When Love Meets the Machine
Day eight of what was supposed to be a three-day stay.
That sentence alone tells you everything about the state of modern healthcare.
As the disease progresses, it creates complications. Those complications summon specialists—each skilled, each confident, each siloed. They gather to form what they call a “care team,” but to the family it feels more like a committee meeting in slow motion.
Every decision takes time.
Every delay steals time.
Consensus becomes a currency that the patient can no longer afford to spend.
To them, this is process.
To us, it is life slipping away.
I find myself fighting thoughts I wish I didn’t have—the kind that whisper that the longer they keep her, the more they bill. That every new consult means another code, another line item, another form. I hate thinking that way. But when you’ve seen the system from the inside, you know how profit hides behind protocol.
Now, her body bears the evidence of the wait—bedsores, failed IVs, and pain so sharp it carves through every ounce of composure. Even the specialists with ultrasound guidance can’t find a vein. The solution: another procedure, another trip to the OR for a Hickman line. More anesthesia. More risk. More time.
And through it all, one question hangs in the air like a prayer caught in the static of bureaucracy: Can she just come home?
But to come home requires insurance approval, a signature in a portal, a code entered correctly. Somewhere between the nurse’s station and the insurance carrier, humanity gets lost. They don’t see her tears or hear her moans—they see a “case.” A “chart.” A “treatment plan.” While we watch the clock, waiting for Dilaudid that’s overdue and for someone—anyone—to notice that time is the one thing she doesn’t have.
This is what it feels like when love collides with a machine.
Compassionate Leadership in Consulting
Stability & Trust: Reflecting reliability and strength (rooted in veteran service).
Warmth & Compassion: Illuminating your human-centered, service-first orientation.
Professionalism & Clarity: Emphasizing structured, results-driven consulting.
Personal Touch: Highlighting individualized support and leadership.
VA Disability Claims: Clear and Simple Support
Filing for disability compensation through the Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) can be a complex and frustrating process. I provide a straightforward service designed to make it easier for veterans to receive the benefits they have earned.
Here is how I work:
- Payment only if benefits are awarded. My fee is twenty percent of the initial back payment from the VA. If an appeal is needed, the same structure applies. After that, the veteran owes nothing further.
- Based on federal standards. Because the VA does not set rates for consulting, I align with the Social Security Administration’s guideline of twenty-five percent and reduce it by five percent. This keeps my fee at twenty percent, below a recognized federal benchmark.
- No long-term obligations. Veterans can stop working with me at any time after providing notice. There are no hidden commitments or recurring fees.
- Everything in writing. I use a simple written contract that explains all terms clearly, in plain language. Veterans know exactly what to expect before we begin.
- Who I work with. Most of the veterans I serve are those who have had bad experiences with Veterans Service Officers (VSOs) or firms, those who have grown frustrated with the VA, and those who may not believe they deserve this benefit from a grateful nation.
My goal is to provide a fair, transparent, and effective path through the VA process, with clear terms and no surprises.
If you are a veteran who would like help filing for VA disability benefits, contact me at lou@loujswz.com
or 706-332-6005.
Profits Over Patients: Why the Insurance System is Failing Families
The health insurance industry has mastered one thing above all else: delay. What should be a simple claim submission turns into months of bureaucratic limbo, hidden behind jargon like “not yet built” or “waiting for processing.” These phrases disguise the truth—that while families wait for critical financial support, corporations sit comfortably on record-breaking profits.
We are told to expect 15 business days just for a claim to be reviewed, then another 30 to 60 days for processing. In the meantime, representatives admit that claims often sit in inboxes, unseen, until patients themselves call to shake the system awake. And yet these same companies proudly announce hundreds of millions in net income, raising their performance outlooks. The disconnect could not be starker: efficiency for shareholders, inefficiency for patients.
This is not a matter of capability. If profits can soar, systems can be fixed. More staff can be hired. Processes can be modernized. But the lack of urgency shows where priorities lie. Patients and families are left to wait, wonder, and absorb the financial strain—all while the corporations built to serve them choose margin over mission.
And this isn’t an abstract critique. This is personal. The claim in question was for my wife’s electric wheelchair—a necessity, not a luxury—purchased on June 9th. It cost more than $2,000. I wrote about it on June 23rd in my blog post “In the Blink of an Eye: Grace in the Midst of the Unthinkable”, where I shared how something as simple as mobility could restore dignity in the midst of suffering. Months later, the claim has still not been processed. Letters arrive contradicting what agents say, and the only reason any progress happens is because I chase it down.
For families like mine, these delays aren’t just numbers on a balance sheet. They are nights spent worrying, bills that pile up, and faith that slowly erodes. Representatives on the front line may show compassion, but they are trapped in a system designed to stall. Until the industry prioritizes people over profit, these “micro” frustrations will continue to echo the much larger, systemic failure of our healthcare system.
