65. Pissed
Warning: F-Bomb Explosions Everywhere
Okay. There will be some repetition in this blog. I will work to keep it to a minimum, but I can’t get from way back there to way up here without a bit of repeating myself. As you know, when I embarked on this blog writing, I decided to be completely candid, and for the most part I have lived up to that standard.
The immediacy of my wanting to get blogs posted, however, didn’t always allow time to deal with feelings of anger about certain events — especially considering there were so many other feelings that demanded immediate attention — like the fact that I’d been given a To Be Determined expiration date which resulted in a mental-press of a very extensive To Be Done list — so I sat my ass down and fretted about the first TBD then focused on the second TBD.
My life’s dreadful circumstances sent me behind closed doors — mental and physical ones. I was trapped in a nightmare, one that could have gone any number of ways. Thankfully I embarked down the road of creativity, and positivity (for the most part). I could easily have spiraled down into depression. I knew that if I ventured anywhere near that rabbit hole, I would never pull myself up and I would most likely be gone already.
In order to keep myself above the fray, I needed a plan.
Anything or anyone who brought stressful baggage to my doorstep wasn’t going to be welcomed in, not then, maybe not ever. Anything or anyone who pushed too many emotional buttons wasn’t going to be dealt with until and unless I found the strength to do so.
I’d been knocked to the ground by a stealth enemy and kicked repeatedly by the bastardly foe — the one who inflicted a mortal blow and who was waiting, somewhat patiently, for me to offer my last breath to the victor — cancer.
In the blink of an eye, the beat of a heart, everything in my life became a struggle — the involuntary act of pulling life sustaining breath seemed impossible at times. I leaned-in and took Tim’s advice, “Handle what you can today, reassess the other stuff tomorrow.” I did that — I’m still doing that. It’s sort of like shuffling a deck of cards, laying out a few, putting the thick deck aside until the next light of day beckons another shuffle and another drawdown. I know there will be many cards still in the deck and resting on some metaphorical end table when I’m gone, but that is part of life in general, and is most definitely part of the life I’m losing.
One of the cards, the Ace of Hearts, is a difficult one to leave in the deck. It is the card that represents the final phone call I should make to my Auntie Barbara — the female half of the Ward and June Cleaver couple of my family. Auntie Barbara and Uncle Allan (my mother’s brother), were that couple. The ones who led a lovely, quaint, orderly life in Greenfield, Massachusetts. The ones who lived in a perfectly cared for home in a perfectly peaceful neighborhood. Inside the humble abode, visitors would find a husband and wife team who moved, and spoke, and dressed like Ward and June. Nothing about them or their home EVER changed — until Uncle Al died and Auntie Barbara grieved so deeply that her world and her thoughts settled on memories of him — of them — somewhere in the past.
I want to and need to say my goodbyes to this woman, but I don’t want to remind her who I am and then tell her what is happening to me. So, I text with my cousin, Ruthie, and we talk about what’s happening in our lives — and how Auntie Barbara is. And when the chit-chat is over, I settle on memories of happy times with my favorite aunt and uncle — and leave the call for another day. I know I am running out of days, but I just can’t make the call.
During these months, I leaned into a terrifying space hoping to find the sweet spot between the courage I knew I needed to find and the soul-sucking vulnerability that had already found me.
I spend time with Mom and Marchrie — though not enough. It’s just so hard sitting and chit-chatting about life, when death looms. There are heart to heart conversations that should take place — maybe — I don’t know — but I sure as hell cannot have them. Just thinking about those conversations leaves me weak, so I don’t go there. I just can’t go there. So, when the two most important women in my life come here — for our weekly time together — we just fill one another’s space and hearts.
Thankfully, I’ve eked out some ‘girl time’ with Donna, Debbie, and Jennifer. It’s the only time that I get to be me. We don’t talk about cancer and dying (unless I need to; I need to) — but we mostly talk about trips to Ireland, and new grandbabies on the way, and we play the Complain-Game about the irritations of life — our mates and our kids — in very small doses because we have great mates and kids.
Imagine that. How normal. How perfectly normal.
I had a stroke of genius, in the early days of this shit fest, when I chose two people who I knew would let me mouth off — who would let me give the unvarnished and uncensored truths about Sheryll O’Brien.
Mr. Wonderful got a daily and nightly earful of ‘cancer talk’ and the droning about everything else that bothered or bewildered me — because — well — he was trapped in the fortress with me and in order to get to the kitchen for sustenance, he needed to walk past me.
