Cancer screenings delayed during Covid leading to deadly results

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Read the well researched well collated information from around the United States and if the number is true that 10,000 additional cancer deaths would be extrapolated from 86% fewer screenings of breast cancer alone, I tend to think this number is not only low but optimistic.

While the number of screenings are on the rise the rise is slow.Very slow. And that means that people in socioeconomic demographics that typically did not want to get screened for fear of job loss and fear of rejection by their friends and families, we have an even worse problem on our hands. With education being behind in languages other than English and women afraid of what the outcomes might be – we will see much higher rates of stage four diagnoses in these groups of women.

What can be done now? How do we prevent this new pandemic from not taking out the lives of women who did not have access to routine mammography and in low socioeconomic pockets where before Covid was a deterrent there were still barriers to screening how do we make this a priority? We must push harder for mobile forms of mammography and other cancer screenings and take the equipment to the areas of highest need and worse yet higher mortality rates because of lack of education and access to quality health care.

As a white woman with dense breasts I would be in the same position as i would have been before Covid as during. I would have wound up in the hospital with the same problem and same diagnosis. But other women needn’t have the same fate as I have had to accept. We must do something soon or this will become even uglier than I suspect it already is. And I will not likely be alive to see something through and my energy is in the dumps with an over subscribed calendar and I’m finding it harder and harder to get up in the mornings. Not that I don’t want to do something but there’s entire non-profits like Komen and others that pride themselves on promoting early detection.

Where are they now? Where are they in the communities that will suffer the most pain and mortality. I see little input from them on taking the diagnostics and education into the communities that need them most. Please let me know if I’m mistaken, because it’s late and I am losing the sharp eyesight that allowed me to educate myself and to do the research I’d like to do. The diabetes caused by the Piqray and Metformin to keep this lovely side effect is keeping me from writing and researching as much as I want – even trying to transcribe my hand writing is becoming almost impossible.

Let’s at least start the conversations at the grass roots level. These reports are just starting to make their way quietly it seems into the public eye. Let’s put a microscope on the system and fight for some change before we find out that it’s way past the point of no return. This is going to be a long term problem with serious ramifications.

Feast of Burden

No. I can’t make it down tonight.

Through the door you

Knock on my belligerence

Testing my lock without a key

Imploring you:

“Please. Go down to greet our company.”

Delicately each holds paper napkins

Within which each hides

Their thin whispers of doubt.

“She’s better than expected.”

Suddenly everyone earns expert degrees

Doctorates of to each his own

Masters of there but for the

Grace of her go I.

Presenting cakes in white boxes

Secured with candy cane twine

Holding buttercream sugary sweet

Carefully crafted roses of pink.

I seriously consider meeting anyone

In an old baby blue chenille robe

Ragged and open,

My sash untied

I stand on the stairs waving goodbye.

The hours slipped out with my hair

From the knot in my head

Until finally the last clasp of

The door closes behind our pitied guests..

Don’t ask if I’d like a hug.

When did love become quid pro quo?

Kisses of dessert the price of a peach tart.

Clearing the table from the ruins of the night

Imagining Vesuvius and the

Bodies frozen in the flows of time.

Shoulders slump and I rock forward

Over my flattened chest.

Tired as a rag doll tied again and again

Stitched blue thread under my

Frilled little girl dress

Too short to cover this body

Underneath left a mess.

My torn head bowed in

Gratitude for advice:

Talk of cures and tinctures,

Beautiful fans of turkey tails cures

Sipping marshmallow teas

All my thankfulness

flows like champagne

Out of a magnum and into a glass

The shape of a queen’s breast.

I can still hear you slapping your thigh

Distant music about over-sold stories.

Hysterical scorn defers to look at me,

Your cheek down on my lap I stand up

Leaving your face on the old gold sofa

Its brocade brambles emboss your cheek.

I hate you in a moment.

My slippers slap the stairs

Punishing the floor boards

Just like a mother’s hand.

Upstairs the bedroom mirror stares back

I laugh along with her tight jaw —

My face looks uncooked and raw

Open the oven and turn on the gas

No not tonight I find a way

To stay and give this death a pass.