My friend Barbara, who was there, can tell you that last Saturday night as I was sprawled like an upturned arachnid in a public restroom, with the doctor hovering over me calling my condition “life-threatening,” I was not thinking about my Maker or my eternal destination. I was thinking about the ambulance bill. When the words 9-1-1 were bandied around, Barbara heard as I managed to eek out a “no.” The vertical people prevailed.

The next day at home I phoned my insurance company and sure enough it doesn’t cover the 4-mile ride in a glorified truck with flashing lights. I asked the EMT en route to Abington Hospital how much the pleasure of his company will set me back if I happen to not be covered for it. He said about $1,000.

The company representative couldn’t say for sure, but thought I’ll only be responsible for a co-pay of $150 for the 2 hours I spent in the Emergency Room (If she’s wrong, the bill will be $3,011.) If I had tarried a few more hours, the incident would have been transferred to a different category, and my $10,000 annual deductible would have kicked in, leaving me with personal costs in the thousands of dollars.

And I’m one of the lucky ones; I have insurance.

I’m thinking Michael Moore is a national treasure, and we’d better fix the system somehow — or a Bastille Day reenactment may be in our future.