Turbo Cancer: Day 150 - November 8, 2022
The Cancer
On this day, last year, my mom wrote:
Long day yesterday. Chemo. MRI results- 4 spots on spine- maybe metastasis- radiologist tomorrow. Got home about 6:30 PM. New chemo days Mondays.
The word “care” is defined as a noun, meaning: “A state of mind in which one is troubled: worry, anxiety, or concern.” It is also defined as a verb, meaning: “To feel concerned about.”
My mom trusted the medical system to care for her. My mom had invested her entire adult life, so that she would have insurance when she was older. My mom had believed in a promise. She had been told that, if she spent her life working hard and paying into the system, the system would, in turn, care for her when she was in need.
At the end of her life, all that she expected was care. All that she wanted was care.
From conception until death, human beings deserves to have those who care for them also care about them.
My mom was suffering horribly. The bones in her spine were being broken from the inside. The doctors knew this. The doctors had education and experience.
They also had pictures.
The pictures were confirmation of my mom’s pain. I thought that they might have made some concessions, once they realized the severity of her suffering.
Every other week, we went to the oncologist’s office for chemotherapy. We always arrived on time. We always saw the doctor first, and always, after seeing the doctor, the chemo drugs were ordered.
In theory, if we got lucky, the medicine could arrive in under two hours. We never got lucky.
As I sat in the waiting room, I looked at the cancer brochures, and the pictures on the walls. The photos depicted healthy grandparents, outside in the sun, playing with their grandchildren. The brochures described a “cancer journey” that, with the aid of modern medicine, would end in triumph. That was the lie that they were selling us: the idea that there might be a return to life as it was before cancer.
They were selling us a dream. A very expensive dream.
Sitting and waiting is difficult for the healthy. The people waiting in the oncologist’s office were not healthy. The people waiting in the oncologist’s office were not experiencing an exciting and fulfilling cancer journey. The people sitting in the oncologist’s office were not enjoying a break from the hustle and bustle of daily life.
The people sitting in the oncologist’s office were scared. The people sitting in the oncologist’s office were sick. The people sitting in the oncologist’s office were suffering. They people sitting in the oncologist’s office were dying.
And the sick, tortured, suffering, dying people were forced to wait. We were told that this was the policy. We were told that, sometimes, people became too sick and missed their appointments. We were told that it was imperative that the drugs not be mixed if they might be wasted.
I spoke to the doctor, to the nurse navigator and to the receptionists. I explained that my mom wanted to continue with treatments, but that the travelling and waiting were becoming insurmountable obstacles. I asked if they could make an exception in her case. I said that the waiting had become torturous. I said that she needed the visit to move as quickly as possible, so that she could get back home, and to bed. I said that I would call and tell them if we weren’t going to show up. I promised that they would know in advance. I promised that their drugs would not be wasted on us.
I said that the people sitting in the oncologist’s office deserved to be cared for. I said that they deserved to be cared about.
But the system did not care.
They said that they understood my frustration. They said that the policy was the policy, and that there was nothing that they could do. They said that they were very sorry.
It didn’t matter. We were completely dependent. My mom was in pain. They had told us that they would provide relief. They had said that they had magical drugs, and treatments, that would make all of her suffering go away. They said that waiting was the price that we had to pay, if my mom wanted the privilege of buying what they had to sell.
We were the ones with the insurance. We were the ones with the money. We were the customers. We were paying them for their services. But we were treated with disdain. My mom was forced to sit, suffering and powerless, waiting for hours for their worthless drugs to arrive.
If my mom wanted the chemo, she had to wait. If she couldn’t wait, she couldn’t have the chemo. That was the policy under which the oncologist’s office operated.
There are kind and caring people, who work from within the medical system. I met genuine people, filled with compassion, who truly wished they could help. However, the system, itself, does not allow for kindness or compassion. The system, itself, is run by psychopaths.
A psychopath is defined as “A person with a psychopathic personality, which manifests itself as amoral and antisocial behavior; lack of ability to love or establish meaningful personal relationships.”
Those who ran the system did not love or care for my mom. They profited from her. They caused her suffering, and then collected their reward. They continue to profit from the suffering of every patient who sits, waiting for hours, for the drugs that they need, in order to survive.
I once believed that the enslaved would recognize their slavery. Then I realized that I had, unknowingly, been a slave for my entire life. Sitting in the waiting room of the oncologist’s office I, for the first time, clearly saw my own oppression. I realized that we, as a people, have blindly accepted total control over our lives. We have allowed ourselves to be abused. We have allowed ourselves to be powerless.
When we bought into their lies, we became their playthings. We were the mice and they were the cats: they relished in torturing before they killed.
The system is the cancer. Those who control the system are the cancer. During my mom’s disease, I was taught, by the system, that the cancer must be eradicated, with poison.
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You are RIGHT!
I'm so sorry, but we are all slaves to this 'system.'
Until we choose not to be.
For some of us, that choice has come too late, like myself, sort of.
I'm 68 and forgo doctor 'visits.'
I’m so sorry. You found out the hard way-while in the midst of treatment. I knew from the moment of diagnosis that my mother would die. That the treatments would kill her. I just didn’t know how compliant she would be. Ignoring evidence. That was a surprise.
I read this and ache. It’s been 27 years so I don’t cry every time think about it, but the ache of regret is still there.
And the anger toward the doctors who participated in the scheme. From the addict dr who played with her symptoms to keep her coming to him until it was too late, to the oncologist who refused to listen to our (legitimate) concerns about her choice of medications combining with our mom’s medical history.
I’m so sorry for your pain. For your losses. Life is so stinking hard