The other ‘chosen one’ was Kathy, the beach-combing, sea glass seeking, young retiree who’d escaped the harsh New England winter for some R&R in sunny Florida. This year, she didn’t get much rest or relaxation. Nearly every day, Kathy has called or texted for her dose of whatever story awaits — an explanation of new pain or a tale about Chewy Louie. God love her. I don’t think there has been an incident that she hasn’t heard about and she keeps coming back for more.
If you’ve been reading along, you know Kathy is a retired nurse — the perfect person to help someone move through a medical nightmare such as this. That in no way should imply that Kathy should have jumped willingly into the trenches with me. She was under no obligation to give so much of herself. And yet, she made a self-sacrificing decision — one that has claimed hours of her time and emotional expenditure. I want to say there is no other person who could have shown more compassion, patience, support, and sorrow as the wonderful She Devil.
Cancer talk and death talk isn’t easy. It’s been hard for me to open up about some things, but she calls for her updates, and waits through the time it takes for me to find the words, and then to share the words, often through pushed back emotions. But, she waits and she knows that when I tell her about this dying process, I’ll give it to her straight. She, more than anyone, knows how hard it’s been for me to manage the physical and the emotional pain — and trust me on this, there has been plenty of both.
She also knows that I’ve been holding a great deal of anger inside — about things that are happening (like teeth issues) and things that happened way back then — when the life I was living ended and the onslaught of whacks to my body and soul began.
The other day, an incident that I won’t get into in this blog, led me to the next phase of medication. I begin this medication sometime this week and it is fucking with my head — already — and I’m not even on it yet. The physical incident and the fallout from it and the time I needed to process it and find acceptance of it — gave me strength to admit I’ve turned another corner. It gave me this, too. The She Devil texted me:
“... I’m retiring the name Stable Mabel.
Sheryll Strong is your new name.”
I will share the story that led to my new name, but in the meantime, you can rest assured that there have been no changes to my vitals. I am still Stable Mabel — a rather pissed off one.
It’s time to deal with some anger.
Warning!
A verbal spewing of Fs will commence.
I think I’ve established, quite effectively, that I don’t mind using the F-word. I love that word and think it is the only word that suffices under certain circumstances. My usage is usually part of a knee jerk reaction, but apparently, there are grammatical reasons for my usage, as well.
Guess what, friends.
You’re about to be schooled by Wile E. Coyote.
I recently received another CD from Mr. Philip McTigue. I have not listened to it yet, that’s because he penned a note that has got to be F.A.R. B.E.T.T.E.R. than whatever is on the CD — unless Innamorata is on it because, well you know why — but still, the note I got is the bomb!
Setting The Scene
At the end of last week, Mr. Wonderful retrieved the mail at 6 PMish as he always does. He usually exits his home office around that time for a dinner break and takes Piper, our rescue dog for a little jaunt around our property. One stop on their daily journey is the mailbox at the end of our somewhat long driveway. As is normal practice, the man and his dog came inside and handed off the mail to me. He held onto a yellow padded envelope and waved it in my direction, “Something from Philip McTigue, let’s open it later.”
“Okay, and if it’s a CD we’ll give it a listen this weekend.”
There was a CD inside, but when I read the accompanying note I forgot about the tune-track.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Bickerson,
Two days to Opening Day! Sorry, no card, just a little note sending love, hugs, positive energy, and hopefully a few laughs. Made this disk a little shorter (have to save a few tunes for Volume IV). Hope you are not in too much pain or discomfort. FUCK CANCER! (Sorry, had to vent). By the way, something to think about … Fuck is the only word that can be used as a noun, verb, adjective, adverb, preposition, and pronoun. Just something to think about. I have not played and do not plan on playing Wordle, but I guess ____________ helps you cheat (I won’t tell anyone).
In our thoughts and prayers,
Beep. Beep.
Okay, a few things:
1) I get the noun, verb, adjective, and adverb of fuck, but I’m stuck on the preposition and pronoun. I am in no way questioning Mr. McTigue’s grammatical assertion, I just don’t get it. I’d love to dig down into this fucking subject (adjective), but I need to fucking push (adverb) into this blog because, fuck it all (verb), it would piss the fuck (noun) out of me if I didn’t deal with the anger.
I gave it a whack — okay?
