Mike Danforth in 2000, with his niece, Meghan. This was eight years before he died from legalized medical neglect.

It’s been very nearly 17 years since I heard that maniacal laugh that meant someone had just been the butt of one of my son’s practical jokes; 17 years since I tasted one of his delicious meals; 17 years since I picked up the phone late at night to hear, “Hey, Mom, I figured you’d still be up.”

Time does not heal all wounds. Some are just too traumatic and gaping.

Michael was born with a birth defect that left him vulnerable to a particularly aggressive form of colon cancer, and he needed colonoscopies every year. The problem was that in our country, insurance companies hold sway over the entire health “care” system, and profit is king. He was classed as uninsurable because that birth defect was a pre-existing condition. He went without the needed tests because the doctor demanded cash up front — no credit cards or checks — and he didn’t have the money, a fact the doctor noted in Mike’s medical records. “Parient needs a colonocopy but can’t afford it.” One doctor even wrote that he suggested financial counseling, as though it were a prescription for the symptoms Mike was experiencing.

Yes, he went to the emergency room, and no, it is most definitely not mandated to fix what’s wrong with you. They only have to stabilize you, which means giving you pain pills when the problem is a massive tumor. But they don’t have to look for that, they only have to stabilize you — in other words, give you pain pills for a tumor blocking your colon. He left with the wrong diagnosis, medications that did nothing to address the cause of the pain and a huge bill — three times.

Once, the gastroenterologist agreed to do a colonoscopy, but Mike’s colon was blocked, so he stopped the procedure. He didn’t say anything to Mike; we found it later in the records we had to threaten to sue to get. (In case you didn’t know, your records are YOUR properry, not the doctor’s) So this man knew my son had a life-threatening condition and never told him.

We struggled and fought for months to find out what was going on until, finally, he went to the ER and discovered his organs were starting to shut down. He was vomiting fecal matter, he weighed just 111 pounds and he was in excruciating pain. He was hours from death. To turn him away at this point was actionable, so they put him in the hospital. It took five days to stabilize him so he could have surgery, and the night before surgery, I had to physically block a doctor from leaving the room until he had answered a couple of questions for us. Uninsured people weren’t really worth his time, but this mouthy broad wasn’t going to let him off the hook quite so easliy.

After surgery, we saw his doctor briefly, and then not again for several days. When he finally dropped in, he casually told my son and daughter-in-law that Mike had cancer, then left.

I can still hear my son’s voice as he told me over the phone that it was cancer and that he had no answers at all about its type or extent. That would be several weeks in coming, when he was finally able to get an appointment at the cancer center. He had chemo and radiation, but then he got sick again six months later. Again, they ignored his symptoms for months. This time they let him get down to 104 pounds (he was 6 feet tall). The radiation had caused a stricture in his small intestine, and it should have been diagnosed and dealt with weeks before. Still, I had to threaten to go to the press with the story of the deliberate starvation of a 32-year-old man because he couldn’t pay cash for care. As a veteran reporter myself, I know the words that get the attention of media because they get my attention, and there was nothing false in what I was saying.

After that second surgery, the doctor came in and matter-of-factly told us that the pathology report found a few viable cancer cells. “So, that’s it,” he said. “You’ll want to get your affairs in order.” There was no emotion from the man. Nothing. If anything, he seemed bored.

Six weeks later, we got an appointment with Dr. Herb Hurwitz at Duke University Medical Center. He asked Mike when he had last seen his surgeon.

“A few days ago, why?” my son asnwered.

“What did he say about your incision?”

“He said it’s healing slowly becuse I was so sick going in.”

“Well, that and a serious infection,” Dr. Hurwitz said, his latex glove snapping as he pulled it off. “It’s a good thing you’re here and we caught it in time.”

They had intended to let him die from the infection. Either that or they were incompetent. Pick one. It can’t be neither.

Dr. Hurwitz gave us two more years with Mike, and his quality of life was pretty good through most of it.

But then, 17 years ago this week, I got the call.

The cancer was back.

We had just six weeks left with him, and I have to re-live those weeks, day-by-agonizing-day, every damn year, and if you’re sick of hearing about it, then think about how damn sick I am of living it, of being dragged back there year after goddamn year. I have to remember him weighing under 100 pounds, unable to walk, unable to eat more than a few bites at a time and still cracking jokes and watching Star Trek.

He was that wildly silly kid, even through all the humiliations and indignities he suffered during those three years.

He never let go of the jackass in him. He died with a lot more dignity than the people who neglected and killed him.

So, for these six weeks, at least, I’m back. I need people to know the pain these dreadful public policies cause real people — good people.