Stephen Yeargin

Samantha called me Friday after we had met up for lunch to let me know a rock had chipped her windshield while driving back to work. No big deal, I thought. We will just get it repaired and move on. So around noon on Saturday, a mobile repairman visited us at the apartment complex to do an on-site repair. He had called to let us know that he was overbooked with stops, so it was going to be a challenge to get us in before noon. No worries, we had all day.

The repairman (we will call him David), took the tools from the back of vehicle and put on the latex to keep the chemicals he was using from coming in contact with his skin. David was fairly methodical about his work, explaining the process at each step as he had likely done dozens of times already that morning. In between steps, he would ask us questions about the apartment complex. “Is it a good place? Do you know what a one bedroom runs?” I did not, but I shared what our rent was and said that we planned to move. I told him about the towing saga of aught nine and how infuriated I still was about it. He then explained why he was asking.

David was involved in a serious car accident earlier this year that had left him bedridden. The glass repair job was a fairly recent development for him now that he was back able to work again. His girlfriend had quit her stable job to take care of him during the day because there was no one else that could look after him, and obviously a paid caretaker was out of the range of affordability. He and his girlfriend were looking to move out of their home and into an apartment, an inevitability now that the hospital bills were coming due. As he scraped off the final piece of sealant film, I could tell that he was embarrassed for having shared that much about himself, but those were just the facts of his situation. Find a smaller place, keep working as much as he could, try to stay above water with the hospital bills. I have a lot of hope and confidence in David, but I also know the harsh realities. He likely was not supposed to be back at work yet, but the bills were not going to pay themselves.

Samantha had some writing to do, so I went down to Centennial Sportsplex for the first Nashville Wave Up, an event organized by Nate Baker. (Edit: Nate points out that Christy, Morgan and Eric all had a hand in it, too.) We were all going ice skating, and our conversations had little to do with the Google service. Really, it was just a reason to hang out with other Nashville-area geeks. Christy and Morgan of Nashvillest fame were there, along with around five others. I was quickly reminded that ice skating is either a) not as easy as rollerblading or b) I was never that good at any kind of skating to begin with. I made three laps around the rink mostly holding on to the wall and returned my skates. I would like to go again, but I want to make sure that my skates are fitted properly and can be spared the embarrassment of falling down in front of people I know — complete strangers can point and laugh all they want.

Speaking of skating and Nashvillest, I grabbed a Nashville Predators ticket to that evening’s game for $10 after a tip from their Twitter feed. It was a great game that ended in a 4-3 shootout victory for the Preds over the division rival Columbus Blue Jackets. I sat in front of two guys that were talking about the events of the day, where a 60-39 vote in the United States Senate had paved the way for what promises to be a contentious debate about the future of the American health care system.

“I don’t want to pay any more in taxes, and I don’t want my taxes going to fund a big government health care plan,” said the first man. “I just don’t understand why we are even talking about raising my taxes.” Neither men went much deeper than that statement, so I could tell that they were versed on the talking points but not on the details. The second man might have a slightly deeper notion, only because he said that his business (oddly enough, in a health-related field) would not be incentivized to innovate if the government were involved. He then said that countries with nationalized health care were proof — he says countries like the United Kingdom and other European locales were behind the curve on medical innovation.

I began to wish that David from that morning was sitting next to me. Talking points aside, the men were more afraid of general uncertainty than they were of any one bill moving through the Senate. So is David. The difference is that David probably has trouble sleeping at night because of the lingering pain from the car accident and from the worry of how he is going to provide for himself and his girlfriend when the medical bills eventually force him from his home. It would seem to me that one of these fears is more justified than the other. The Senate bill is not perfect. Neither is the version that passed the House. Neither are the ideas put forward by the Obama administration or various think tanks across the country. But if we put our current codified system up for a vote, I can promise that not a single elected official would support it or else face an angry constituency that would make a Tea Party protest look like a band booster bake sale.

What is missing from the debate are the stories of men and women who live in fear of real dangers and threats, not whether their taxes will increase. I have never met anyone who was taxed into starvation, but I have met people who lost their homes because of medical bills. I have met people who did not receive the quality of care that we would want for any of our loved ones because they were unable to afford it. They lived with the pain because there was no other alternative for them. So while 100 people in Washington threaten filibusters and attach amendments aimed at gutting the bill or scoring political points, I hope they at least give a moment’s thought to David and the millions more like him. I hope they give even a passing glance at those who know the word “taxes” mean little when they are spending more than their annual household income in order to pay their medical bills, and diving deeper into debt to make sure the prescriptions can be filled.

At least the hockey team won, and my work performance is not based on my skating abilities.