Angela Wright Asks:
Look, Honestly, that was completely unprofessional of him.Look, those doctors are his actual colleagues—people he works alongside every single day—so trying to undermine someone's professionalism like that is incredibly unfair. You have to remember that doctors are human beings; they make mistakes, and he’s certainly no saint himself. My mother has a brain tumor and was put on Temodal. Generally speaking, almost everyone receives Temodal, but there is an official protocol that is subject to "maneuvering"—if you want to call it that—depending on a doctor's specific experience. For instance, someone else might not receive Temodal exactly the way my mother received it at Rib, simply because her oncologist believed her specific method was the absolute best approach for her case. Since Lilac, my mom has been on Temodal, but under a different protocol; then again, my husband received it differently through Vpava, even though he was treated by the exact same oncologist who treats my mother. It’s exactly as you described—it’s all about the individualized approach. These disagreements regarding a therapy that a doctor presented to you versus what their colleagues suggest? Those are handled during medical board meetings behind closed doors, without patients being dragged into the middle of it. It is frankly terrible to approach a patient this way; it completely erodes the credibility of the healthcare system and doctors, which is already struggling enough due to bureaucracy. In medicine, 1+1 doesn't always equal 2. Similarly, just because one doctor's approach differs from another's—in this case, a highly respected professor—doesn't mean it is inherently wrong or less effective.
Like I’ve already said before—it all comes down to trust and that fundamental sense of security. Based on my own experience, I wouldn't even feel comfortable approaching a person if they acted like that; you just can't feel safe around someone behaving that way. But then again, everyone is different. When you're dealing with cancer, nothing is ever certain. That's just the reality of this disease.
Look, it isn’t unprofessional—it’s just being human. Seriously. Unless you can actually prove they’re doing it on purpose—you know, intentionally undermining a colleague's authority just to boost their own ego for some selfish gain—then don't go throwing around accusations. Sure, it’s bad for the patient. It shakes their confidence and makes them feel less secure, regardless of how the treatment actually turns out. But let’s be real: if you haven't personally sat in on a single medical board meeting, you have absolutely no idea what goes on behind those closed doors. And frankly? It’s probably better that way—especially for the patients.
I’ve been a part of that machine for a long time—and I am calling it exactly what it is.
Let’s be honest—anyone in healthcare, regardless of their specific role, who deals with terminal or critically ill patients on a daily basis starts building a psychological wall almost immediately. It happens unconsciously. You’re constantly facing death and suffering, so you instinctively construct this protective barrier just to survive the shift. Isn't that just human nature?
Can you even begin to imagine the weight they all carry? They’re constantly wading through this endless ocean of suffering and death—dealing with people who are looking to them for miracles and immediate relief, even when performing one is physically impossible. How do you even process that?
Over time, healthcare workers develop these defense mechanisms just to survive—to stay sane while doing their jobs—by distancing themselves from the patient and focusing strictly on the pathology. You take that psychological detachment and add the current state of the American healthcare system to the mix, and you get a pretty grim picture of where things stand today. Sure, there are some who have genuinely lost their sense of humanity—though they aren't the majority—but it happens. They either become completely desensitized through sheer exhaustion, or they’re simply in the wrong profession to begin with—treating a calling like nothing more than a stepping stone for their own careers.
That’s exactly why those who get burned out aren't just the professionals—it’s the ones who tie their entire emotional well-being to their patients. They’re the ones who actually feel everything.
personal They need to take full responsibility for every single patient who walks through their doors asking for help—instead of constantly trying to shift that burden onto everyone else. Why can't they just own it?
This entire thread is nothing more than a mirror—a reflection of how human relationships have shifted over the last few decades. It’s all right here.
It used to be that people actually died surrounded by their families—often with several generations all gathered in one room. That kind of presence provided real comfort to the dying, not to mention the immense strength and support it gave to those left behind. People passed away in their own beds, in their own homes. Even if they had been in a hospital for a time, their families almost always made sure to bring them back home to die among their own people, under their own roof.
There was always someone there—even if it was just a neighbor. No one was ever left to face it alone, day or night.
The sheer density of family ties and community support—neighbors, acquaintances, everyone being tight-knit and ready to step up in a crisis—made all the difference. Because let’s be honest: having a physical presence is often more vital than any medication meant to dull the pain. And the kids? They were part of that circle, too.
But then came the isolation. By breaking families down into disconnected individuals, we lost all of that. We started dehumanizing death and the dying process, starting as early as childhood. This led to all these official—and unofficial—theories claiming we shouldn't "burden" children by letting them confront illness or mortality. Of course, you don't expose young children to these things, but today, this logic is applied even to older kids who are given rights in every other area, except the right to actually understand and develop a healthy relationship with mortality (and the reality of suffering).
Nowadays, both the dying and their loved ones are left to fend for themselves. The elderly and those nearing the end are simply sent off to "institutions to write off"—take a place like N. Marof, for example.
And as I've said before, there isn't even professional support available. Not for those passing away, and certainly not for those left behind. That kind of help is absolutely essential. In a way, this thread—this exchange of thoughts and lived experiences—is a shadow of what those large, supportive families used to be.
