I feel like a cell in a body. A tiny little cell that’s part of something far bigger and more complex than myself.
It’s a body that has cancer. Not a terrible cancer. Something curable with appropriate treatment. The treatment wouldn’t be pleasant, but it wouldn’t be crippling. But it has to happen, because without it, the body really would die.
But the body has somehow inexplicably rejected conventional treatment, and decided to go with alternative medicine. Woo. Nonsense. Fantasy-based care.
- “That chemo is poison!”
- “The drug companies are all in cahoots, trying to keep me sick so they can make more money off me.”
- “My doctor has orange hair and small fingers, and although he’s never been to medical school, he says he can make my body great again. So what do I have to lose?”
I am trembling in fear, because as a tiny isolated cell in this sick, sick, sick body, I could very well die. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.