I’m shivering like a naked lab rat on the table when the doctor comes in. He’s tall, with a bushy black mane of hair that looks like it’s been blow-dried in a wind tunnel. He swipes through my chart on his tablet and says my name without so much as an upward glance.
I nod at first, then remember that he’s not paying attention, so I croak out an affirmation that I am who he thinks I am. He mumbles a response that confirms he heard me, but instead of addressing me directly, he turns on the massive touch screen mounted to the examination wall.
Amazing what being disabled really means today, in this country. You’d think that having the CEO of the world’s largest healthcare provider assassinated would cause some kind of change, but that was before the President took office. Everything changed in a few short years. The rich got richer (as they always do), the poor got desperate, and the disabled — well, we were always hitting the bottom rung of expectations of care, weren’t we? Kindness, humility, and empathy went the way of the dodo. It became survival of the fittest, but truth be told, I was kind of impressed with how the insurance companies managed to … pivot.
The doctor butchers my name when he instructs me to get on the bed and spread my legs. I cringe inwardly. Hoisting myself out of the dented hospital wheelchair was hard enough. Don’t think he even noticed the sweat dotting my forehead. Nonetheless, I proceed as instructed, grunting as I lift my unfeeling legs into each stirrup.
He watches me do so with detached disinterest, fiddling with his phone and making small talk with the virtual onlookers. I hear them chatting about their respective golf games like I’m not even here. There’s a variety of speculums laid out on a table beside me like a platter of amorphous metal cheeses. I’ve barely laid my head down when I feel him start to use them on me.. Several have built-in lights and cameras, allowing him to stream their view to anyone with the feed. They leech the warmth inside me with every frigid invasion.
At least there’s music. Somehow, though, I doubt this is what Taylor Swift meant when she sang about empowerment. Yet, here I am, open for the interested shareholder class to see. From the lip of my insurance-branded hospital gown (made of strips of recycled grocery bags), I can see their age-spotted bald heads dither about on screens while they take stock (ha) of my insides. The doctor makes it a point to highlight the intact inner structures.
“There’s very little damage, considering the source of this patient’s injuries,” he sounds practically relieved. “Her uterus and fallopian tubes are intact, and the surrounding hip cradle, while having some chips here and there, could also support extractions. The bone marrow is healthy, as well.”
I swallow, but my throat sticks to itself. I curl my fingers around the edge of the surgical bed. It’s so cheap it feels like a gym mat. The fresh smell of alcohol-based sanitizer stings the inside of my nose.
“What about potential nerve damage to the legs?” One of the shareholders says, and I’m surprised to hear that it’s a woman. She sounds hesitant, but willful, as though she’s used to getting the answers she’s looking for. Very twentieth century. You know the type.
The doctor spins in his wheeled chair and on the tiled floor, it sounds so much like a rickety shopping cart. “Damage occurred at the base of the spine, but given her youth – remember this patient is under thirty years old – I’d say the nerves from the hips down are in good shape. With new advances in bodily repair & automation, we’re able to repair and enhance what was previously damaged. In this case, the spinal cord was severed right around the L5, but with the Body by BodAI, we can restore any functionality that’s missing.”
I remember those commercials. I was wheeling my way out of an airplane bathroom when my chair’s front footwells got jammed in the narrow aisle leading back to Coach. In the struggle to free them, my peasant elbow brushes the curtain separating the rest of us from First Class. I catch a glimpse of this wonderous new tech. Some kind of organic AI-assisted processor. The passenger watching it had his headphones in, so I couldn’t hear what the commercial was saying, but the name stuck with me.
Body by BodAI. So on point, it makes me wanna laugh. Insurance companies couldn’t wait to sign up to use it. After all, they had an entire market of people who could supply BodAI’s development. Count me in, right?
Of course, they don’t tell you that even if you refinanced your house (not that I could ever afford a house, but I hear people used to be able to), you’d never be able to afford BodAI. That kind of assistive tech was reserved for the shareholder class. Like this woman, whom I can’t see, who is going to get the benefit of BodAI … and my legs.
“The best part is that the initial learning cycle has been shortened from a week to a single eight-hour window. So, within a day, your BodAI will sync up, pairing the new legs to your body. By the end of that sync period, your body will recognize them as your legs. Rejection is mitigated by BodAI’s onboard genetic resequencing software. There’s really very little downside.’
Something deep in my gut moves around in slow circles and I taste metal in the back of my mouth.
‘I was thinking about the uterus for my daughter,” another shareholder says. “She’s done a lot of drugs that’ve damaged her long-term reproductive chances, but I deserve a grandchild.” The doctor taps his tablet, presumably pulling up the relevant file. “Well, based on her medical profile, it looks like a match. More importantly, she’s got coverage—”
“Of course she’s got coverage. She’s covered under me.” The shareholder sounds miffed. Can’t say I blame him entirely. He’s probably paying an arm and a leg. I do my best to stifle the giggle that puffs up my chest. I fail.
There’s an awkward pause in the room. They heard me. For a brief moment, we ponder our collective humanity or lack thereof. Or maybe I’m giving them too much credit. Their discomfort at my apparent sentience only lasts a few seconds.
“Of course, we can arrange a consultation if your daughter is unsure,” the doctor is saying, trying to cling to the remnants of his medical ethics. “And in the meantime, we can put the reproductive organs on ice, so to speak. Do be aware that they’ll only last a few days in our cryo-storage, so if your daughter consents to the transplant, we’ll need to arrange surgery as soon as possible.”
“Speaking of surgery,” another shareholder pipes up, impatience wrinkling his tone, “I have a midday meeting in Dubai, and I just came here to see how this is done, so let’s get on with it, shall we?”
My doctor straps on his mask and directs the robotic surgery arms using a handheld controller. One of the robot arms lowers an anaesthetic hose over my nose and mouth. Attached to it is a countdown timer. It says, “Anesthesia coverage limited.” The timer starts ticking down before the gas even starts.
All of this is just part of my tier of coverage. Basic. The lowest tier that they used to call Value. Now, once you’re injured, you stay that way. Then you’re deemed disabled, and it’s too expensive to cover disability. Not in this economy, at least that’s what the belligerent politicians say at their packed rallies; they’re standing room only (ha).
It’s not so bad. They’ve promised a percentage reduction in my premiums, depending on how much of myself I’m willing to give up. Such is disabled life, right? What did they use to say about insurance coverage? Only costs an arm and a leg?
Well in my case, it costs two.
