Thursday, August 21, 2025
This is it! The day I finally got discharged after 10 nights in the hospital. After surviving ESWL for kidney stones + laparoscopy for appendix + mini laparotomy for myom and uterus removal.
In the morning, Dr. Eko came by with the golden ticket: “You can go home today.” And previously, Dr. Ong team also said the same. Finally! I’d been waiting for that sentence like a kid waiting for recess.
Of course, it’s never as simple as “the doctor said I can go home.” Nope. There’s a whole backstage performance involving the nurses, admin, pharmacy, and let’s not forget the insurance company. Meanwhile, my husband was busy running back and forth between the hospital room and the car, carrying bags, while I reminded him, “Don’t forget to buy bread for the nurses and staff.”
Doctor on duty replaced the dressing on my laparoscopy wounds, but left the laparotomy one alone. Too wet, too risky. I didn’t even argue, I’m just glad someone else was brave enough to deal with my surgical scars.
And then came the waiting game. Discharge papers don’t magically appear; they crawl through layers of approvals, especially when insurance is involved. Which is why I calmly declared, “I’ll go home after dinner.” Conveniently, that night’s menu was the much-anticipated gulai ikan kakap. Rhein, my friend, said it was the best hospital dish. He was right. I almost forgot I was in a hospital. Usually hospital food swings between bland and salt-lake levels. This was just right.
That’s a whole subsidized house. Or a brand-new car. I half-laughed, half-choked.
A minute later, Mas Yusuf called and said, “Let me handle the paperwork, Bu. You just focus on going home.” Bless him! And 15 minutes later, I was already being wheeled to the lobby. My husband drove carefully, and at 19:40 we arrived at our apartment, where my mom was waiting with a wheelchair for me in the lobby. A minute later, I'm already in the comfort of my bedroom, minus the tuberose smell because it had been dried while I was away. Need to order the new ones soon!
By 8 p.m., my Generali Insurance agent Claudia messaged me, informing that all bill has been approved. Everything covered. I only need to pay IDR 60k for non-medical items.
Hallelujah! Thank you Bethsaida, thank you Generali. Thank you Mas Yusuf, thank you Claudia.
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| Imagine if I didn’t have health insurance. That 270 million bill would’ve crushed me like a piano falling from the sky. And without a hospital that truly serves with heart, I wouldn’t just be broke; I’d be broken. |
But plot twist: the story didn’t end with me living happily ever after at home. Nope. Because here’s what I realized that night: in the hospital, I’d been surviving thanks to Ketesse, a painkiller infusion that dulled everything. At home? Zero painkillers. My meds list looked like this:
- Memucil 600 mg (Acetylcysteine): a mucolytic that thins mucus/phlegm so it can be coughed out more easily.
- S-Omevel (Omeprazole): reduces excess stomach acid in conditions like gastritis or GERD.
- Prostam (Tamsulosin/Alfuzosin): to relax urinary tract and facilitates passage of stone fragments.
- Lasix (Furosemide): a diuretic to reduce excess fluid in cases such as heart failure, kidney disease, or high blood pressure.
- Codipront (Codeine + Promethazine): cough suppressant for dry cough, with mild sedative effects.
Notice anything missing? Yup. No anti-pain meds. That night I suffered. I paced, I whimpered, I woke my poor husband several times just to help me to the bathroom. He tried giving me paracetamol, like bringing a butter knife to a sword fight. Useless. Tomorrow I'm going to ask my doctors whether I can take Mefinal or Cataflam. Yes, the doctors who handled me generously gave me their personal whatsapp numbers 👍
That night, I prayed. Not just for relief from pain, but for provision. Because really, this whole experience screamed one loud truth: health is expensive. Without insurance, my healing would’ve come at the price of financial ruin. Maybe I’d still be in pain, delaying treatment because of fear of the cost. That’s the brutal truth: without insurance, illness isn’t just about healing the body, it breaks your finances, your peace of mind, and sometimes even your hope.
And here’s the real punch: if my only safety net had been BPJS or company insurance, I’d have been in trouble. Because companies can cut benefits when times are tough. And BPJS, while incredibly valuable, comes with trade-offs: shared rooms, long waits, and paperwork that tests my patience more than any lab result. When you’re in pain, every extra minute feels like torture.
This is why personal health insurance matters. It’s not about being pessimistic. It’s about being realistic. Illness and accidents don’t RSVP before they show up at your door. You can be careful, eat clean, exercise daily, and still end up in an ER because life enjoys its plot twists.
As Maya Angelou said, “Hoping for the best, prepared for the worst, and unsurprised by anything in between.”
I can’t control when my body suddenly decides to stage a drama, but I can prepare myself. That means setting aside not just for food, shelter, and clothing, but also for health insurance. It’s not glamorous, but it’s the safety net that lets me face life’s surprises with a little less fear and a little more peace.
Because here’s the thing: bills don’t care about your intentions. Hospitals don’t send you home with a “pay when you can” note. They want cash, or at least an insurance company that says, “Don’t worry, we’ve got this.” Insurance doesn’t just save money, it saves mental energy. It gives you space to focus on healing instead of calculating which assets you might have to sell.
That night, between the waves of pain, I whispered gratitude. For being alive. For having a family who takes care of me. For the grace to have insurance that covered what could’ve been a financial disaster.
Don’t wait until life forces you to learn the hard way. Take care of your health, and prepare for the what-ifs. Even if you already have BPJS or company coverage, if you can, get a personal plan.
Think of insurance as giving your future self a gift. It's not a luxury, it's an act of love. Towards your future self, and towards the people who love you. Because healing is already hard. Don’t let the weight of money make it harder.
Stay well, stay covered, and stay grateful.
Love,
Nuniek Tirta