For most of my life, I felt sorry for my father. And for the legions of blue-collar stiffs just like him.

Solid working class, my dad often worked two, sometimes even three, tough physical jobs to support his large family. He didn’t aspire to “move up,” just to make ends meet. If there was a little extra at the end of the month to get pizza or take the kids to Santa’s Village, life was good.

Each time the union went on strike, he laid low and toughed it out, tightening spending and keeping his eyes on the prospect of a sacrifice made good. A dip in income on the picket line might lead to slightly higher wages later. Maybe even enough to pay off the Sears credit card.

When he envisioned retirement, he saw himself sleeping in, driving my mother to the store and occasionally casting a fishing pole. He didn’t long for cruises and international travel. He didn’t eat at fancy restaurants. He didn’t even have a hobby.

He was a simple man with simple needs. And while he regularly gave to those who had less, he guarded his savings closely because it had to see him through to the end.

And it did.

Just barely.

He was 84 years old when the bottom fell out, when his health and finances dovetailed. Months away from running out of money, I’d begun the application process for Medicaid, the federally funded health insurance assistance program.

Medicare and private health insurance supplements don’t cover the cost of residential skilled nursing, a service most hope to avoid but many end up needing. For those who can’t afford it, the only option has been Medicaid, which requires an individual to be out of funds and out of options before it kicks in.

As demoralizing as that may seem, it is at least a modicum of relief.

It was terrifying, the thought that a human being who’d worked his whole life and who’d never flinched when asked to give hard-earned dollars to local hospitals, churches, high school bands and his disabled sister would end up groveling to stay alive.

And yet, now, it seems much less terrifying than things are about to become.

Soon, the Medicaid safety net that has enabled millions of impoverished Americans to get the care they need will be cut dramatically. Some say the cuts will only target waste and abuse, but many others say they will devastate a vulnerable population.

As the Republicans glow in the passage of their “big beautiful bill,” which gives more to the rich while cutting essentials for the poor, it shouldn’t be just the destitute who are concerned.

We all should be scared. Because if Congressional Budget Office estimates are correct, some 8 million to 12 million Americans will lose their health care.

But all of us will witness the suffering and despair.

All of us will feel the economic ripple when emergency rooms are inundated, hospitals and nursing homes close under the stress, and pink slips get handed out to health care workers.

All of us are likely to know someone in distress. Maybe that someone will even be ourselves.

It’s not the ultrarich who are a strong wind away from falling off that financial high wire. It’s us. All it takes is an unstable economy, an unforeseen illness or accident, a change in government policy, or simply the “bad luck” to outlive our nest egg.

Knowing what I know now about the eldercare world, I am afraid for everyone at or near retirement. I am afraid for anyone who has special needs or a costly chronic medical condition. Because relief from illness and ailments and conditions requires money.

During my dad’s struggles, I met many people who relied on Medicaid and many on the verge of applying for it. All of them were sick. All of them were scared.

They didn’t plan for their life to descend into poverty. They didn’t expect to reach their golden years empty handed. Some fell victim to drops in the market or corporate downsizing. Some who thought they’d saved enough were done in by unexpected expenses. Some never earned enough to save enough.

And some simply lived longer than they thought they would.

None were prepared for the cost of basic, no-frills health care to go through the roof, for the price on a single bed in a shared room of a nursing home to be more than $12,000 a month.

Still, I’ve stopped feeling sorry for my dad, as miserable as he was watching his body and net worth bottom out. Because at least his government was there to break his fall.

Not only will the new cuts to federal safety nets abandon people when they need their government most, they will be a daily reminder of what America has become — a nation that turns its back on those in need.

We no longer open our arms to the tired, the poor or the huddled masses. We run them down and lock them up. It’s weird that we can afford to round up “illegals” and pay the cost of processing, transporting and jailing them, but we can’t afford to give health insurance to our most vulnerable, many of whom helped build this country.

Which makes me think my father was among the lucky ones. He lived during a time when the government cared. He fell ill at a time when there were safety nets and backup plans.

And then, just before the Republicans turned on America’s most fragile, he did what Sen. Joni Ernst, R-Iowa, flippantly said we’re all going to do anyway one day.

He died. And decreased the surplus population.

Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years. She can be reached at donnavickroy4@gmail.com.