2) Before I move on, though, I want to remind my readers that I have the name of a tool that supposedly helps would-be-Wordle-cheaters. I am willing to share this information — for a price, of course. Hellooooo She Devil!!!!!!! I just threw a gauntlet.
3) Tim appreciates the vegan Irish bread recipe included in the package and plans on rolling his sleeves up next weekend. Updates will be posted.
4) I sooooo appreciate the acknowledgement of the Wile E. Coyote and Road Runner reference from a previous blog. Nice work Philip! Beep. Beep.
Okay. Enough stalling. Let’s talk about my body scan.
I assume some of you chose to look at it — so let’s do this.
I don’t know about any of you, but I was left aghast when I first saw the images. A tsunami of physical and emotional reactions took place, each one leaving me a shaking and weeping mess. The trauma lingered for quite sometime, and for days I repeated this admonishment, “Why the fuck did you look?” Almost immediately I hissed this recrimination, “Why the fuck didn’t you look sooner?” Those questions bring us to this blog.
Timeline
This timeline is constructed from several sources. Dates of telephone conversations may be slightly inaccurate.
2021
October 18: physical examination:
The discussion with my primary care physician (PCP) focused on an elevated alkaline phosphatase from pre-physical blood work done on October 14. It was at this meeting when the first mention was made that a correlation between an increased alk phos and metastatic breast cancer was possible. I was sent that day for an ALP isoenzyme blood test to determine where the alk phos spike was coming from — the liver or the bones.
October 21: ALP isoenzyme blood work results:
82% bone, 18% liver, 0% intestines. Referred by PCP for a nuclear medicine bone scan.
From a previous blog. We all know what the elevated level meant for me – before I even knew I was sick, I had already lost my battle with metastatic breast cancer of the bones.
I didn’t know that, yet.
November 9: nuclear medicine bone scan:
From a previous blog: The results of that scan showed widespread cancer throughout my skeleton.
Conversation with PCP: I was told I had metastases of bones from my skull to my knees. Referred by PCP for further diagnostic testing.
November 16: CT Scan and full-body x-rays:
From a previous blog: When I had the CT scan, and a set of reclining X-rays, I had to stretch out on a hard surface. The experience was excruciatingly painful – seriously, just lying on a table caused silent tears to flow. My lumbar area felt as though it was cement and it was resting upon an equally unforgiving surface.
November 17: first consult with the oncologist:
From previous blogs: “You have terminal metastatic breast cancer. There is nothing that can be done to stop or reverse course … The imminent cause of concern is a break of a major bone or the collapse of your spine.”
It was during the first few minutes of this meeting that I was told, “Death from bone cancer is excruciatingly painful.” After that bit of news, the doctor and I participated in a Q&A about my breast cancer diagnosis in 2012, the course of treatment back then (surgery, radiation, drug therapies), and the pronouncement of remission in 2017. The oncologist nodded her head throughout the Q&A and said, “Almost ten years out from first diagnosis. Eight to ten years out, that’s the window, that’s when we see the metastases.”
That sentence became a flash point for Tim — and he pushed into it the second his ass hit the driver’s seat of our car. “What the hell does she mean you're in the window for this shit? Why didn’t we know there was a window? Why wasn’t anyone looking for this?”
Those questions have come around and around since November 2021. Why? Because Tim and I have learned about four other women connected to us, through a rather wide, circuitous route of friends and neighbors, who have also been diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer. All of these women fall in the 8-10 year window — the one the oncologist Oh So Casually mentioned.
After the Q&A, the oncologist reiterated that there was nothing that could be done to prolong my life, but there were things that could make the quality of my life better — less painful — getting from here to hospice.
At best this sentence is nothing but semantics.
At worst it is bullshit.
She talked in very brief terms about the possibility of a three pill combo — one pill (Ibrance) wouldn’t lengthen my life, but it could lessen the pain associated with Death By Bone Cancer; the other pill (Xgeva) wouldn’t lengthen my life, but it could strengthen my bones, thereby lessening the risk of a break; the third pill (Letrozole) might help slow the breast cancer which was at 82%, or something.
Neither Tim nor I can remember exactly what the percentile she quoted meant. His notes became less precise at that point in the consultation, for whatever reason — and my focus was mostly on the p.a.i.n.f.u.l. death that awaited me. As for Letrozole and the 82% thingy she mentioned, this is what I wrote in a previous blog.
