J. Gonzalez - The Corporation

Donald buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry if I snapped. It’s just… I can’t believe this is happening!”

“Do you know where Michael lives?”

Donald turned to Jay, who looked concerned. “Why?”

Jay’s dark eyes reflected more than a concern for Michael Brennan’s financial ruin. “I think… I can’t really describe it, but… I just have this feeling he might be in danger.”

And when Jay revealed this to him Donald felt a shiver pass through him. First Red Rose’s repeated denials to cover treatment for a potentially life-threatening disease, then their hardball tactics to have Michael’s providers dismissed from their respective medical groups due to their willingness to save his life… and Red Rose’s continued refusal to cover treatment in similar cases the past six months while green-lighting other cases. It didn’t make sense. Donald remembered a case a month ago when Red Rose green-lighted plastic surgery for the patient of a colleague, which was definitely not medically necessary. The patient in question simply didn’t like the way her nose looked. Red Rose paid seven thousand dollars, the total fee, for a relatively minor procedure that shaved tissue off the tip of her nose. Last he heard, the Plastic Surgeon in question was planning further surgeries for the woman—liposuction to remove fatty deposits along the face, belly and thighs, some nips and tucks to smooth the brow. He’d never heard of any HMO approving Plastic Surgery for vanity’s sake. It had been the hot topic of conversation at work when Donald mentioned it in passing to one of the other doctors on staff, Jon Sneller.

Yet other procedures… denying coverage for the sixteen-year-old girl with a clear case of appendicitis and having the appendix burst—the medical group was still fighting with Red Rose for the emergency surgery necessary to save the girl’s life; the forty-four year old woman with pneumonia who was admitted to Lancaster General and was now on life-support after Red Rose initially denied the antibiotics that were recommended in the early stage of the illness that would have staved off the condition; the traffic accident victim who almost lost his leg when a drunk driver crossed the center divider and smashed head on into his car—Red Rose’s claim was that the surgery performed on the patient’s leg in order to save it was denied due to a pre-existing condition, one that existed in the driver that caused the crash. The driver in question was an alcoholic, a medical condition that had been documented in his history before. Never mind that the victim wasn’t an alcoholic and was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, it didn’t matter to the Red Rose governing board.

Their verdict, when rendered, had caused a ripple of concern among Crossroads and Lancaster General, who had performed three procedures to save the victim’s leg, procedures which had so far amounted to seventy-five thousand dollars in medical expenses. Had they simply amputated the leg, Donald had no doubt Red Rose would have paid for that procedure and the follow-up care since they would have wracked up around twenty-five grand in fees all totaled. But now? With three surgeries already under their belt and with more to follow? The fees would be astronomical. The patient in question was fully covered through his employer, and most HMOs would have been bound to cover the cost of the treatment minus deductibles and co-pays. What Red Rose was doing was not only unprecedented in Health Care but unethical and, in Donald’s opinion, highly illegal.

This all flashed in Donald’s mind quickly as he considered Jay’s concerns. He felt afraid too, and he didn’t know why. Everything was spinning out of control; he didn’t know what to think about the situation. “I know Michael lives somewhere in the Denver area. I don’t remember his address or anything.”

“We need to find him,” Jay said. “I don’t know why, but we have to. I just have this feeling.”

Donald nodded and put the car into reverse and backed up. “So do I,” he said, and they pulled out of the Chevron station and headed out.

VICODIN WAS THE best drug in the world next to morphine. Michael Brennan was sure of this as he lay in the bed he shared with his girlfriend Jenny. It not only completely erased the pain in his lower groin, it produced the same numbness he felt the few seconds before he went under completely yesterday during surgery. He had been lying on the operating table surrounded by doctors and nurses at Lancaster Hospital, feeling very calm and confident that he was going to be well taken care of. There was an IV inserted in the vein of his left hand and the anesthesiologist was at his side, telling him he was going to start administering a drug that would put him to sleep very shortly. “You’re going to feel very calm, very relaxed, and then you won’t feel anything,” the Anesthesiologist said through his surgical mask. Sure enough, Michael felt very relaxed and calm, and then for approximately five seconds he experienced the best high he ever had in his life. It was wonderful, like floating on a cloud and having your body feel… well, so relaxed, so calm, so good . His friend Bobby told him the night before that Anesthesiologists used something morphine-based to put you under. Now Michael knew why people did heroin, which was derived from opiates, same as morphine. He didn’t know if Vicodin was an opiate but it sure felt like it. It wasn’t as strong as the morphine high he’d felt for five seconds before he dropped off like a rock and woke up suddenly in the recovery room, coming awake in a rush, crying in relief that it was over finally, but it was pretty damn close. Vicodin was great. It was so great he was thinking about replacing it with salt and pepper in his meals, maybe replacing it with sugar and cream in his coffee.

Aside from a brief bout of nausea when he came home from the hospital last night, he felt fine. He’d slept like a log all night, Jenny being careful not to bump into him as she slept on her side of the bed, her back to him. She’d gotten up this morning to go to work—she worked as a cashier at Wal-Mart in Ephrata—and his mother was supposed to come over later this afternoon to help out around the house. Jenny had made him a ham and cheese sandwich and placed it, along with a banana and a pear, in his lunch box and placed it by the bed. He had a bottle of water with him, which he drank from constantly. He could hobble out of bed to the bathroom easy enough, although he had to take it slow. He was still rather stiff. He’d inspected himself briefly this morning; the doctors had dressed the wound with gauze and bandages and then bundled his private parts in a jock-strap and a cloth-like diaper. They wanted him to keep the jock strap and diaper on as much as possible for the next five days, then Dr. Schellenger would take a look at him Wednesday during his follow-up appointment. Michael was relieved the first time he felt his dick at the hospital when he took his first piss. He hadn’t dared touch his scrotum yet to see what it felt like after the surgery, but at least his dick was still there. Dr. Beck told him the day before that he would be able to function just fine sexually, but of course there could be side effects to the surgery. Michael didn’t care; he just wanted the cancer out of his body. Still, in a few days when he felt better, he wanted to make sure everything worked, see if he could get an erection (and if he was able to pop a woody he was going to jack off to see if the pump still worked). But he was going to take these things one step at a time.

He was lying in bed now, watching TV, his mind wandering, when there was a knock on the front door. His mother. “Hey ma!” He called out. “Key’s under the doormat! Come on in!”