THE ETHICS OF MEDICINE AS SEEN FROM THE SIDE OF THE VICTIM

Thirteen years ago I was diagnosed with cancer, operated in haste and passed on to an oncologist. My gynaecologist did not give me any options with regard to whom I should use or any information about the impending treatment.  I was, quite literally, passed on like a plate of canapés at a cocktail party. I thought I was lucky – the oncologist was charming, chatted to me comfortably and did what he did without making a fuss about it.  I was so shocked by the "c" word, about what would happen to my beloved children without me (I was a single mother & sole breadwinner) about my future and the fear that accompanies this that I did what he said. I was an automaton, a robot – I moved and did and behaved in a manner I considered to look normal. I didn’t want the children to know, to fear, and to panic.  He didn’t tell me that there were any other treatment options, he didn’t tell me that there were side effects – in fact, he stressed that there would be no long term side effects and he didn’t offer me any choice in the matter. After all, he told me that I would be fine and that there was nothing for me to worry about. Ever. I was given no options with regard to the treatment, no information about any other treatments available and most certainly not told about any side effects whatsoever.  I was assured that I was as safe as houses and that nothing would go wrong – as long as I did what he told me.  The only information I received from him was that I would receive my radiation from his spanking new machine that had just arrived from the
USA! I trusted him to make me better. I was a single mother with three children and running my own business.  Suffice to say that I was shocked beyond belief, but for the sake of my children kept up a "stiff upper lip" – a cliché so often used by so many. I adored my oncologist then and for the eleven or so years that I saw him regularly for check ups.  Until a year or two ago.  I went to see my G.P. about a tingling in one of my toes – who then passed me onto an orthopaedic surgeon who then passed me onto a neurologist. The neurologist did many very, very expensive tests and when he finally finished, he told me that the only conclusion that he could find was that I had some radiation damage. He gave me something for the tingling and said that he would do a scan four or five months later, if my condition did not improve.  I left his rooms shaking. Furious beyond belief. Shocked and disbelieving. However, I phoned my ‘beloved’ oncologist and told him what the neurologist said.  He calmed me down and agreed to see me post haste. When I got there, he examined me and ASSURED ME THAT I HAD NOTHING TO FEAR.  IT WAS NOT THE RADIOTHERAPY.I was referred to a friend of his who was a neurologist.  He made the appointment himself and phoned me to explain to me how to get there and when it was.Once again the doctor was very nice but told me to have a scan immediately. I am still paying it off. He got the scans – he had them in front of them, but could not tell me what was wrong with me and referred me to yet another specialist – but not before telling me that my oncologist had just stopped practicing. Just like that. Suddenly without letting me know. Straight after he must have got the results of the scan. At this point I became more than suspicious and, embarrassingly, broken hearted. I expected more from the man that was my friend for so many years – a man I had trusted so implicitly.  At this point I looked for a lawyer because there was no way in the world that I could afford to pay the medication and the medical costs – and I was desperately worried that I could not work. I would land in the street – as would my family. For a while I could find not a single lawyer in my city that was prepared to help me on a contingency basis. Miraculously I found a firm of honest attorneys. “What”? – you may ask, but I did. On top of that they are kind, caring and go out of their way to help me.  So, there I went – sent to someone who was top in her field. A neurologist of note. She was sure that I had something unrelated to the radiation damage but had to write a letter to obtain the mysterious scans from neurologist number two, and I was, finally, able to collect them from his offices.  To say that she was very irritated that I had gone to see lawyers, is putting it mildly. When she saw the scans she knew what was wrong with me and when she was finished, let me have them again. Even I could see what was wrong – and the radiologists comments, “you have been well and truly irradiated” made sense all of a sudden.So finally, after almost a year I was diagnosed with something called post-irradiation pelvic plexopathy. I had no idea what that was but, at least, she put me on warfarin to see whether it would stop whatever it is that I have. I still had no idea was wrong with me and it was only when my lawyer sat me down and explained to me what was wrong, that I understood it.Snag is – it seems that I am a plate of canapés yet again and unless I find a specialist that agrees that I should have been warned of the side effects at the time, I have no case.  It is inhumane, but there it is.  With our new South African constitution, it seems we still have no rights. 

FOR GODZILLA – CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA

Why can the waste in the so-called informal settlement area's not be removed safely and cheaply without massive payouts to huge waste removal companies? I know that it can be done, because I have done this, successfully at one time in my life! However, I was small, neither could or would pay bribes and was rather smartly ousted by the municipality (with the assistance of one of the larger companies methinks) at a time when I could not put up fight. I got sick & had to spend time fighting to get better. There is no need for large expensive trucks to go into the informal area's for hours on a daily basis –  mainly because they cannot get into the area's successfully anyway and because the tiny streets cannot accept such large vehicles. We need only hand out black bags to the people who live there and pay them an amount of money to bring all the bags to a central collection point. Since most of them are out of work anyway, the place will be cleaned up in a jiffy and the compactor truck can go to one point and collect the bags, saving diesel, oil, manpower and man hours. The snag here, though, is that there is very little room for bribery and the fat-cats in the municipalities as well as the large waste removing companies won't be able to line their pockets anymore because they will be paying the inhabitants of those areas. It would have to be done by a smaller company, with tiny overheads and dedicated staff. My goodness, we will be saving money for the municipalities, creating some tiny income for the impoverished residents and doing an excellent job at the same time! Sad though, that this idea will not take root unless someone, somewhere puts their foot down. C'mon Godzilla – here's one for you!