JANUARY 24, 2023 – Yesterday I experienced sticker shock. I wasn’t reacting to the average U.S. house sale price in 2022 ($507,800) or the price of a 2023 Beamer – 520i ($76,995) or . . . room, board and tuition at Harvey Mudd College, the most expensive private college in America ($77,449). No, I was shocked by the cost of my daily dose of Revlimid, a post-transplant maintenance drug I take for multiple myeloma. At $653,680.19 a year, it nearly equals the combined cost of the house, the car, and the college.
I learned the price of this daily capsule yesterday in the course of reading a letter from my health insurance provider stating that the drug isn’t covered unless and until “exception authorization” is granted. The letter urged me to “call right away.” I couldn’t have called 9-1-1 on speed dial any faster.
After navigating through the menu, I was told to “wait for the next available representative.” Two thoughts crossed my mind: 1. “GoFundMe”; and 2. Don’t put George Santos in charge of it.
Now, I’m confident we won’t have to sell our house so I can afford my once-a-day capsules. In the first place, my wife wouldn’t allow it, and I could hardly blame her: neither one of us could live in a pillbox. Second, the way insurance works in conjunction with a likely grant from a Big Pharma foundation to cover outlandish co-pays, when the music stops, on a net basis, I’ll be out-of-pocket this year for around $6,000, which, the last I checked, is a lot less than $653,680.19.
Back in sixth grade I could’ve had fun with the list price of a year’s worth of Revlimid . . .
. . . There was a kid in my class who liked everyone to think he was richer than Richie Rich. I remember two examples so crass they’re humorous.
The first occurred after our basketball team’s after-school practice. Several of us, including Richie Rich, continued tossing the ball at the basket while we waited for our rides. Two kids decided they’d had enough and waited in the school foyer around the doorway of the gym. In his usual assertive fashion, Richie told the two kids to keep an eye out for Richie’s ride. “It will either be my dad’s gray Cadillac,” he said, “or my mom’s pink Cadillac.” Of course he shouted this so everyone could hear.
The second display of Richie Rich’s obsessive cultivation of his “rich kid” reputation was during recess one day the following spring. As we always did, a bunch of us assembled down at the backstop for a few innings of softball. Richie Rich and half a dozen of his admirers had arrived ahead of me, and he was showing off his new glove, an obviously high-end Rawlings. Sitting down on the sand, leaning against the backstop to wait for everyone to gather, Richie allowed the “golden glove” to be passed around. We could only dream of owning such a fine mitt.
As Richie Rich basked in their “Oohs!” and “Ahhs!” I couldn’t help baiting Richie Rich. “Wow!” I said, when it was my turn to put it on and smack the deep pocket with my right fist. “This is a really nice glove, [Richie].” Then came the hook: “How much did it cost?” I knew Richie would fall for the question. It was a soft pitch at which a full swing was guaranteed.
“Only eighteen dollars,” he said. Eighteen bucks back then (1966) was a lot of money for a sixth grader’s glove, and of course, only a kid as crude and crass as Richie Rich would say “only” ahead of “eighteen.” But having fallen for the soft delivery, he hit a line drive straight back to the pitcher.
“Only?” I said, drawing out the word. “Gee, you got a really good deal on it, didn’t you?”
Richie Rich had no comeback, and in the moment, I found amusement in the possibility that the other kids thought I was richer than Richie Rich.
But my dethronement of Richie Rich would’ve been permanent if I’d popped a Revlimid capsule into my mouth, swallowed hard, and said, “Anyone wanna guess how many Cadillacs I could buy for the cost of a year’s supply of that capsule—at list price?” (Then I’d say, “Just say ‘No’.”)
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
