This is a bit embarrassing to admit, but a month ago I was mugged walking home from the Buffalo Wild Wings on Jones Street. My assailant beat me and knocked me unconscious. When I came to the next day, I was in a back alley on the opposite side of town feeling queasy and with a huge scar running across my stomach like a belt.
As if that wasn’t inconvenient enough, I found out after a 3.5-hour call with my insurance provider that this operation isn’t covered under my current healthcare plan—as the nearest in-network black market organ trafficker is over 200 miles away.
I need to raise $80,000 to pay for the procedure, $50,000 for emotional distress, and another $20,000 to keep me afloat since my employer doesn’t offer short-term disability or even paid sick leave. If I can’t pay this, I’ll be out on the street—where even more dumpster doctors might pursue my remaining body parts.
I would feel sorry for myself if I still had a heart, but I know I can always count on my friends and acquaintances to chip in wherever possible. Unfortunately, I can’t actually physically count sufficiently anymore now that I’m missing some of my fingers.