The Cost of Survival: A Diabetic’s Fight Against America’s Healthcare System

My Story

I ran out of the pharmacy clutching the insulin I couldn’t afford. My heart pounded as I pushed through the glass doors, my hands shaking around the bag holding the vials that would keep me alive for another month.
The pharmacist hadn’t called security or yelled after me. He had just stood there, silent, watching me flee. I wondered if he knew what I was thinking at that moment—that my life had come down to this. That without the insulin, I was staring down a death sentence. And that if I didn’t find a way to make it work next month, I’d be back in the same spot, weighing my survival against the law.
A week later, guilt gnawed at me enough that I went back to the pharmacy with all the money I could scrape together. The pharmacist looked at me, his face lined with empathy. “We’ve already written it off,” he said, pushing my hand away when I tried to pay him. Then he told me something I’d never forget: “You’re going to need that money. The system wasn’t made for you.”
He was right. It wasn’t.

A Diagnosis and a Mother’s Tears
I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes when I was 10 years old. I had already figured it out myself before the doctor confirmed it—constant thirst and frequent urination, so bad that I wet the bed at camp. I even peed my pants during campfires because we weren’t allowed to leave. When I told my mom I thought I was diabetic, she brushed me off, thinking I just wanted attention.
When our family pediatrician confirmed it, I saw it as an “I told you so” moment. For my mom, it was devastation. She cried, and at the time, I didn’t understand why. Diabetes was already part of our lives—my younger sister had been diagnosed years earlier. I figured it would just mean more of the same.
But my mom understood something I didn’t. She wasn’t crying for the present; she was crying for the future. She knew the obstacles I’d face, the battles I’d fight, and the weight of a life where survival wasn’t guaranteed—even with the right tools. The first doctor I saw after my diagnosis told me diabetes would take 20 years off my life. It wasn’t the last time I’d hear it. For a while, I lived fearlessly, as if life itself had an expiration date. Now, at 43, I’ve outlived that prediction, and I find myself rethinking everything.

The Broken System and the Rise of Insulin Costs
In the years since that moment, insulin prices in the United States have skyrocketed. Between 1999 and today, the cost of a vial of insulin has risen by over 1,200%. Americans pay anywhere from $300 to $700 per vial for something that costs just $6 to produce.
Compare that to other countries:
In Mexico, a vial of insulin costs $25.
In Canada, it’s about $30 to $40.
In most European countries, patients pay little to nothing out of pocket.
These price disparities aren’t just numbers—they’re life or death for people like me. According to a Yale study published in 2022, one in four Americans with diabetes reported rationing their insulin due to cost, a practice that can lead to severe complications or death. This isn’t a rare occurrence—it’s a systemic failure.
Pharmaceutical companies and insurers lobby heavily to keep prices high, spending over $375 million in 2022 alone to influence policy. UnitedHealthcare, for example, reported $8 billion in profits last quarter alone—profits that come not from better care, but from higher costs and obstructed access. Every dollar spent denying claims is a dollar not spent saving lives.

Navigating the Broken System
For years, I lived on the edge, hustling to find insulin wherever I could. The system wasn’t designed to help people like me; it was designed to push us to the brink. But we have to remember, most of us are trying to do more than just survive. We have goals, dreams, ambitions, and purpose. The system shouldn’t stand in the way of those things—it should support them.
Some of my friends would give me leftover insulin from family members who had passed away. Others shared vials nearing expiration. One of the most vivid moments came on a sweltering Kansas afternoon at an estate sale.
I wasn’t looking for insulin that day—just tagging along with a friend to browse. But as we wandered through the home, a strange impulse led me to open the refrigerator. Inside, I found something that made my breath catch: rows of insulin vials, neatly lined up on a shelf.
I closed the fridge and turned to the woman running the sale. I asked her, “If I buy the fridge, can I keep everything inside?”
She opened the door, saw what I’d seen, and without hesitation said, “Take it. You can have it.”
I tried to hand her money, but she refused. “It’s what he would’ve wanted,” she said, her voice trembling.
That stranger, through his careful preparation, and his daughter, through her generosity, became part of my survival story. Moments of humanity like this are a reminder of what’s possible—but they shouldn’t be necessary in a functioning system. When the Affordable Care Act passed, it seemed like a chance for systemic change. But as I soon discovered, even well-intentioned reforms often fall short.
I could get insurance despite my pre-existing condition. I’ll never forget the moment I enrolled. It felt like a lifeline—finally, a chance to get consistent care. I even helped others sign up, excited to share the opportunity.
But once the dust settled, reality hit. The insurance came with a steep price—premiums, co-pays, and deductibles that still felt out of reach. Worse, the coverage was restrictive. Moving to a different state meant starting over, navigating plans that didn’t cover the insulin I was used to or hospitals near me. Each time I thought I’d found a solution, I was met with new hurdles.
Even with insurance, I often paid as much—or more—out of pocket than I had as a cash-paying patient. One plan forced me to switch to a different brand of insulin to meet their negotiated pricing, despite my doctor’s preference. Every step forward felt like two steps back.
Eventually, I started sourcing my insulin in Mexico, where I could get the same vial for $25 that would cost $350 out of pocket in the U.S. Without insurance, the price was astronomical—completely out of reach for someone trying to scrape by. With a $75 co-pay per vial, plus the cost of supplies, medications, and doctor visits, the expenses were unsustainable month after month.
The irony wasn’t lost on me: I had insurance, but was still forced to find alternatives just to survive. This isn’t unique to diabetes. Across countless conditions—from cancer treatments to routine care—millions of Americans face similar barriers. It’s a system that prioritizes financial incentives over patient needs, leaving survival dependent on what you can afford rather than what you need.