This is my very simplistic explanation of what’s happening with my body. I had breast cancer. That is my primary cancer. I have bone cancer. That is my secondary cancer. My metastatic breast cancer is fueling my bone cancer … In December, I was put on a drug, Letrozole, to work against the fuel source. Theory: if the fuel source could be doused a bit, then the spread of my bone cancer might be slowed down a bit. That is how I connect the dots of information.
Now, let’s connect this: I couldn’t get Ibrance unless I was hormone receptor positive (HR+) AND I couldn't get the Xgeva unless I was prescribed Ibrance AND I couldn’t get either unless I had a bone biopsy to determine whether I was (HR+). As for the Letrozole, that was part of the three-pill regime, or so I thought.
I left the appointment knowing these things: 1) I had terminal cancer. 2) I was going to die an “excruciatingly painful death.” 3) I might be a candidate for some magic pills that might help manage pain and might help strengthen my brittle bones. (4 I needed a consultation with an orthopedic oncologist to assess how bad the deterioration of my skeleton was. 5) I needed to sit my ass in a wheelchair until I was off hospital grounds.
Conversation with PCP: I declined bone biopsy and requested he contact hospice to begin the process. I agreed to meet with an orthopedic oncologist for a full review of nuclear medicine bone scan, CT scan, and full-body x-rays because we needed an ambulatory plan to follow.
November 20: consult with orthopedic oncologist:
The ortho-oncologist did a head to toe analysis of where the cancer is and where it has done the most damage. “The cancer in one thigh has deteriorated the bone to such a degree that it is structurally unstable, and the L-1 is an even more serious situation. I could put a pin in the thigh, but you would need 4-6 weeks of physical therapy, and I don’t think your spine could tolerate it. And there are other issues: you’ve already suffered several rib fractures and one break, and your hips and pelvis…” he stopped to look at the x-rays.
I waited until he looked back at me. I said, “So basically, you’re telling me that I’m fucked.” Just like that — in those words.
He nodded and said, “Yes. I’m sorry.” He insisted I leave his office using a walker, and that I use it every time I moved about, and then suggested I not move about. “Limit yourself to bathroom trips, and don’t go outside, unless it’s to a doctor’s appointment or for a diagnostic scan.”
Conversation with PCP: He said he got pushback from the oncologist about my decision to not have the bone biopsy. My understanding was that she felt the decision was shortsighted because IF I was a candidate for Ibrance and IF I took Xgeva, and IF the pain was managed and IF the bones strengthened, and IF the Letrozole slowed the breast cancer down, I might get more than 6 months — and I definitely would get less pain, ergo a better quality of whatever life I had left.
The ONLY thing that banged in my head was, “Excruciatingly painful death.” I know I keep mentioning that — but THAT was pressing hard. I didn’t want to die — I sure as hell didn’t want to die a BIG HARD death.
November 24: bone biopsy:
A ton of stuff happened during this procedure. None of it was pleasant, some of it caused me unnecessary and terrible pain while I was in the surgical suite — AND THEN — I was involved in a postoperative accident in the lobby of the hospital that could have crippled me. I make reference to it later in this blog.
December 1: followup oncologist appointment:
From previous blogs: The news that I was a candidate for the pills was met with a huge sigh of relief … I wasn’t going to be in excruciating pain for months — AND THEN — I learned some things that made that moment in time very painful … in order to get either pill (Ibrance or Xgeva), I would need to: have a consult with a radiologist, undergo an MRI or some other body scan, and have 10 consecutive radiation treatments on my femur and L-1.The treatments wouldn’t change anything, but they might help with pain. While that was being done, the oncologist would need to get approval for the drugs.
It was during this appointment that we learned Ibrance costs $12,000 for 21 pills taken over the course of 28 days. From a previous blog.
We never learned the cost of Xgeva — because I popped a Xanax and Tim suffered a minor stroke that left him temporarily deaf. When we swung back into the doctor’s monologue, we learned that taking the pills would require biweekly trips to the hospital’s lab for blood work. Apparently, each drug can cause life-threatening situations, hence the frequent blood-letting.
The woman who’d been told to sit her ass on a recliner and not move was now being told she needed to leave her home 14 times over the course of the next 24 days which were during the Christmas season — her last Christmas season — the one she wanted and needed to enjoy.
It was at the follow-up appointment that we learned about some of the side effects. We learned more by reading a printout summary of the medical visit which had 3 pages of side effects for each recommended drug. Here are some of them.
