“If I eat something I’m allergic to, it triggers a migraine,” she says. “Even eating a little bit can cause one. One time, a single shred of cheese got into my vegetable soup, and I ended up getting a migraine.”
“God, that sucks. I’m sorry, Ellie.”
She shrugs. “It is what it is.”
I try and think if she ever told me how serious her condition was when we were kids, but I can’t remember her ever saying it outright. I remember her never eating cake or treats at birthday parties because of her allergy to gluten and dairy.
I think about how she’d bring her own snacks to eat whenever we’d go play outside. And when she was over at my house, my parents would offer her food or snacks, but she’d always turn them down.
She always had to be so careful, but she never made it a big deal. She just quietly dealt with it on her own.
My chest aches. I hate thinking about her in pain, suffering alone.
“How bad have your migraines gotten over the years?”
“It’s really not bad as long as I have access to my meds.” Her gaze falls to the shiny fabric of her dress. She smooths a hand over it. “But insurance has been such a pain. Coverage changes. Premiums increase. I can’t go to certain doctors’ offices because they’re out of network and my insurance won’t pay. And that’s if I can even find a job that offers the insurance I need.”
She’s quiet for a long moment before she takes another sip of her drink.
“A lot of jobs don’t keep me around for very long because of my health condition,” she says. “So even when I do have insurance through work, I never last very long because they always get rid of me.”
“Ellie, that’s fucked up. And illegal too.”
She just sighs. “Yeah, but they get away with it because I don’t have enough money to hire a lawyer to challenge them. So that’s why I do what I do for work—a bunch of random jobs that pay just enough that I can afford the cheapest insurance plan on my own while I try to pay down my debt. And then I just hope that the insurance doesn’t get too expensive or change what they cover.”
She lets out a sad chuckle and nods at the small paper bag holding her migraine medicine that’s sitting on the dashboard. “Great plan, obviously.”
“Debt from what?” I ask.
Her cheeks redden. “Medical debt. There were times I didn’t have insurance, but I still had to go to the hospital to get treated and pay for my medicine. And to pay for this.”
She pulls what looks like a giant marker from the pocket of her dress.
“What is that?”
She smiles shyly. “EpiPen. When you’re deathly allergic to as many things as I am, you always have to carry one of these with you. And they’re not cheap when you don’t have insurance. Even when you do have insurance, they still might not cover it.”
That uneasy feeling in my chest is back in full force this time.
“This is why you work so much, isn’t it? Not because you’re saving for a house or want to start your own business,” I say, my brain finally putting it all together.
Pain flashes in her beautiful, soft blue eyes. “You’re right, I don’t really want a house. I would like to have my own pet sitting business someday, but I don’t think that will happen as long as I have this much debt.” She lets out a heavy breath. “I’m sorry I hid this from you, Camden. I was embarrassed.”
“Why? You shouldn’t be. You can’t help that you get migraines or that you have serious food allergies. And it’s not your fault that health insurance sucks.”
Anger and frustration simmer underneath my skin. Ellie shouldn’t have to work herself to the bone and be in debt just to survive—just to get the medicine she needs to stay alive. That’s so fucked up.
I tug a hand through my hair and huff out a heavy breath. “This is so messed up.”
“It is. But it’s also reality.”
I gaze at Ellie. The look in her eyes is so sad, so defeated.
This isn’t right.
I think about the top-tier medical care I get as a professional hockey player through my contract with the Bashers. Any injury or health problem I experience during games or practices or training is covered by the team. And the health plan that I haveto cover everything else, I can afford no problem, because I make more than enough money.
How is that fair? How is it okay that we live in a world where I get the best medical care because I smack around a puck for a living, while someone like Ellie suffers?
