Turbo cancer: Day 157 - November 15, 2022
Some Retrospect
On this day, last year, I wrote:
Some good news! We just got a call from the radiation oncologist. He was very upset with the scheduler for setting the bone scan up next week. They will now do the test tomorrow. Since the radiation will relieve the pain, the sooner the better.
At the time, this felt like good news.
When we had first heard from the scheduler for my mom’s bone scan, she said there was no availability until the following week. This had been a huge disappointment. I didn’t think that my mom could tolerate another week. Her tumors were growing steadily, as was her pain.
I had explained the situation to the scheduler. I asked if there was any chance of an earlier appointment. She told me that it was impossible. She told me that, due to the length of the test, only a limited number of patients could be seen each day. She said that she was sorry, but that there was nothing that could be done.
I left a message for Doctor A.
He called me back.
I explained, once again, my mother’s phenomenal pain. I told him that she was suffering. I told him that no human being should be allowed to suffer like that. I said that something needed to be done quickly. I said that, after another week, my mom would not be able to tolerate the test.
I said that the tumors were growing too fast. I said that my mom’s cancer was not normal. I said that her disease was accelerating. I said that the system was too slow.
Her pain had been able to outrun all of their drugs and treatments and tests. I was desperate to find help.
I asked him to explain my mom’s disease to me and to explain why the medical system was unable to adequately address her suffering.
Doctor A confirmed that my mom’s cancer was more aggressive than that to which they were accustomed. He promised that a short series of radiation treatments would address her pain. He said that he would arrange for an earlier test.
Doctor A called the scheduler. My mom’s bone scan was set up for the following day.
At the time, I felt that he had recognized the urgency of the situation. I thought that he saw my mom’s pain, and that he was going to help.
Today, as I write this, I interpret things differently.
It has been two years since I took my mom to the emergency room. It has been two years since I was given the opportunity to witness the truth of what our system has become. I have had two years to think about it, and my views and opinions have changed.
At the time of my mom’s illness, we were caught up in the chaos of our lives. We were trapped in a swirling vortex of trauma, disease, loss, grief, confusion, politics, propaganda, illusion and lies. We were frantically, blindly, searching for a way out of the pandemonium. The system falsely presented itself as an escape route.
Like good little soldiers, we adhered to our training. We complied with the mandates of the system, irrationally believing that obedience would result in safety, security and comfort.
We believed what we had been programmed to believe.
Today, as I write this, I am jaded. I have lost trust in every aspect of the system that I once believed existed for our protection. I believe nothing that any media figure or political actor presents to us as truth. To me, every word that is uttered through a sound system, sounds like a lie.
When I think back on my experiences with my mom, where I used to see compassion from doctors, I now see manipulation. I can no longer look past the way they profited from her suffering.
I try to feel compassion towards the doctors, as they are our fellow human beings. I wonder about their motivation. I wonder if it is possible that they do not realize that they are causing harm. Is their inability to be empathic towards their patients intentional, or are they are also victims of social programming? Just as I believed that I was doing what was best for my mom, might they have believed that their tests and treatments were her best option?
They knew better. They were smart people. They had eyes and ears. They could see my mom. The doctor heard my words, when I said: “If we wait one week, my mom will not be able to tolerate the test.”
After I had said those words, the doctor rushed the test. At the time, it felt like good news.
What he should have said was: “If your mom is at the point in her illness where she can tolerate no more, you need to speak to a hospice nurse.”
To my mom, the tests and the treatments were doing more harm than good.
My mom and I had both been thinking about hospice. Neither of us had said the words out loud. Having a doctor affirm our thoughts would have lessened my mom’s suffering.
I used to imagine doctors in a different way from what they were in the reality that I faced. I thought that terminal disease doctors would be similar to what I had seen in the movies. I expected to sit down in an office, with wooden chairs and a desk. I was waiting for a heart-to-heart discussion about life expectancy and options.
The medical response to terminal disease was not what I had pictured. From the moment my mom experienced pain in her groin, we were on a bullet train with no breaks, careening down the side of a mountain. We were stuck on the tracks of the system. As the disease quickly progressed, the train gained momentum. There was no stopping its fall.
The doctors were there, on the train, insisting that my mom have as many pills and procedures as she could survive. They milked her for every penny that she was worth.
They kept poking and prodding and scanning and injecting, all the way up to the moment that she crashed.
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My thoughts exactly!