Ibrance. Signs of allergic reactions: rash; hives; itching; red, swollen, blistered, or peeling skin with or with or without fever; wheezing; tightness in the chest or throat; trouble breathing, swallowing, or talking; unusual hoarseness, or swelling of the mouth, face, lips, tongue, or throat. Signs of infection: fever; chills; very bad sore throat; ear or sinus pain; cough; sputum; pain with passing urine; mouth sores; a wound that will not heal. Other symptoms: unexplained bruising or bleeding; nosebleeds; dizziness; hair loss; hair thinning; feeling tired or weak; dry skin; change in taste; diarrhea; throwing up; upset stomach; feeling less hungry. Some people have had lung problems with this drug. Sometimes, this has been deadly.
There are other really serious side effects with this drug, but they are not listed on the handout I received. If you want to know about this drug: THE ONE THAT WOULD SUPPOSEDLY IMPROVE THE QUALITY OF MY LIFE, please visit: https://www.ibrance.com/about-ibrance
I am fully aware that ALL medications have side effects and that all side effects need to be listed, and I’ve taken drugs before that had scary possibilities, but those drugs were trying to keep me alive. In my mind, that made a difference — what also made a difference was this: Ibrance is given with an aromatase inhibitor called Faslodex. Common side effects of aromatase inhibitors are bone thinning and bone and joint pain.
My reaction was, “What the fuck?”
You are entitled to your own reaction.
Xgeva. Side effects: this drug may raise the chance of a broken leg; if treatment with this drug is stopped, skipped, or delayed, the chance of a broken bone is raised. This includes bones in the SPINE.
My reaction was, “What the fuck?”
You are entitled to your own reaction.
I’m not even going to bother typing the list of other really bad things associated with Xgeva because many are repeats of those with Ibrance. I will note, however, the drug may cause jawbone problems, and tooth pain. If you want to know about this drug: THE ONE THAT WOULD SUPPOSEDLY STRENGTHEN MY BONES, please visit: https://www.xgevahcp.com
Letrozole. Tons of crappy side effects, including tooth weakening. Despite the concerns, this drug made sense to try because of the whole dousing the breast cancer fuel / slowing the bone cancer thingy.
Conversation with PCP: I declined the oncologist's treatment plan, except for Letrozole, and requested he contact hospice to begin the process.
December 2: Tim delivered the following letter to my PCP:
December 2, 2021
Dear Dr. __________,
This is where I am.
I have terminal metastatic breast cancer of the bones.
According to the oncologist, I will die from this disease, however, the main concern is having a fracture occur particularly in the femur and the potential for nerve damage of the L-1. I was also told that dying from this disease will be “excruciatingly painful.”
I have been told to limit my movement and to use a walker.
I made peace with my situation, and had chosen to enjoy this holiday season and then speak with hospice.
After receiving some ‘clarifying’ information about the potential benefits of having a bone biopsy, I agreed to the procedure. After all, if I was a candidate for the pills, one that might help with “quality of life” (pain management) and one that might help “strengthen my bones,” it seemed logical to try. I acquiesced to the procedure, but would not have, had WE (you and I) received complete information about the hoops I would need to jump through to get these “quality of life” drugs.
The biopsy shows I am a candidate for the pills. In order to get them I need to go through an MRI or another bone scan or CT scan (not sure), as well as a 10 day regimen of radiation treatments that will not prolong my life or strengthen my bones, but may help with pain issues.
If I do those scans and procedures, and if I get approved for the two medications, one of which costs $12,000 per month, my options are: whatever portion is not covered by insurance may be covered by a pharmaceutical personal loan (unclear about bottom-line cost or procedure). This particular drug has many potential side effects, some that could require hospitalization if I were to experience them. The cost of the other pill is unknown, and there are potential side effects as well. Taking both drugs will require multiple trips to the hospital for blood work and exams.
I have been told to limit my movement and to use a walker.
I am now in “excruciating pain” in my right knee due to a woman falling on me while I was at the hospital having a bone biopsy — that I did not want and would not have agreed to had WE been told what the side effects of these drugs were, or explained the whole hoop jumping requirements, and the financial picture.
I find no value in pursuing the oncologist’s medical plan. It will not assure more time, particularly because of the femur and L-1 issue. It could cause more harm by having me leave my home for countless medical appointments and procedures, all of which will, in my opinion, lessen the quality of time I have, and exponentially increase the risk of fracturing my bones.
