So much has plagued my thoughts since the aftermath of losing Karline. I’ve tossed and turned over realizations visible only in hindsight. These are some of those thoughts I really didn’t think I would share until getting diagnosed with a severe disease.
Karline died from coronary artery disease and a residual blood clot. She never had a formal diagnosis, though she sought medical care due to intense physical issues.
At the height of the pandemic, she went to the emergency room for nausea, cold sweats, and extreme pains. She was scolded for smoking weed and turned away within a day. She returned to the ER the day after her release, with the doctor responding with annoyance instead of care.
She complained to Tori and me constantly about her ailments, especially around the time of her menstrual cycle. Her pains were so bad that we knew we couldn’t make plans when she had her period. I didn’t expect her to show up at my Labor Day BBQ because she had spent the morning dry heaving. Somehow she made it out and reassured me that she was feeling much better. Karline would swear up and down it was potentially endometriosis or a similar ailment.
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Right after I got pregnant with Lennox, I complained to her and Tori about the frequent blood testing I would have to do. She looked at me and said, “God, I’m so jealous. So they’re gonna know exactly what’s going on with you. I would love that.”
I would look at her, taken back, and reply, “Okay, weirdo!”
God, what I wouldn’t do to go back in time, throw her into my car, and run her to a Labcorp at that moment.
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Insurance was another issue for Karline. She was very prideful in not asking for help, although she expressed relief and excitement to finally have health insurance after marrying Tom. He had a good job, and she could finally get to a specialist to find out what was happening.
The last day I saw her, we talked about who she would make her General Practitioner. I recommended mine, and we were going to see if he was in-network with her plan. She was so excited to get a complete examination.
She never got that chance.
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On her second death day, I hope to make loud and clear what I wish more than anything I had said to her. How I wish I had believed this at the time and screamed it at her:
Fuck insurance.
Fuck the bureaucratic medical system.
Fuck sucking it up.
If you think that there may be something wrong with you,
make the damn appointment TODAY.
After Karline died, I told every doctor I met through my pregnancy every detail of her story. They would look at me with sorrow and ascertain why she hadn’t followed up for a steady solution.
“Why didn’t she apply for financial assistance?”
“Why didn’t she seek help through the insurance marketplace?”
“Did she tell the hospital staff everything she told you?”
Why was she expected to solve twenty goddamn riddles just to be taken seriously?
Why was none of this information revealed when she initially sought treatment in the ER?
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In honor of her, I promised to apply the same principles to my life.
Always seek financial options, double-check insurance claims, follow through fine details with a comb, and go to the doctor upon any strange suspicions. That was my honor to her.
If I had not applied for financial assistance with Lennox’s birth, my daughter’s emergency C-Section would have cost upwards of $50,000. With insurance.
If I had not responded to every bill with all my information, I would’ve had to pay $20,000 just for fine details.
And lastly, if I had not run to the doctor upon finding the growing lump on my breast, I would be dead within the year. My cancer, the second most aggressive breast cancer, doubled in size within one month of detection. From its physical detection in July to diagnosis in August, I was already Stage 3 with metastasis to the lymph nodes.
If I had waited even a month, I would be looking at Stage 4 Breast Cancer.
When the radiation department wanted me to wait upwards of a week for a biopsy, I told them I wasn’t leaving the building without an appointment. They got me in touch with my surgeon, who made my appointment two days later. If not for persistence, that month would’ve meant the difference between curable and treatable.
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So please, in honor of Karline.
In honor of this disgusting country that puts a high price tag on every diagnosis.
In honor of the people you love dearly and the longevity that isn’t promised, get your checkups.
Don’t be prideful when negotiating with money and health.
You know yourself best, so trust those intuitions.
And advocate for yourself as you would the person you love the most in your life. Let no threat of monetary constraints or legal jargon hold sway over a gut feeling.
My lord and savior Karline held my hand from across the veil while Lennox and I almost died in childbirth. She holds my hand now as I fight this gelatin beast in my chest.
If it doesn’t feel right, don’t fucking wait. RUN. Go to the ER if that feels right.
If a doctor brushes you off, make them write it out in your chart that no follow-up is needed. Tell them you need medical proof that further intervention was rejected, and they will think twice about not taking your issue more seriously.
Of course, all of this information I wish with every fiber of my being that I knew two years ago. Hell, two and a half years ago would’ve been great.
Don’t wait on yourself; you never know when it’s too late.
We love you too much.
Miss you every damn day, girl.
Kathlyn Ramsey Moore 