by: faye sonier
there were spots and bleeding. the doctor said we’d know more the next day. i knew right then. it was cancer. again.
it was september 2020, in what now feels like the early days of covid. i had spent the night standing next to my 38-year-old husband’s emergency room bed, swallowing panic. at 2 a.m., the doctor brought results from preliminary tests.
“we have a four- and six-year-old,” i choked.
what i meant was: “you need to fix this. you need to save him. i can’t go on without him.”
i was sure it was cancer because in the last two decades cancer has torn through my family. i was the first, at 21. then it struck my grandfather and mother. now cancer was striking my husband: a terrible type with very few effective treatments.
my husband was fortunate none of his tests or treatments were cancelled due to covid policies. otherwise, he would have been one of thousands of canadians who have died from delayed health care. he is now, thankfully, “free of disease” and generally healthy. but “remission” won’t be part of his medical lexicon for years.
witnessing the world handling the covid crisis, as i watched chemo eat away at my husband, was unnerving. the percentage of cumulative covid-related deaths among ontario’s confirmed cases is 1.5%. yet i saw government pull out all the stops. new vaccines rolled out in rapid succession. meanwhile, my husband deteriorated from his likely ineffective cancer drug. no new drugs have been developed in recent years to treat his form of cancer.