A User Manual for Surviving the ER Without Dignity or Insurance
Welcome to the American healthcare system! Whether you’ve arrived via ambulance, rideshare, or crawling on your last good limb, this guide will prepare you for your stay in the trauma-scented purgatory known as the Emergency Room. Don’t worry—we’ve streamlined the experience to maximize humiliation and minimize care.
Step 1: Arrival — Your Copay Is Due Before Your Pulse Is Checked
Upon entering the ER, please proceed directly to the bulletproof-glass check-in kiosk. Our triage nurse (a real one, maybe) will greet you with a forced smile and ask, “Do you have insurance?” This is not so we can treat you better, but so we know how to bill you later—preferably in Latin and 14-point font.
Uninsured? That’s adorable. You’ll be given the deluxe Slow Bleed™ wristband, granting you access to:
- A folding chair near the broken vending machine
- A 6–12 hour wait minimum
- A nurse practitioner named Debra who once took a CPR class in 2008
Step 2: Triage — Where Subjective Pain Meets Objective Indifference
We use a cutting-edge Color Wheel of Suffering™ to determine who gets a room. Screaming in pain? That’s yellow. Bleeding out? Orange. Quietly sobbing? Blue. Chest pain but still making jokes? That’s suspicious—you’re now a psych eval.
Don’t worry if you collapse in the waiting room. That just helps us expedite Step 3: “Discovering You Should’ve Gone to Urgent Care.”
Step 3: The Exam Room (Eventually)
Congrats! You’ve made it into one of our 10’ x 10’ performance spaces, featuring:
- One bed with a mystery stain
- One call light that doesn’t work
- One blood pressure cuff that doubles as a friendship bracelet when ignored long enough
You’ll be seen by a nurse who has 12 patients and a caffeine tremor, and a doctor who just rotated in from the OR and thinks sleep is a myth. If you don’t speak medical Latin, don’t worry—we’ll explain nothing.
At Parkland, I once translated six medications, two procedures, and a Medicaid denial in one breath while a patient was vomiting in their purse. You’ll be fine.
Step 4: Tests, Scans, and the Bill You’ll Die With
You’ll undergo a battery of tests because we might care or because they might be reimbursed. CT? MRI? EKG? Which one will bankrupt you today?
Here’s a sneak peek of your upcoming invoice:
- $1,842.00 – Band-Aid (sterile, emotionally)
- $6,950.00 – IV fluids (tap water and optimism)
- $12,000.00 – Trauma fee (for traumatizing us)
Pro tip: Ask for an itemized bill and watch as the billing department enters Witness Protection.
Step 5: Discharge — We Hope You Don’t Die in the Parking Lot
If you’re lucky, you’ll be discharged with:
- A packet of vague instructions in 6-point font
- A prescription that costs more than your car
- A recommendation to “follow up with your PCP,” which is hilarious because you don’t have one
If you’re unlucky, you’ll be admitted upstairs where the food is worse and the nurses are busier. But hey—more bills, more adventure.
Bonus Feature: “Customer Satisfaction Survey”!
We’ll email you a survey asking:
- “Did we meet your expectations?”
- “Would you recommend this hospital to a friend?”
- “Did you enjoy being gaslit by three residents and a social worker with a God complex?”
Feel free to rate us 5 stars if you lived.
Final Notes from a Former RN:
As someone who spent years trying to bring humanity into a system designed to crush it under policy, budget cuts, and corporate spreadsheets, I can say this: American healthcare is not broken. It’s working exactly as intended—for profit, not people.
So next time you’re headed to the ER, remember: bring ID, insurance, a sense of humor, and maybe a living will. Just in case.