Healthcare: Denied
Speculative fiction based in stone cold reality.
The year is 2030.
My child is now nearly eleven years old, and she begins having deep bruising after regular playtime. A trip to her pediatrician and some bloodwork reveals the unthinkable: leukemia.
Once we absorb the shock of hearing the news, we ask her doctor what are our options for her treatment. Our pediatrician looks at her desk as she informs us that the hospital regrets that our daughter’s profile does not make her “compatible with care at this facility at this time.” Confused, we ask what that means.
After the hospital’s legal team representative arrives, as well as a hospital administrator to oversee the conversation, we are presented with our daughter’s “Wellness Profile”. It contains her entire medical history, and she’s been a strong, healthy child up until this diagnosis. We’ve brought her on time to every annual check-up, she’s received every recommended vaccine, so we ask why her profile would render her ineligible for treatment.
They flip to the back of the profile sheet. There, to our shock, we see our personal household financial data. Income tax data, like our Adjusted Gross Income. Credit data, like student loans and credit accounts. We are by no means a wealthy household.
“Her health is not necessarily the only factor; your household presents some issues that may impact her long-term treatment success.”
What the fuck does that mean? We keep reading the wellness profile and see that our health information is noted, including our height and weight, and my husband’s smoking and my cholesterol medication prescription listed.
Enraged, we demand to know how this data was acquired on our household and why our daughter was being refused treatment for cancer. The hospital administrator explains that an AI-powered tool has been implemented in all American healthcare systems which makes these determinations.
“OK, so override it. You’re the chief of this hospital!” Looking desperately to our doctor, “You know us, Caroline! You’ve seen her since she was a baby!”
The hospital administrator steps between us. “This is not your doctor’s call. In fact, none of us can override this decision. This software suite will not allow us to book a surgical suite, an OR, a treatment room, or even a bed without approval of the patient’s Wellness Profile. The software has already reserved a bed and treatment room for another patient with a more…” he cut his eyes to the hospital’s attorney watching him intently, “robust Wellness Profile. I am so sorry. We can, however, refer you to an alternative treatment center which may be more aligned with your household profile.”
We sit back, begin to relax. So treatment wasn’t off the table entirely.
“OK, so where is that?”
She hands over a print-out. It instructs us to visit a website and enter this code. We pull it up on my phone and enter the code.
“Oh, okay, it’s in Portsmouth. Not bad.” My husband and I look at one another hopefully. That’s just the next town over, a twenty-minute drive. We use the website to make an appointment for the following week and go home to spend time with our daughter.
That Tuesday, we get off the interstate following the directions on the GPS to the address provided on the website. As we neared a large warehouse-type building, my husband and I looked at one another nervously. This couldn’t be the right address… now we were going to be late for the appointment trying to find the actual treatment center. But as we were turning the car to leave, we see a small sign indicating that this is the Eastern District #078.34 Healthcare Treatment Facility, the name on the website.
We pull into the parking lot, taking a ticket to pay later. We try to find a front entrance but only see two solid double-doors on the front of the building. There are no windows, truly no signs of life other than some employees in scrubs milling around at the end of the building, smoking and laughing loudly. We pull open the front doors.
While the interior of the building was very clean, it was just an open, large warehouse space cordoned off into sections with curtains and room dividers. A large reception area was anchored by a long, bare counter manned by two receptionists and flanked with a row of steel chairs.
A receptionist motions us over with a wave, calling out, “Referral, please!”
We handed over the printout from the website, and she scanned a barcode on the bottom of the document. Our daughter was tight between us, as if trying to equally hold on to both of us for support. She looked up, taking in the industrial space with exposed venting, rafters, and bright, clinical LED lights.
“You’ll be seen in our Oncology Unit today. She’ll be given a physical examination, a series of bloodwork, and you’ll be presented with the Treatment Package options.”
Treatment Package? Are we scheduling a cruise?
We nod numbly and navigate to the Oncology Unit, following arrow-shaped lights on the floor identical to those that guide you through an Ikea. The Oncology “Unit” was nothing more than a separate curtained-off area, and a nurse gruffly took our daughter by the arm with little by the way of introduction, or comfort, and marched her directly off for her exam and bloodwork. We were stopped at the curtain and shown to a single line of steel chairs to wait.
