56 days . . . 55 days . . . 54 days . . .
Caudle began signing her text messages this summer with a countdown. At
14 years old, she knew no better way to express what was coming. Day
Zero was to be Oct. 7, the day Dad left for Army basic training in Fort
Jackson, S.C. He was moving 950 miles from their home in Watertown, 950
miles from Mom.
was leaving, even though Mom was sick with ovarian cancer. Even though
he had been at her side through two long, miserable rounds of
chemotherapy. Even though she now faced the likelihood of a third.
In fact, Dad was leavingbecauseMom was sick.
March, he was laid off from his job as a raw materials coordinator for
a plastics company called PolyOne, where he’d worked for 20 years. His
severance package had provided several months’ salary, but by August
the paychecks were winding down. Soon the cost of his family health
coverage was going to triple, then a few months after that, nearly
triple again. They needed coverage so Mom could fight her cancer.
Dad’s solution: a four-year hitch in the Army.
Possibly the Blue Dogs can explain to me how their grand fiscal responsibility health care plan would have prevented THIS. Better still, perhaps they can explain it to the Caudles.
There really are days I think we’re a country of total assholes.