My plan:
If the oncologist thinks taking Letrozole is beneficial, I will do so. I did not start the drug. I hope you will follow up with her on this issue.
I am going to enjoy my holidays with my family, God willing.
I want to talk to hospice and plan for the end of my life.
Dr. __________, you have always provided wonderful medical care. I have been blessed to have met you and been treated by you for many years. The reality for me is that I stepped into this battle at Stage 4, terminal cancer, and feel there isn’t really a logical battle. I know you will accept where I am and trust that I know what I can physically and emotionally handle. The oncologist’s plan is not that. I am at peace with my decisions, and my family is in lockstep agreement with me.
Bottom line, it doesn’t matter if I die in March, May, or June. What matters is that I enjoy the time I have left without subjecting myself to things that have already negatively affected the quality of my life. I feel in my heart of hearts you will accept this and support me through the next steps.
I said from the very beginning that when I was told there was no hope of prolonging my life, then I wouldn’t torture myself or drag my family through unnecessary anguish. That was my Plan A and I am returning to it.
I look forward to hearing from you and to receiving your continued compassionate and excellent care.
Fondly,
Sheryll O’Brien
Conversation with PCP: We discussed the letter, then I asked him to end my association with the oncologist and arrange a meeting with hospice.
December 10: first meeting with hospice.
A new beginning to my final journey.
This Is Why I Am Pissed
I Became Someone’s Agenda
My PCP looked at the results from my bone scan and he knew how bad things were for me, and he joined my team, and he followed my lead. He delivered the cold, hard truth in a compassionate way and didn’t try to hide the emotional voice-crack he had during his delivery. He said he had a responsibility to refer me to an oncologist — a specialist — someone who could look at the scans and the patient, and perhaps present a plan.
He did what he was supposed to do.
She did not. She terrified me. She gave me a plan that sucked.
Not all of my time with her was a bust. It was in her office that I heard the word, “Terminal,” for the first time. I already knew that, but she was the first person to actually say the word, and I appreciated her frankness when dealing with me. It is my contention that every word after that declaration — every suggested medical scan and procedure — had absolutely nothing to do with the ‘caring’ of me, Sheryll O’Brien.
Instead of explaining with frankness and compassion that bone cancer deaths are painful, and offering an assurance that managing the pain would be central to the care I was given — I was terrified about my impending “excruciatingly painful” death.
Do I think those words were manipulative?
You bet I do.
You’ve seen my bone scan. I’m pretty fucked up — wouldn’t you say? Does it look like the owner of that body should be laid flat on unforgivingly hard tables, and twisted into pretzel positions to get images, and moved in and out of claustrophobic machinery, and drilled — literally drilled — down to her bone marrow, and scheduled for bilateral radiation treatments, and lied to through omission — about drugs that would put her family into financial ruin, and could cause her more harm than good, and perhaps result in her death just by taking them — or by jumping through ridiculous hoops to get them?
Every single decision I made and unmade during the early stages of this shit fest was because of these horrible words.
“Excruciatingly painful death.”
When I first met with the oncologist, I’d already been ripped from my little world and tormented — by the fear that I might be ill; by the knowledge that I needed scans that terrified me; by the possibility that metastatic breast cancer might be part of my life, by the body parts that might be affected (liver or bones); by the angst of facing death and leaving my family. And just when I’d found the strength to accept what was happening, and had found some peace with it, and had acknowledged that I needed hospice — fucking hospice — I was introduced to the myopic-side of oncological medical care. I certainly wasn’t introduced to MY SIDE of oncological medical care.
I believe I was given a shakedown by a physician who made ME an agenda — to what end? I don’t know. Maybe to book up a bunch of physicians’ time, and hospital medical equipment, and maybe look good with Big Pharma? I don’t know — and I don’t care if it sounds ludicrous to think there was an agenda.
All I know is this: Had I seen the bone scan images at the beginning of this mess, I wouldn’t have gone to an oncologist. If you’ve seen the images, if you’ve looked at Blog 64, then you know what Dr. Wonderful knew on November 9, 2021.
There was no hope for me.
So, why am I going through this painful exercise? I need to purge the anger — but when all is said and done I want to advise all of you to do the smart thing — if, God forbid, you find yourself in a shit storm like mine.
ASK TO SEE YOUR TEST RESULTS.
Then, make sure you find a physician who lives by the Hippocratic Oath.