Beneath The Spin: The Cruel Reality – A Personal Story

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[Our dear Molly needs your help; once you read this, you’ll understand why. At the end of this commentary you will find the address for a fund that has been set up for her, along with other important information.] -ed

Three months ago, I heard the most feared and unwelcome words ever spoken. “It’s cancer.”

As if my gynecologist had uttered some incomprehensible ancient language that held no meaning for me, I sucked in my breath and waited for interpretation. Certainly, he didn’t say what I thought he said. It’s impossible. Doesn’t he know who I am? I’m young, healthy and have always exercised.

With eyes squinted, I stared in his direction like a Siamese cat examining a wristwatch. He repeated, “I’m sorry, it’s uterine cancer.”

That moment was like stepping out of the shower into outer space. The next few minutes melted into a series of slow-motion vignettes wherein I paced the room, crying and the doctor waited for me to gather myself.

He then informed me that one of Baptist Hospital’s most respected oncologists could meet with me in 15 minutes to schedule surgery as soon as possible.

As the words began to take root, so did the panic and I heard myself say, “But I can’t afford to have cancer!”

Knowing I had limited health-care coverage, I flashed on the 177,000 Tennesseans dropped from TennCare. Just two years ago I had made a short documentary called Faces Of TennCare depicting some of the 67,000 critically ill patients who lost their jobs, their homes and many who have since lost their loved ones.

Within an hour, I had met with the oncologist and was scheduled for a radical hysterectomy three days later. Among all the precautionary “do’s and don’ts” to ensure a successful recovery, the one most emphasized by the surgeon was remaining “stress-free.”

My fear was that I wouldn’t be able to have the surgery if required to pay the uncovered costs upfront. I had limited health-care coverage. Somehow, I felt embarrassed and ashamed.

As a free-lancer, the reality of not working for six weeks was immensely stressful — if not terrifying. In spite of doctor’s orders, I worried about paying bills, losing my house, in addition to grieving the losses associated with such surgery. Two weeks after the procedure, the pathology report revealed the cancer was stage three and had spread to the lymph nodes. The recommended treatment protocol involves five months of chemotherapy followed by five weeks of radiation to be completed by February. Two months and three hospital procedures later, the bills continue to flood the mailbox and I marvel at the astronomical cost of health care and the effect so many zeroes can have on the human heart.

It is only because of others who have been generous and loving that I am able to take this time to heal. For better and for worse, I am not the same person, but now I actually have a rudimentary understanding of the cruel reality facing 47 million without health care.