Public Sentiment and the UHC CEO’s Death
When the UnitedHealthcare CEO, Brian Thompson, was assassinated, the public reaction was strikingly divided. Online, there was little sympathy. Many saw him as a symbol of everything wrong with the system—a man whose leadership profited from denying care, delaying procedures, and defending against claims.
During the first police briefing, a reporter asked if Thompson had any known enemies. My immediate thought was, “Everyone who’s been insured could be a suspect.” His leadership represented a system that had become synonymous with frustration and despair for countless Americans. Adding to the controversy, reports emerged that executives at UnitedHealthcare sold significant shares just before news of a DOJ probe went public. This raised questions about the company’s transparency and how these events intersect with the systemic issues so many Americans face.
As investigators revealed more details about the attack, the story grew darker. The bullets used in the shooting were inscribed with three chilling words: “deny,” “defend,” and “depose.” These terms echo the tactics for which the insurance industry has long been criticized—denying claims, defending lawsuits, and deposing claimants to reduce payouts.
This act of violence isn’t just a tragedy—it’s a stark warning of the growing despair within our healthcare system. While the act was shocking, the desperation behind it felt familiar. It made me confront an uncomfortable question: How far would I go for my own survival? I’ve already faced moments where I broke my own moral code just to stay alive. What are we capable of when we feel our back is pressed against the wall? When profit takes priority over patient care, desperation becomes inevitable. The ripple effects seen in the days since, such as Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield’s decision to reverse their controversial anesthesia policy, highlight the fragility of these systems. Policies like theirs often prioritize cost-cutting over patient care, reflecting an industry-wide challenge rather than the actions of one company alone.
If anything, this moment underscores the urgency of systemic reform—not as a reaction to violence, but as a proactive measure to address the desperation that leads to it. Change can’t be a response to outrage. It must be driven by a collective commitment to a healthcare system where financial metrics take precedence over human lives.
The timing of Anthem’s reversal raises a troubling question: was the insurance industry rattled by the assassination? It’s impossible to ignore the connection. For years, these companies have operated with impunity, pushing policies designed to maximize profits at the expense of patient care. They’ve relied on the public’s limited capacity for outrage, knowing that people often feel too overwhelmed to fight back.
But the assassination of a healthcare executive has shifted the narrative. It’s a wake-up call for an industry that has stretched people’s tolerance to its breaking point. If a single act of desperation can make companies rethink their policies, what does that say about the power dynamics at play?
This isn’t just about one man’s death. It’s about a system so broken that it drives people to the edge. This tragedy underscores a larger question: how much frustration and despair can a society bear before breaking? It’s not about one company or executive; it’s about a system that continuously asks people to accept unacceptable trade-offs between health and solvency.

The Fight for Universal Healthcare
Universal healthcare isn’t just a moral imperative—it’s an economic and social necessity. The Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield reversal is a perfect example of why. Their attempt to limit anesthesia coverage was a calculated move to cut costs, one that would have put patients’ safety at risk to save a few dollars.
These companies aren’t evil, but their incentives are. As long as healthcare remains a profit-driven industry, patients will always be the ones who suffer. The assassination of UnitedHealthcare’s CEO is a tragic reminder of the desperation people feel when they’re denied care, delayed treatments, or pushed to the brink financially.
Critics of universal healthcare often argue it’s too expensive, but the reality is that the U.S. already spends more per capita on healthcare than any other developed nation. While taxes might increase under a universal system, the overall financial burden for most families would decrease.
Imagine a world where you no longer pay $500, $1,000, or more per month in insurance premiums. Where co-pays and deductibles are no longer part of every doctor’s visit, hospital stay, or prescription refill. For those managing chronic conditions like diabetes, this isn’t theoretical—it’s life-changing. My own medical expenses, even with insurance, often exceeded $1,000 a month between insulin, supplies, and appointments. In a universal system, those costs could be replaced by a predictable tax increase that pales in comparison.

With a median annual income of $48,000, many Americans face healthcare costs that consume over a quarter of their earnings—a staggering burden when managing chronic conditions like diabetes.
Transitioning to a universal healthcare system could alleviate this burden. While it might involve higher taxes, the overall financial impact could be less than current out-of-pocket healthcare expenses. Eliminating insurance premiums, co-pays, and deductibles could lead to substantial savings for many individuals. For instance, if an individual currently spends over $12,000 annually on healthcare and a universal system requires an additional $5,000 in taxes, the net savings would be $7,000 per year.
Countries with universal healthcare, like Canada and the U.K., show that it’s possible to provide affordable care without financial ruin. In Canada, insulin costs are a fraction of U.S. prices, and universal systems eliminate co-pays and deductibles entirely.
When we subtract the costs of monthly premiums, co-pays, and out-of-pocket expenses from the projected tax increases, the savings for most families would be significant. For many, it’s not just breaking even—it’s a clear financial win. And beyond the financial benefits, universal healthcare reduces the burden of navigating an overly complex system, letting people focus on living their lives instead of fighting to survive.
We can’t keep relying on outrage to force change. The time for systemic reform is now. Write to your representatives. Support legislation advocating for healthcare reform. Join organizations fighting for universal healthcare. Every story and voice matters in building a system where care is a right, not a privilege.