My husband and I began whispering to each other about the absolute insanity that this was. This is a warehouse. This is not a hospital. This looks like some kind of Army set-up after a natural disaster for emergency first aid, absolutely not any cancer treatment facility. We were angry, and confused. My husband has insurance, our daughter is insured, what could possibly be the mix-up here?
He picked up his phone to get the number to his insurance company when a tired, middle-aged man in a slouchy polo and khakis drew back a curtain behind us, making us jump.
“Good morning, folks. Come on in and let’s discuss your options.”
We scuttled into his curtain cubicle, squeezing together in front of his small desk. A thin, sleek tablet faces us on an inclined pedestal. He begins tapping the screen from his side of the desk as he drones what sounds like some kind of boilerplate privacy disclaimer.
“Your data has been analyzed by the MediBest Wellness Profile tool. Your household has been determined to be a moderate level of risk, in terms of financial capabilities and healthy lifestyle choices.” He tapped the screen, revealing a page full of pie charts and graphs and data points.
“You (looking at my husband) have a Master’s degree in a promising field, steady employment with decent salary, and a comprehensive insurance plan. You (shifting his gaze to me) do not.” Ouch. I know. He droned on, “Taking this into account, as well as the balances on your revolving debt and student loans, the system has ruled that you are a moderate financial risk.”
He tapped the screen again. “Here are both of your family medical histories. There are previous occurrences of cancer diagnoses, some fatal, as well as (he peered over the top of the screen to read the list) diabetes, kidney failure, COPD, high blood pressure, and cardiac failure. This data is calculated along with each of your personal medical data and the health-indicating behaviors such as diet and exercise. I see you have a lack of any kind of gym membership [he paused to adjust his glasses], and this [he indicated with a stylus] is how much you’ve spent in fast food for the past year, according to your financial data.”
My husband and I are speechless, staring at the screen and the arrow indicator squarely in the middle of the yellow portion of the spectrum from red to green. We are staring at volumes of our personal data, data we don’t remember sharing.
I see my husband getting upset, a flush rising up his face as he shifted in his seat to lean forward and used his fingertips to slowly push the tablet away from us.
“Just cut to the chase, man. What are you saying?”
“Well, the good news is that because of your robust insurance coverage through your employer, you do have some options available to you.” He tapped the screen again, sliding it ever so slightly back towards us.
RECOMMENDED TREATMENT PLAN A: OUTPATIENT CHEMO AND PRESCRIPTION REGIMEN [WITH APPLICABLE DOWN PAYMENT OF $40,000]
RECOMMENDED TREATMENT PLAN B: OUTPATIENT CHEMO OR PRESCRIPTION REGIMEN [WITH APPLICABLE DOWN PAYMENT OF $10,000]
RECOMMENDED TREATMENT PLAN C: HOLISTIC TREATMENT REGIMEN [WITH APPLICABLE DOWN PAYMENT OF $1,000]
RECOMMENDED TREATMENT PLAN D: END OF LIFE COMFORT PACKAGE [NO DOWN PAYMENT REQUIRED]
“NO. No. No. We need to speak with your supervisor. This is… this isn’t correct. Doesn’t my insurance cover… I mean, what does my insurance cover? We don’t have forty grand in cash, man. Can you just bill us? We can make monthly payments…”
The man began shaking his head slowly.
“I encourage you to discuss your options with one another. We will receive your daughter’s labs shortly and will have more detailed options available for you. Depending on her white blood cell count…. [he clears his throat and lowers his eyes to his desk]… some of these figures may adjust. Usually with a higher deposit amount. So you’ll want to assess your resources and confirm a treatment plan as quickly as possible.”
He tapped the screen again.
DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE OPTIONS AVAILABLE TO YOU?
YES
NO
We stare at the buttons on the screen.
“You must select yes or no, and ‘no’ will just take you back to the previous screen. Once you have confirmed that you understand your options, you have a period of ten business days to make your determination.”
We stared at him. He stared at us, and after a long pause, said in a low tone, “Bloodwork is coming back really fast nowadays. Please make a decision, and soon.” He pushed back from his desk and stood.
“I’ll leave you to two to discuss.”
As he slid the curtain crisply across his “office” space and walked away, we sat in silence and listened to the tapping of his retreating footsteps.
Finally my husband spoke. “I’ll call the office and have them arrange a withdrawal of my 401K. All of it. That, plus the savings, will mostly get us there.”
