By Sarah E. Murphy

I took this photo on Wednesday, May 27, while my husband was getting his tenth chemoimmunotherapy treatment. Two more to go. Our finish line within reach. Although Chris would have to continue immunotherapy indefinitely, we were relieved knowing his chemo would soon be ending, and he was so excited at the prospect of getting his taste buds back. His oncologist kept saying the immuno was less invasive, touting the responsiveness of Chris’ cells and enthusiastically reporting on his tumor markers revealing a shrunken tumor.

My cousins and aunt generously and thoughtfully gifted us a Doordash card last winter, and all Chris wanted was to enjoy some Chinese food again. He had been looking forward to it for months, so we were waiting to use the card as a symbol of the hurdles we thought we – and my brave husband in particular – had overcome. We were going to celebrate his final chemo, and our fifteenth wedding anniversary on June 26.

We were grateful thinking we might actually get a slight return to normality, whatever that may be for a Stage 4 cancer patient.

But I knew things weren’t right as I watched Chris struggle more with each treatment, which I tried to convey to his oncologist, especially after his first bout of pneumonia in mid-May, resulting in a three-night stay in Falmouth Hospital.

My feelings were dismissed and minimized and I was told by him and various nurses that it’s all part of the process.

I now know I was watching my husband decline before my eyes despite being told to “continue living life.”

It’s been two months and I still haven’t heard from my husband’s oncologist, and at this point, I’m assuming I never will. My Dana-Farber support system ended abruptly in May, and nurses who became like family are now a memory. But I’ve already received fundraising appeals amid the hospital bills.

A hospice organization called Care Dimensions sent me a letter stating it was an honor to care for my loved one even though they didn’t care for him.

Someone called me the day before my husband died, but the end came so fast, I told them we didn’t need hospice. Showing up in the doorway at the 11th hour is hardly “caring,” but they took the time to update their potential donor list and now they’re grifting.

I used to sing the praises of Dana-Farber and each person who crossed our path in our cancer journey, always trying to focus on “gratitude,” but as the months passed, I also witnessed how for some employees, it is in fact just a job, one they’re able to leave at the door each night unlike the patients and those of us who care for and love them. Some were actually dismissive and short with Chris and me as we faced the worst chapter of our lives.

On that final day, when we returned on the 29th to have his pump removed until the next treatment, I now realize I was fighting a panic attack. I could barely remain in my seat as we waited to be called into the infusion area, listening to loud, saccharine pop music while a young woman at the front desk chatted incessantly with her co-worker as if they were high schoolers in study hall. She had chided me one morning, sending me out of the infusion waiting area to the hallway telling me it was too full as if she were security at a Gillette concert, so I watched my husband through the doors until she “allowed” me back in.

During what would be his final infusion, I stared out the window of 22 Patriot Place to see preparations for the World Cup, wanting to scream at the insignificance of it all. Chris and I had been dreading it and the influx of traffic added to our already stressful commute to and from Cape Cod every two weeks with the world’s most entitled and aggressive drivers.

But we would never return to Gillette, for Chris was taken in an ambulance that day to Sturdy Memorial Hospital in Attleboro due to dangerously low oxygen, something I didn’t need a medical professional to confirm. It’s why I was so terrified in the waiting room, and when they confirmed my fears and called the EMTs, I ran down the hall crying, flashing back to the November night in the Brigham and Women’s ER, when we learned the tumor had spread to other organs. My husband ended up dying on June 11, the first day of the World Cup, and the mere mention of it makes me feel nauseous.

A year ago, my husband was sick but hadn’t yet been diagnosed, working in the August heat to beautify our town of extreme wealth, going above and beyond for the Falmouth DPW Parks Department, taking pride in his work despite the utterly shitty morale and disrespectful treatment of “laborers” like Chris.

We were pathetically naive to think a job with the Town of Falmouth would be a good career move and would provide “security,” and Chris heard many empty promises in his 11 1/2 year-career. They turned their back on us as soon as Chris shared his diagnosis. As he kept saying to me, “I’m just a number to them.”

The other day, my deceased husband received mail from Dana-Farber, so I opened it with a nervous stomach assuming it was another hospital bill.

Instead, it was an appeal for a donation to Dana-Farber and The Jimmy Fund, with some annoying story about a kid who’s now “cancer-free.” I was so utterly blown away and disgusted, nor do I care about how great life is for him and his family. So many cancer patients, as was the case for Chris, will never be “cancer-free,” and throwing that term around is not only tone deaf but triggering. Many brave people are doing everything in their power just to manage cancer while attempting to prolong the inevitable. They don’t get the tearjerker ending intended to loosen purse strings. Some of us are trying to pick up the pieces and can barely get out of bed every day. Was my husband less deserving because he’s not a kid? Did he not “fight” hard enough?

The pathetic form letter is from Dr. Stephen E. Sallan, Chief of Staff Emeritus at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, and it brought on another panic attack, crying alone in my empty kitchen, shaking with rage.

This is what life after cancer is really like for many of us.

This idiot asks my deceased husband to make a donation to “defy cancer,” in the enclosed envelope with the word “RUSH” in bold capital letters.

My response to Dr. Stephen E. Sallan: Get a motherfucking clue, and go fuck yourself.