have a contract with any of the ambulance services in this area. Now, if you lived in Beltsville, Alabama, then there would be several carriers to choose from. But, since you live here..."

"So, that's it?" I angrily demanded. "My son's supposed to bleed out because we're not covered for an ambulance ride?"

Martin looked intensely worried again, though he was brave enough to not say anything about it. I took a moment to again gently remind him he was going to be fine, then I turned back to the phone. I couldn't waste time arguing with the woman. My son needed help, and I was going to get it for him no matter what I had to do!

"Okay, fine," I said to the operator. "What options do I have?"

"Well, sir, you could drive him, yourself," she suggested.

"Yes, I thought of that," I told her, "but it's out of the question."

"A taxi?" she offered, then immediately said, "No. Since the law changed, taxis are more aware of liabilities and such. They don't take people to the E.R., anymore."

"Then what do I do?" I half yelled, half pleaded.

"Well," she said. "I could sell you a subscription to an ambulance service. If you sign up through 911 you get 20% off the first year's bill."

"Can I do a month?" I asked. The gears were already grinding away in my head. I'd get a month, then after I got Martin treated, I'd cancel and forget all about it. But, she must have been prepared for that.

"It's a two year contract," she explained, "through Kevin Brothers. But, it's quite a deal. $147.98 for the first year, with the 20% discount, and after taxes and fees it only comes to $397.65 for two years of protection. How did you want to pay for that?"

"Wait!" I said incredulously. "You want $400 for a service I might never use again?"

"But, it'll be there if you need it!" she cheerily replied. Then, for emphasis, she quoted the Kevin Brothers motto, which I recognized from a TV commercial. "Fastest There for Fastest Care!"

Then, she asked, "Will you be riding in the ambulance with the injured party?"

"He's my son," I firmly told her. "And he's 8, so yes, I'll be riding with him!"

"The policy only covers a single occupant per ambulance," she told me. "But, if you want, for an additional $29.95, you can purchase an extension that allows for one additional rider."

"But, I have my daughter, too," I told her.

"Is she injured?" the lady asked.

"No," I told her. "But, I can't just leave her here all alone!"

"It's $29.95 per additional passenger," she replied without a hint of sympathy. "They're pretty strict about that."

"$60 more dollars?" I snapped, wanting to throttle her through the phone.

"I'm sorry," she intoned professionally. I knew she really wasn't, though.

I had no choice, so I said, "Fine!"

I sounded a lot less petulant than I felt. Inside, I was steaming, but venting on the woman wasn't going to help the situation. I'd have to figure things out, later. Getting Martin to the doctor was much more important!

"Visa?" she asked professionally. "Or Master Card?"

"Visa," I sighed. I'd have a lot of explaining to do later to the wife. It was a lot of money all at once, not that I wouldn't spend it anyway to help my son!

I asked Mady to fish out my credit card, and we went through the whole ordeal over the phone, giving her the numbers and answering a few questions, though I couldn't understand why she needed to know about any "pre-existing conditions that could preclude you from getting any emergency assistance". That sounded fishy to me. But, I answered no to that, and my other answers must have been satisfactory, because she concluded the transaction by saying, "Well, sir, congratulations! You're now enrolled in the Kevin Brothers Protection Plan! You'll be getting your service card in the mail in approximately 10 business days, and once you do, you'll be able to enjoy all the services the Kevin Brothers provides all of its loyal customers, like ...!"

"Fine, fine," I impatiently snapped. "Can you send the ambulance, now?"

"Oh, I'm afraid I can't do that, sir," she immediately replied with practiced ease.

"What?" I exclaimed. "Why not?"

"Because you don't have a provider number, yet," she answered.

"A WHAT?" I thundered.

"A provider number," she repeated. The way she kept herself so even and calm she had to have been doing this for a long time, now. "I need it to cross check your availability."

"But I just bought a policy!" I fiercely reminded her.

"Yes," came her polished reply. "And, as soon as you receive your card, you can give me your provider number so I can get you processed in the system."

"Two weeks from now?" I demanded pretty loudly.

"Well," the lady said calmly, "it's the best I can do."

"But we need help now!" I roared.

"I understand, sir," she replied professionally. "But, there's one other thing I can do."

"What?" I asked in exasperation.

"Well," she said slowly, "since you purchased the Kevin Brothers plan, I can assign you a provincial number now, then the Brothers could retroactively bill you for the service, later."

"Fine!" I firmly told her. "Okay. Give me a 'provincial number'!"

"There's just a small processing fee of $49.99 for that," she said. "Should I put it on the same card?"

"So, you're going to charge me now?" I asked, finally fed up with the entire business. "And, they're going to charge me later?"

"That's how they get ya!" she exclaimed, as if that sounded in any way sympathetic to my plight.

"How am I going to afford that?" I demanded. "How can anyone afford that?"

"Well," she intoned, "Kevin Brothers is the leading emergency services provider -!"

I couldn't stand it any more. I furiously jabbed the off button and glared at the phone for a bit. As soon as I could, I resolved to cancel that transaction with the bank. But first, there was a more important task.

"Mady," I told my daughter. "Get me some washcloths, a lot of hot water, some ice, and the sewing kit from my sock drawer!"

Turning to Martin, I said, "I'm sorry, Buddy, but this might hurt a bit."