We looked at one another. We had saved, pennies sometimes. I had taken rolled coins into the bank routinely before the bank stopped accepting them. We didn’t have an option. My husband made the call, speaking in hushed tones to his office administrator, who began the withdrawal request. I logged on to the bank account for the savings account and initiated a transfer. We smiled weakly at one another.
We barely had her treatment covered. She could get chemo and prescription and maybe we could save her.
The employee returned and we informed him that we had made our decision and we had initiated the funds transfer to get the deposit there, but it would take 3-4 days for everything to process.
His eyes brightened a bit and he smiled what appeared to be a genuine smile, warm and comforting. “That’s great!” He tapped the screen again and the two large boxes reappeared. We tapped Yes, and proceeded to the next screen, where we tapped Treatment Option A. The subsequent screen informed us we had five business days to fund this deposit or the treatment plan would be cancelled. We tapped OK. Another screen appeared.
SHOULD THE PATIENT’S BIOMETRIC DATA FROM TODAY’S EXAMINATION AND SCREENING REVEAL A SEPARATE DIAGNOSIS, OR A MORE ADVANCED DIAGNOSIS, YOUR TREATMENT PLAN OPTIONS WILL IMMEDIATELY AND IRREVOCABLY BE UPDATED TO REFLECT APPROPRIATE TREATMENT OPTIONS AND ASSOCIATED COSTS THEREIN.
Just then, our daughter remerges with a band-aid in the crook of her arm, her face grey. We both hug her, and we head home to await our deposits and the beginning of her treatment.
Three days later, I receive a phone call from an unidentified number. When I answer, I am informed by an automated voice that our daughter’s treatment plan has been updated due to the results of recent testing and directed us to return to the treatment center to review our updated options.
On the way to the center, we receive a text notification that the 401K deposit has cleared our bank and is available, along with the savings account funds that appeared at midnight. We smile, even turn the music up in the car and sing along, sure that we have adequate funds to protect our daughter and get her cured. She smiles in the backseat, her hair whipping in the wind from the open window. The sun shines.
We are escorted back to the same area and cram into the same curtain cubicle. I have my phone in my hand to show the available funds and determine how we can pay the deposit. We chatter lightly until the employee arrives.
He smiles nervously and slides into his seat.
“We have received your daughter’s test results and… I’m afraid there were some concerning counts.” He leans forward and taps the screen on the tablet.
“Here are your updated treatment plan options.”
RECOMMENDED TREATMENT PLAN A: OUTPATIENT CHEMO AND PRESCRIPTION REGIMEN [WITH APPLICABLE DOWN PAYMENT OF $60,000]
RECOMMENDED TREATMENT PLAN B: END OF LIFE COMFORT PACKAGE [NO DOWN PAYMENT REQUIRED]
My husband I read the screen, looked at one another, and then read it again.
“Where did the other options go?! Mother FUCKER!” my husband lunged at the desk, swiping the tablet to the floor. I drop my phone as I reach for the tablet, my banking app still open displaying: AVAILABLE BALANCE: $43,578.54.
It wasn’t enough.
I moved in a haze as I pulled my husband back from pummeling the man at the desk and reached for my daughter with my other arm, pulling her close to just feel her, smell her hair, and try to process what was happening.
Lifesaving healthcare, denied, by a soulless AI bot who has never drawn breath and was never programmed to value those of us who do.
A healthcare system totally devoid of human empathy.
Dollars and cents prioritized over real human lives.
Eight months later, we kiss our daughter goodnight for the last time in our hostel room in Istanbul. It had taken thirty thousand dollars to pay for our travel, accommodations, bribes and fees, and her medical care in Turkey, but the arrangements had taken time, time she just didn’t have.
The remaining ten thousand dollars provided her a memorial service flush with pink flowers of all sorts, cremation, a pink urn for her ashes, and just two return flights to the US, where the rest of our family awaited our return.
It turns out, we never were capable of making enough money to keep our child alive and healthy, but we could easily afford her death.
On June 5, 2025, two things simultaneously happened:
James “Jim” O’Neill was confirmed as Deputy Secretary of Health and Human Services.
