Expendable

He nodded toward the magazine headlines in the grocery store checkout line and voiced his opinion with confidence.

“Can you believe this sh*t?  This Obamacare?  Affordable my *ss!  

Trump will fix this. He said he would.  Mark my words.

Trump said he’s gonna get rid of all of it!”

The man said these things to me a few days before the election.

My mouth opened and an opinion came out. “Well, I’ve had cancer and have had some insurance changes, so I hope he doesn’t get rid of the pre-existing conditions clause.  I’m hoping my family won’t have to deal with bankruptcy fears... or worse...if my cancer comes back and I can’t afford treatment.”

The anxiety kicked in immediately.  

My heart pounded in regret.

I wished I had kept quiet.  

“You see, it’s people like you I really

HATE!”

he said, firmly, finger jabbing toward me.

“I have to pay for people like you to get your chemo and stuff that you pretend will let you live a little longer. MY family and MY finances are worse off because of you. It kinda p*sses me off.”

I managed to mutter-stutter a response, “Well, I’m sorry it’s been so hard for you.  I hope you don’t ever get cancer or another disease so you have to worry about the other side of getting sick.”

He was done paying for his groceries. He grabbed his two bags and turned to me, “Oh, you can bet I would never be so stupid as to get something like cancer.  Cancer is just God’s way of getting rid of people who are expendable.  I’m pretty sure I’m good.”

It was true. I was stupid enough to get cancer.

And now I am someone many people don’t want to help.

I am a burden to society and the health care system.

Sick people like me make your medical insurance more expensive.

I am alive, telling my story today because you paid a few extra dollars in premiums.

That man in the grocery store hated me for all of that.

Do people like me bother you?

Could you come to my house,

drink tea with me at my dining room table,

and then tell me I am too much of a burden?

As you finished your tea, could you tell me you hate me?

As you stood up, ready to leave,

could you look at my face

and tell me I am

expendable?

I am afraid of your answer.

What about next year when you are stupid enough to get sick?  

In a year and a half I have been billed over $400,000.

Can  you afford that?

Is it different when it’s you?

Perhaps you are expendable too.

I Showed Him

A ten year old boy deflated my confidence with his piercing arrows of trash talk.  The armor that had taken me months to build up around myself was full of holes before the 5k race even started. The chubby old people should have just stayed home, grabbed a bag of chips, laid on the couch and turned on PBS.  

This is what he said.  

The countdown hit zero and the admonishing boy sprinted out.  

He was gone.

I hit the start button on my watch timer.

I run almost every day.  This was not my first race.  

But,

it was my first race since I got a little

bit of

cancer.

As my feet started moving my head started barking orders and expectations to myself.

“You had darn well better finish this race. You need to run that secret goal time.  You need to prove that you aren’t dying yet.  And whatever you do--- Don’t. Stop. Running.”

  

I’d show that boy what old people can do.

I’d show that boy what cancer people can do.

I’d show him.

That ten year old boy threw up on the side of the road. We were less than one mile into the race.

I saw him.

He was miserable.

I slowed a bit. I watched. I mentally paused.  

I KEPT RUNNING.

It’s been weeks since I finished that race and I’ve been trying to write about it ever since I crossed the finish line.  I’ve been trying to tell the story about that demoralizing “gigantic” hill, the pain in my post chemo joints and how the race was much harder than I had hoped it would be.  I’ve been trying to tell the story about how I passed runners much younger than me and how I did manage to get my secret goal time. I wanted to tell a story about how I proved, at least to myself, that I was not dead yet.

.

But every time I try and tell those stories I keep seeing that boy throwing up on the side of the road, all by himself, with no one helping him.  No one asking him if he was ok.  No one offering him any comfort.

In the replay in my mind, I think of someone besides myself.

In the replay in my mind, I make a difference.

In the replay in my mind,

I STOP RUNNING.

Oh, I got off the couch and finished that race all right.
I showed that boy.

I’m just not sure I’m proud of what I showed him.