You can read the June 23rd post here: In the Blink of an Eye: Grace in the Midst of the Unthinkable
Why Nonprofits Should Register on SAM.gov: Key Advantages
Registering your nonprofit corporation in SAM.gov (System for Award Management) opens doors to
federal opportunities, funding, and resources while enhancing visibility and compliance.
- Eligibility for Federal Grants & Cooperative Agreements: SAM.gov registration is required to
apply for federal grants and assistance programs, ensuring your nonprofit is eligible for direct
funding opportunities. - Ability to Receive Federal Contracts: Nonprofits can compete for government contracts if their
services align with federal needs, such as training, research, logistics, or social programs. - Access to Federal Surplus Property: Through the General Services Administration (GSA),
registered nonprofits may qualify for federal surplus property programs, providing equipment and
resources at little or no cost. - Visibility in the Federal Marketplace: SAM.gov assigns your nonprofit a Unique Entity ID (UEI)
and CAGE Code, making it discoverable to federal buyers, prime contractors, and potential
partners. - Streamlined Compliance & Payment Processing: Federal agencies require SAM.gov
registration to set up EFT payments and verify compliance, ensuring your nonprofit receives funds
without delay. - Support for SBA & VA Certifications: SAM.gov registration is essential for maintaining
certifications like SDVOSB, HUBZone, and other socioeconomic designations, increasing
contracting opportunities.
Bottom Line: SAM.gov registration is a strategic step for nonprofits to access federal resources,
increase visibility, and strengthen credibility with government agencies and partners.
Hope we can help your organization too!
The Front Lines of Cancer
Yesterday, we reached acceptance. Not surrender — not quitting — but an understanding: this cancer is incurable. It continues to spread slowly, like a snake coiling itself around its prey.
And yet, in the middle of it all, there is beauty.
Our youngest is in high school now. She wakes up on her own, gets ready, eats breakfast. She is excited about life. She’s playing lacrosse, wants to go to practice, wants to do well in school. It’s such a good time.
The other night, my wife told her that she wanted her to have her wedding ring. Tears came, but then laughter too, as our daughter said it was too small for her finger. Somehow, the moment turned to a joke about making it into a “grill” for our dog with the terrible underbite. This is life and love — sorrow and laughter tangled together.
This weekend, our oldest came home. She’s about to start graduate school after years of working. She asked her mother, “Are you going to die?” My wife, steady as ever, said: “I will — but I don’t intend to do it soon. You need to go to graduate school and live your life. This is your dream. Keep going.” Then she gave her the diamond pendant we had made from her mother’s stone. They cried for hours.
One of our sons is getting married in October and then heading into the military. We already have our plane tickets and hotel. No setbacks. We will be there. We’ve become experts in travel planning and stress mitigation, as Sherri can only manage about two hours of chair time a day. No setbacks — we so want to be there.
And then there’s our granddaughter. Just 18 months old, already going down slides. We watched the video of her laughing all the way, and it filled us with joy.
It is a wonderful time.
That might sound strange to say, but it’s true. In these trying days, every moment of laughter, every milestone, every piece of ordinary life feels even more precious. The weight of suffering sharpens the beauty of joy. And when you know that time is short, you hold tighter to the moments that matter most.
Every morning, I bring her breakfast in bed
Every morning, I bring her breakfast in bed. Whatever she wants—peanut butter on a waffle, an apple, crispy bacon, a bowl of raisin bran, sous ve eggs—I make it. Most days, she’ll stick to the same thing for days, even weeks. It’s a small thing, but it’s the least I can do for all she endures.
She can’t walk anymore. The electric wheelchair gives her about an hour and a half of mobility before the pain forces her to lie down. The cancer has spread to her bones. Yet, somehow, she still smiles. She still refuses to give up.
Breakfast has always been my favorite meal. Now its much more than that, its a check in with a smile still here.
Two Hours for a Shower—And a Lifetime of Love
Today it took two hours to help my wife, take a shower in our own home.
Two hours of lifting and moving, of prepping and adjusting.
Unhooking her IV.
Unwrapping layers of dressings and wound care.
Lining the shower with towels and placing the chair just right.
Washing her hair, combing it gently.
Finding clothes that work for a body in pain.
Changing the linens, warming the room, preparing her toothbrush—preloaded with toothpaste because her hands don’t work anymore.
Two hours of effort.
For 30 minutes of normalcy.
For 10 minutes of comfort.
For one more moment of feeling clean and human.
And then back to bed, with the “bear hugger” blowing warm air to keep her body from freezing. Her body can’t regulate temperature anymore.
She smiled when it was over.
But she’s tired.
I’m tired.
And tomorrow… she faces her third surgery in just 60 days.
We had held on to hope that she could go on the family trip to Japan—something she’s been dreaming of for a year. But this new surgery means she’ll stay behind, once again watching life from the sidelines of recovery.