TeleTracking announces a partnership with Palantir, specifically using Foundry, with this headline: “TeleTracking and Palantir partner for operational decision-making in healthcare”
Here are a related list of facts that paint a larger picture of connection:
Jim O’Neill spent the two decades after he lasted worked in HHS, during the Bush administration, managing investment firms for Peter Thiel, including Mithril Capital.
Mithril Capital employed (and took large investments from) our current sitting Vice President J.D. Vance.
Mithril Capital funded Palantir.
Palantir Foundry has been installed on computers in HHS and made it available to all partnering agencies, as well as throughout other departments of the federal government.
Here is TeleTracking CEO Chris Johnson detailing how this partnership will implement AI that will streamline functions (oh, and also eliminate thousands of jobs for human beings while simultaneously eliminating the “human touch”, the empathy and situational awareness, the conscience-driven decision-making exclusive to actual living, breathing human beings), lower costs (through the immediate cessation of thousands of human jobs, and then through the cruel, emotionless denial of care), and of course, maximize profitability.
Palantir Foundry will pull together a centralized database of data, allowing medical decisions to not be made by exam and test results alone but by assigning predictive value to life by socioeconomic factors never before considered and determining financial capability to pay exorbitant medical bills, and refuse treatment to those either in poor health or with an inability to pay, or both.
Palantir holds contracts with the DOD, CIA, National Security Agency (NSA), FBI, Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), DHS, and HHS. It supports battlefield analytics, predictive policing, and pandemic logistics, and is expanding into financial surveillance through the IRS and SSA. Meaning that not only can Palantir surveil literally every aspect of your life, rendering HIPAA essentially null and void, they can make healthcare decisions based on non-medical input.
Are you seeing the big picture yet…???
If you think this is crazy and far-fetched, I’ll remind you that our healthcare systems routinely let millions of people go into bankruptcy due to an illness, lets diabetics die because they cannot afford insulin, and was the basis for an entire fictional television series wherein a high school science teacher turns to making and selling illicit drugs due to a cancer diagnosis and the associated costs. And that plot point was by far the most realistic and relatable piece of the entire fucking show.
In end-stage capitalism, billionaire venture capitalists who believe they know how the world “should” be run have the power to reduce actual human life to a data point, a set of figures in a spreadsheet, an algorithm, and manipulate that data point to extract the absolute most possible value. Including, of course, eliminating expenditures when that data point becomes a negative asset— when the cost associated with keeping that data point alive eclipses their net worth + earning [spending] potential, then their worth to the Corporation of America becomes negative.
When a technocratic monarchical “CEO” runs the “business,” they decide when and how to dump negative assets. When a nation is run like a business, human beings are expendable. Full stop.
This is why you don’t run a government like a business. You can’t. This model is incompatible with the unpredictability of the human condition and removes, via algorithms, codes, and AI tools, the literal value of human life.
This has been an interlude piece, a work of speculative fiction based off information found during my larger research into Palantir, Flock Safety, and more of Peter Thiel’s tech investments that are creating a mesh network of mass surveillance throughout the United States. Part I lives here, and in Part II, we will dive into Flock’s recent acquisition of Aerodome and plans to build a 100,000 sq. foot facility to manufacture drones, what Anduril is and how it connects to mass surveillance, a program called Lattice, and how impactful a surveillance state like this would be…
Telling our stories, like the story of my life and the people I’ve met and what I’ve experienced, humanizes the nature of these horrific actions by our government’s leaders. If you would like to share your story, as a member of the LGBT community, or as an immigrant or migrant or refugee, please send me a message.
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Thank you for delving into this work of speculative fiction with me and imagining a future in which our data is completely open and available to the federal government and healthcare systems, reducing our humanity to a series of data points fed into algorithms to make life-or-death decisions devoid of human empathy.
We don’t have to stretch our imaginations too far when we live in a world where corporations have reduced us to data points, and the people who own and invest in those corporations own that data. Accessing federal data would complete the picture and give this small group of men unimaginable power.
We stand on the precipice of a new dawn. Thank you for standing beside me.
As always, I am yours in solidarity,
My name is Melissa Corrigan, and I’m a freelance writer/thought sharer/philosopher in coastal Virginia. I am a mom, a wife, a veteran, and so much more. I deeply enjoy sharing my thoughts and receiving feedback that sparks genuine, respectful conversation.
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The government wants to know why the birth rates are getting lower
And this is why I prefer paying a bit more in taxes to have universal healthcare. 🇨🇦