COLUMN: Horace Mann, before his death in 1859, pressed hard for educational reforms and was credited with helping to establish our nation's elementary schools. He, or more accurately, work done in his name, might well have saved my little sister's life and preserved my father's sense of providing for his family under very trying times.
Nearly 50 years ago, my father drove my mother to the Española Hospital in their 1952 Pontiac for the birth of their fourth child. She came into the world with an imperfect heart and, beginning with her first breath, was a very sick child.
It took repeated, anxious visits to more than one doctor before my sister's condition was finally diagnosed.
Open-heart surgery, performed infrequently in those days, would be the only hope. And hope lay across state lines. Dallas and Houston, we were told, were the closest cities with hospitals to be considered.
Dallas it was.
But first, there was the matter of getting my sister to a stage where she might make it through the daring operation. She needed to be 30 pounds or 3 years old to sufficiently increase her chances for survival. Weeks seemed like months. No pound came easily. Growth, in fact, was measured in ounces, and each new ounce kept hope alive.
Medical equipment was needed at home to respond to seizures and attacks that came with no warning and at any hour of the day or night. Doctors' visits were innumerable, here and in Texas.
Texas, for our family, was another world. Getting there demanded more reliable transportation. The '52 Pontiac was traded in for a new station wagon. The new Pontiac didn't come with air conditioning, though, and temperatures in Dallas were too unforgiving to leave that situation unattended. An acquaintance of Dad's installed a bulky air conditioner atop the floor's hump between the dashboard and the front bench seat.
Retrofitted air conditioning had no impact on our other discoveries in Dallas. During one pre-op visit to Texas, I remember sitting in a lobby of the cavernous hospital that we all hoped would mean so much to our family's future. From my seat throughout the day, I observed people— visitors and employees— step up to water fountains or walk into restrooms clearly marked "White" and "Colored." I had no idea at my young age that big changes were in store, not just for that hospital but for the society that was developing around it, extending well beyond the span between the northern Rio Grande and the Trinity River.
Before those monumental changes began unfolding, though, my dad's own world had been turned upside down. He struggled as the head of the household to ensure that his family's basic needs were met and that his youngest child would be alongside the others to witness whatever turns came society's way.
Dad was a public schoolteacher and knew his battles had to be waged largely within the constraints of an annual salary of around $9,000. He built and sold furniture, pruned neighborhood trees and tackled any other project after school hours that allowed him to supplement his income.
When he thought no one was looking, he shed more than a few tears in a narrow passage between our garage and a neighbor's wall.
It was during all this extraordinary activity that I came to hear of Horace Mann several times a week and, in fact, grew to know the name as an indispensable ally of the family. It was under his name that my parents bought health insurance and reaped its protection.
Horace Mann Insurance was a staple of the public schools, and in my father, the company had a faithful advocate anytime talk at the local district turned to possible changes in insurance coverage.
With or without health insurance protection, my father would have fought tirelessly to save my sister. Without insurance protection, it very likely would have been a short, futile fight. No parent, no family, should have to face such a prospect.
The hurdles to universal health care are many; the excuses for not confronting them are just as numerous. Health insurance companies, not always the shining knights, are known today as much for contributing to our nation's health-care problems as they are for lightening their burdens.
Gov. Bill Richardson and the New Mexico Legislature are giving it all a close read in the coming weeks. They won't agree easily on anything comprehensive. But as they wrestle with the issue, perhaps for years, they might keep in mind what is said to have been Horace Mann's last public statement: "Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity."
