The COVID Lockdowns Delayed My Mom’s Cancer Surgery. Now She’s Dying.

But everything came to a screeching halt with just one word: cancer.

And then, completely unexpectedly, the entire world shut down.

In March of 2020, just six days after my mom was given the news that she had stage 3 breast cancer, the world started the infamous journey of “two weeks to slow the spread.”

But of course, those two weeks turned into months.

In that time, labs closed and struggled to share or process results. In-person appointments became awkward virtual visits. And most consequential of all, my mom’s medically necessary mastectomy was deemed “elective.”

The surgery was postponed until October that year.

By then, her cancer had progressed to stage 4.

Terminal.

My mom’s medically necessary mastectomy was deemed “elective.”

I have written about this before. I have ranted. I have cried. I have demanded accountability from the bureaucrats who made sweeping decisions without regard for the collateral damage. And yet here we are, six years later, and there has been no reckoning.

Knowing that a day of vengeance will probably never come, I truly tried to move on from the anger I felt toward the policies that changed our lives so dramatically.

But this week, as my mom transitions to hospice care, my rage has returned in full force.

Rage at the lockdowns.
Rage at the politicians who cheered them on.
Rage at a medical establishment that complied.
Rage at a system where insurance companies dictate what care is allowed and what is denied.

A million “policy debates” have become a personal nightmare for my family.

The Questions No One Wanted to Ask

During the height of COVID restrictions, hospitals across the country delayed non-emergency procedures. At the time, the argument was about preserving capacity, protecting hospitals, and being “compassionate.”

We ended up protecting the system that helped harm the patient.

Cancer does not pause for pandemics. Tumors do not wait patiently for public health guidance to become less stupid. Biology keeps moving, regardless of what policy does.

So many times we heard debates about shutdowns in abstract terms and argued over self-righteous Instagram posts.

That part was easy.

Cancer does not pause for pandemics.

It is much harder to talk about real-life consequences of it all. Hardest of all is when those consequences blow up in the faces of your loved ones.

For many of us in this country, we are asking the questions bureaucrats never asked in 2020:

How many diagnoses were delayed?
How many screenings were skipped?
How many surgeries deemed “elective” were anything but optional?

Those numbers will never trend on social media, but families like mine live with them every day.

Unfortunately, COVID lockdowns were not the only sweeping healthcare mistake.

The Illusion of “Access”

Americans like to believe we have the best healthcare system in the world. We are told we have access, freedom, and innovation.

On paper, that sounds true. But as President Trump touched on in his State of the Union address in February, Obamacare reshaped our medical system in ways that empowered insurance companies. It required individuals to purchase coverage, and in doing so, expanded the influence of insurers over doctors and patients.

In practice, that means insurance guidelines often determine what kind of care is offered. “Experimental” means denied. “Outside protocol” means unavailable. Even when patients are willing to pay out of pocket, doctors are hesitant to step beyond what insurers approve.

When someone you love is running out of time, you quickly learn how narrow the lanes really are.

Our political leaders talk a big game about expanded access and Right to Try.

But when someone you love is running out of time, you quickly learn how narrow the lanes really are.

Technically, we can walk into any hospital. But the standard of care has become so standardized that it is practically impossible to access innovative treatment. It is all about the typical, conventional, insurance-approved offering.

In hospice, that reality becomes even clearer.

Hospice and the Limits of “Compassion”

Hospice care is all about comfort and dignity. At least that’s what the brochures say. 

And in many ways, that can be true. Hospice nurses are incredibly compassionate people. They do heavy, difficult work. I have seen their tenderness firsthand, and I can truly say I love the team assembled for my mom.

But the system itself feels restrictive and unfair.

Anything that is not strictly palliative is denied. There is no exploration. No aggressive symptom management. Forget pushing boundaries or trying new approaches. The standard protocol rules above all else. 

For us, that means painkillers and anti-anxiety medication.

We have entered a system that favors sedation.

Even with the best nurses, it is hard not to see that we have entered a system that favors sedation. Sedation is easier. Sedated patients do not complain. They are manageable. But it should concern every single person that when a body is failing, the preferred, system-approved solution often seems to be quieting the mind as well.

How is that the gold standard for “quality of life”? Is this really better than Britain or Canada? It doesn't feel like we're better off when this is what “quality of life” means for my dying mother. It does not feel innovative. It does not feel American. From where we stand, there is no “can-do” spirit left in healthcare.

Instead, we are left with the final result of a system that has stopped being willing to try. One that prefers we go quickly and quietly. Even if that is something that is never said in our biggest policy fights. 

Policies Are Not Abstract, They Always Land Somewhere

For years, reform has been debated in sweeping terms of access, affordability, and compassion. It is language heavy on abstraction and light on reality.

Which is scary, because these policies are not abstract at all.

They always land somewhere. In hospital rooms and living rooms. In the lives of American families who never volunteered to be part of a grand experiment.

For us, it landed on my mom.

What Was Stolen From Us

Now I sit here, eight months pregnant as I write this, with all my rage.

Knowing my mom may not be here when my son is born. And even if she survives until his birth, she cannot be with me. She is 3,000 miles away, mostly confined to bed. Her body is tired now after years of fighting. 

We can FaceTime. We can talk. But the physical presence, the hand to hold during labor, the first embrace of a newborn grandson, may never happen.

That is the part that breaks me.

My mom is 56 years old.

Fifty-six.

There should have been decades of graduations, anniversaries, weddings, and more grandchildren.

If her surgery had not been delayed, would this timeline look different?

Instead, we are savoring what we fear may be our last moments.

And I cannot help wondering: if her surgery had not been delayed, would this timeline look different? If insurance gatekeepers did not hold so much power, would our situation be better?

No one can promise those things would change everything. Cancer is unpredictable.

But I cannot erase the questions.

It is hard not to be bitter in moments like this. Hard to focus on gratitude for the time we have had. Too easy to be angry about the time stolen from me, from my children, from my nieces and nephews.

Meanwhile, the architects of the policies that shaped this reality move on. They write books. They sit on boards. They give speeches about “hard decisions.” They do not sit at bedsides wondering whether they shaved years off someone’s life.

They’ll continue to argue with theories and meaningless metrics. They’ll never be able to measure the moments taken from our family. They’ll never know how much I would give for things to be different.