That’s what cancer does. That’s what infection does. That’s what caregiving is.
It takes things—quietly, relentlessly.
It takes time, energy, tears, sleep, plans, dreams, vacations, strength.
But we keep giving. Because love gives.
I won’t give up hope.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not on her.
She’s still here. Still smiling through it. Still fighting. Still loving us in her own quiet way.
So we’ll keep going.
One day at a time.
One shower at a time.
One breath at a time.
Because this is what love looks like when it’s on the battlefield.
The Power of Presence: How to Support Caregivers
When someone you love is gravely ill or bedridden, the world becomes very small. The walls of the home close in. Time slows. Days blur together. Both the person being cared for—and the caregiver—begin to live in a kind of suspended animation, where joy, spontaneity, and connection are replaced by routine, worry, and waiting.
People often ask, “What can I do?”
And it’s a sincere question. They want to help. So they send flowers. Cards. Food. Gift cards. And all of those are kind gestures. All of them are appreciated.
But if you really want to help a caregiver—and the person they’re caring for—be present. Show up.
Caregiving is not just physically exhausting. It’s emotionally isolating. The one who is ill is often trapped in their body, in their symptoms, in a bed they can’t escape. The caregiver, meanwhile, is trapped in responsibility, routine, and quiet desperation.
Isolation is the great thief.
It steals joy, perspective, and sometimes even hope. But when someone walks through the door just to be there, everything changes—even if only for a little while.
Here’s what you may not see:
When visitors come over, something shifts.
The house feels lighter.
The person being cared for suddenly wants to sit up straighter, to smile, to tell stories—even if they can’t move or speak much.
The caregiver may finally exhale, just a little.
You don’t need to bring anything. Just your presence. A shared moment. A hand held. A joke told. A prayer whispered.
It’s not about what you do. It’s about that you came.
We often overcomplicate compassion. We think we need the “right” thing, the perfect timing, or something polished and proper.
But love isn’t complicated.
Compassion shows up unannounced and says, “I’m here.”
It’s the ministry of presence.
So, if you’re wondering how to help:
- Visit. Even 15 minutes can be sacred.
- Sit. Watch a show, listen to music, share a memory.
- Talk. About something—anything—besides illness.
- Listen. Sometimes just being a witness to the struggle is a gift.
- Stay connected. Don’t let their world shrink without a fight.
Because at the end of the day, love looks like presence. And presence heals in ways medicine can’t.
VA Claims Processing: Success or Hidden Challenges?
In the July 2025 newsletter, the Department of Veterans Affairs proudly announced that it had “processed” over 2 million disability claims—faster than ever before. At first glance, this milestone sounds like a tremendous success. But for veterans who have lived at the intersection of military service and medical hardship, there’s a deeper story behind the headlines.
As a veteran and someone who assists others in navigating the VA claims process, I’ve learned to read between the lines. The newsletter fails to disclose how many of those 2 million claims were denied—a critical omission that affects real lives. A high throughput of claim processing does not necessarily equate to high-quality or just outcomes for veterans.
At the same time, the VA linked to its public repository of Disability Benefits Questionnaires (DBQs) available here. These are detailed, medically technical forms that the VA encourages veterans to bring to their private providers to “expedite” claims—allegedly reducing costs and time associated with VA-conducted exams.
On the surface, this sounds like a win-win. But if you’ve filled out one of these forms or asked a doctor to complete one, you know that each DBQ is 12 to 16 pages long, highly technical, and time-consuming. It could take an experienced clinician over an hour—per form—with no reimbursement provided by the VA.
Let’s pause there: the government is asking veterans to pay out of pocket or call in favors from already overburdened civilian providers, many of whom are unfamiliar with VA language, legal thresholds, or the 38 CFR standards. These forms may reduce government costs, but they shift that burden onto the backs of those who served.
And what’s more concerning is this: Is this an unspoken gatekeeping tactic? Is the sheer complexity of DBQs and the absence of compensation for providers quietly slowing down or stalling new claims from older-era veterans—those who served between 1965 and 2015—who didn’t benefit from the digital medical records era?
As someone working daily with veterans—at the proverbial GEMBA or “point of the spear”—I’ve witnessed firsthand how the standard of approval appears to have shifted. In the first few months of this administration, P&E exams were paused for over three months. Now, adjudications seem stricter than ever. Subjective? Perhaps. But for many veterans, this feels like a regression, not progress.
Questions We Should Be Asking the VA:
- What percentage of the 2 million “processed” claims were denied, granted, or partially awarded?
- Why are providers not compensated for the time it takes to complete detailed DBQs?
- Has the standard of adjudication shifted from the traditional “at least as likely as not” (51%) burden of proof?
- Why are we not leveraging modern AI and automation tools to reduce claim burden for the veteran?
- How does the VA plan to assist older veterans—whose medical records are often incomplete or paper-based—in navigating these requirements?
