How did it all start?
A few weeks ago my daughter came over with her hand held out. "Dad, look, it's weird, it's swollen." It was her index finger. I'm from another generation; back in my day we called that an "ingrown nail," I told her. "Go to your mom, she'll get it out."
Her mother dug. And dug. And kept digging. And nothing: the finger stayed the same, there, swollen, staring at us.
As the days went by it got uglier, because now, on top of it, it had the cuts from the supposed ingrown nail that never existed. But I, faithful to my old theory, let another factor come into play, the most dangerous one of all: money. "I'm not taking you to the hospital now, for a nail. Let's go to the public system, and besides, I'm saving this month."
The public healthcare system (SUS)
And we went. And we arrived. The SUS line was so long that day, at that time in the afternoon, that there weren't even chairs left to wait in. "Let's go back home. Tomorrow I'll take you to the day hospital, to the Revitalite. For something I have Itapema Saúde, with the emergency doctor we'll sort it out."
Private healthcare but watching the wallet
So we went. And yes, there was a doctor. Except the doctor on duty is a general practitioner, not a dermatologist. He looked at the finger, ruled "it's a wart," prescribed a liquid I-don't-know-how-many times a day, and charged his 100 reais. We left relieved: at last someone had put a name to the thing.
When money stops mattering
As that treatment went on, the finger got ugly. Really ugly. Ugly up to that exact point where you stop looking at the price.
We were at the Clínica La Vie, which had an open slot for a specialist. Like, right now: the convenience of private clinics. The appointment, 375 reais, more or less what any specialist charges around here.
The dermatologist looked for ten seconds and said exactly the word that was missing: "It's a viral wart." Viral. That was the word. And he added, no anesthesia: "That liquid they prescribed you, use the whole tube if you want, it won't do a thing. I'll do another treatment. It's 600 reais more, and if it has to be repeated, next time I won't charge you."
That was with my wife, actually. The doctor said "let's treat it," and she, scared, slammed on the brakes: "No, no, wait, what do you mean treat it? how much does that cost?" And she called me. And I, from the other end of the phone, said that line you only say when you've already given up: "Money doesn't matter anymore. The finger is ugly. We'll have time to save up later."
Every day that passes is a life lesson
In my previous city, Londrina, this wouldn't even have been a story worth telling. I would have gone to the doctor as many times as needed, without having to use the calculator. I had a co-payment health plan, and everything came out cheaper. Here in Itapema that doesn't exist. Well, it exists, but with caveats. And the caveats are exactly what you find out too late, with the finger already ugly and the wallet open.
That's why I think it's worth sitting down, calmly and before the crisis, to study how to choose your health plan. It's no game. You have to understand well what kind of person you are when facing risk, because that decision can't be made in moments of peace: when the crisis hits, the solutions are always the least rational ones. I'm living proof.
A curious fact to close: that finger ended up costing almost 20% more than a decent monthly health plan costs. A single finger. A single month.
And you? Do you already know what you'll do when it's your turn?
