I went to our local grocery store and had one of those moments where you just stand there and stare.

Coffee was sitting there at fourteen to twenty dollars a can. Hamburger was pushing toward eight dollars a pound. Guys, I don’t eat filet mignon, and after seeing the price per pound I almost threw up.

My stepdad used to say, “For that price, it better come with a pretty lady wearing tap shoes.” Well, I looked around the meat counter, and there were no tap shoes. No music, or a pretty lady. Just hamburger standing there like it had joined show business, and wanted applause.

Then I moved to the coffee aisle. At first look, my thoughts were, well, maybe my coffee habit can wait until I get to work and have my coffee on the hospital’s dime. We have a Starbucks in the hospital, but this old boy does not pay seven-plus dollars for a cup of coffee. For that price, the coffee better clock in, take vitals, and help turn over room three.

This is not just about coffee or hamburger, it’s not even just about groceries.

This is about the squeeze.

My medical registry renewal, along with the CEUs, is now running right at two thousand dollars. Five years ago, it was around five hundred. Now, I ain’t no rocket scientist, but umm, something is up, and it ain’t my wages.

This is what working folks are feeling right now. Everything is climbing: food, fees, gas, insurance. Utilities, healthcare, and even thrift store prices are jumping up. The place folks used to go to save money is starting to act like it found a top hat and a stage name.

And then it shows up at work. This morning I talked with my supervisor and was told we had seven no-shows for our at-home procedure on Friday. Yes, I said seven. Each one was called, and the answer kept coming back the same. “I just can’t afford it right now.”

I get it.

Some people will hear that and say, “Well, folks just don’t think that procedure is important.”

Maybe sometimes that is true, but I believe this is bigger than that.

This is groceries or copay.

Gas or appointment.

Electric bill or medical test.

Health now or survival this week.

When the wallet starts hurting deep enough, it starts making healthcare decisions. That is a harsh sentence to write, but it is true.

The receipt does not stay at the grocery store. It follows people into the clinic, into the sleep lab, into the pharmacy, into the kitchen, and into bed at night.

That is why I keep coming back to thrift, and not cute thrift. Not pretend thrift, and certainly not some polished social media version where everything is stored in matching jars and photographed in perfect light.

I am talking about real thrift. Depression-era thrift.

But I am afraid this time the depression may be mental.

People can stretch beans. People can make soup, and people can use meat as seasoning instead of making it the boss of the plate. People can cook enough for tomorrow, and folks can measure coffee instead of wasting half a pot. People can learn to make leftovers work a second shift.

But the mental pressure is different.

The steady squeeze wears on a person. Every receipt feels like a small ambush. Every renewal fee feels like somebody shaking the jar again. Every trip to the store becomes a math problem with fluorescent lights.

I do not say “toughen up, buttercup” to be mean. I say it because sometimes reality does not offer a soft landing.

I wish it did.

I wish everyone had enough money, enough food, enough healthcare, enough rest, enough margin, and enough breathing room. I wish every patient could get the sleep study they need without worrying about the bill. I wish every family could walk through the grocery store without feeling like they were being tested.

Y’all know this part: wishing does not fill the pantry, and does not lower the copay.

Wishing does not make hamburger affordable again.

So what do we do?

We do not panic.

We prepare.