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I remember standing outside an exam room, phone vibrating in my breast pocket, when the coroner’s call came through. I hadn’t wanted to believe the neighbor’s frantic text about a body bag removed from my husband’s condo, but the medical examiner’s office on my caller ID was unmistakable. I answered, and sounds fell out of my mouth into the phone: “Hello, this is Dr. Hardison.”
I am an emergency physician living in the U.S., and we had one of the top commercial health insurance plans. When my husband, Randy, became suicidal for the first time in his life, I thought I could find him the best care, our insurance would pay for it, and he would get better. Only one of those three things actually happened.
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