“What’s that?”
“Well, you’ve just hit twenty-six and five months, so the insurance you were on, which was your mother’s, is no longer covering your visits.”
My heart sank as the doctor’s words hit me. Insurance. Of course. Racing thoughts flooded my mind, and panic set in almost instantly.
How the hell am I supposed to afford my healthcare that was vital to my sobriety without insurance?
A portion of what I earned was sent to Nova, and the rest? That was swallowed by rehab bills. I barely had anything left for myself, which was the whole reason I was here in the first place.
I racked my brain, trying to remember if I’d talked to Ledger about insurance when he asked me about working the new job. Everything had been a blur—rehab, the move, the scramble to get settled—it was hard to know what I’d discussed and what had slipped through the cracks. The panic buzzed louder.
The room suddenly felt smaller. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady as I asked, “How much would my prescriptions cost out of pocket?”
The doctor’s expression softened. “I can’t give you an exact number, but I’d recommend checking with the pharmacy. Without insurance, it can get a bit pricey.” The doctor gave me a sympathetic look, clearly sensing the weight of the situation. “I know this is important,” he said gently, “and I understand how crucial it is to have these medications. We’ll do what we can to help.”
The words were meant to reassure me, but something inside me snapped. “Ineedthese drugs,” I blurted out, my voice shaking. “Without them, I-I can’t survive. I won’t be able to live normally.” My breath hitched. “My brain... it’s an addict’s brain. If I don’t have what I need to stay balanced, I’ll slip. And I can’t afford to slip.”
The room was so quiet, you could’ve heard a pin drop.
“I agree, these medications are helping you, and we’re going to get you on the right track. Let’s walk to the front desk and see what we can figure out.”
I stood up, moving on autopilot as we made our way to the front desk. The receptionist looked up, offering me a small, crooked smile that was meant to be polite, but it only made me feel worse.
She typed something into the computer, her fingers clicking across the keyboard as the doctor stood beside me, waiting.
Finally, she glanced up, her eyes hesitant. “With the three treatments and prescriptions your doctors have recommended... it’s going to run you about ten thousand dollars a month. Without insurance, I mean.”
Ten grand. The number hit me like a punch to the gut, and the room seemed to spin for a second. I didn’t even know how to respond, my brain struggling to comprehend how I could ever afford that. Every part of me wanted to crumble under the weight of it, but I stood there, trying to keep it together.
“Let’s go meet Ralph. He’ll help you sort this out.”
I nodded, hearing his words but not processing them. My feet moved me to follow the doctor, the walls around me feeling like they were closing in. There had to be some kind of resolution waiting at the end of all this.
The pit in my stomach told me otherwise. What if there wasn’t? What if this was it—me, standing on the edge of losing everything I’d worked for because I couldn’t keep up with the costs? I knew deep down that I couldn’t do this without my meds. Hell, I’d fought against taking them for so long, convinced I could handle things on my own. That I didn’t need the crutch.
But they’d become a part of my routine. The small pills I’d once resented were my lifeline. Maybe that made me weak, maybe it made me a big pussy, but I didn’t care. I was self-aware enough to know that without them, I’d struggle. A lot. I didn’t have it in me to go back to that dark place. Not after all the progress I’d made.
I walked down the hall, my mind racing with a mix of panic and frustration.
“I just don’t want to go downhill,” I whispered to no one in particular.
Before I knew it, Dr. Manzulla was introducing me to another guy—older, probably in his forties, wearing a plain T-shirt and jeans. He had a calm, easygoing demeanor, and his office felt a lot more inviting than the clinical sterility of the doctor’s room. Warm lighting filled the space, and a large, worn black leather couch sat in the corner. Without thinking, I plopped down on it.
The two of them exchanged a few words, their voices blending into the background as I stared out the window, lost in my own thoughts. The weight of everything was hitting me all at once. How could I possibly afford this? Therapy, prescriptions, everything that was supposed to keep me stable—it all felt like too much.
“I don’t think I can afford weekly therapy,” I muttered, more to myself than anyone else.
The door opened and closed again, and the older guy—probably the therapist—took a seat across from me. “It looks like Dr. Manzulla was able to write you a three-month supply of your medication,” he said calmly. “So you’ve got a little time to figure out a solution.”
I nodded, but the relief I was supposed to feel didn’t quite settle in. Three months. It wasn’t much time at all, but it was something.
“Yeah.” I nodded excessively. “I’ll talk to Ledger and figure out what’s going on with the insurance.”
“You know, sometimes we have to start by looking at the leaves of the tree.”
I narrowed my eyes and swung my gaze to the therapist. “The leaves?” I repeated, confused by the metaphor. This kind of talk was something I still wasn’t used to.
Ralph leaned forward slightly. “The leaves paint the picture of the tree, Austin. They’re small, individual parts, but together they make up the whole. If you start by trying to take in theentire tree, it can feel overwhelming. But if you focus on the leaves, one at a time, it’s a lot easier to manage.”
