I met a lady today. She’s in her late forties, and lives in a nice, government-subsidized apartment. Much nicer apartment than I could ever afford.
She has oversized, comfy leather furniture that looks new, arranged to face a large flat-screen television on her wall.
She drives a 2015 BMW.
She gets around in her apartment with a very fancy electric wheelchair.
She carries a Prada purse and has an iPhone 6.
She lives with her husband. Except she doesn’t live with her husband. They aren’t married. She proudly admitted that they never got married, because he has a good job, and she would lose her disability benefits if they got married.
We passed at least three very capable hospitals on the way to the one of her preference, because her “doctors are there.” and “they have all my records,” and “it’s close to my friend’s house, and she is going to pick me up after.”
We transported her because her knees hurt.
Of course she handed me a Medicaid card. It was underneath her EBT card.
“Ma’am, you look really healthy. Why are you on disability, and why do you use the electric chair?”
“I have fibromyalgia. Medicaid gave me the wheelchair.”