Interesting article

@kmakm I went private for chemo and the staff were great.  Yes, the process was a production line but I found that reassuring - everyone knew the routine and got on with it.  It made anything unusual stand out.  Re: the article...for me it was so angry and perhaps that's to do with the medical system the author found herself in but I found myself drawing back from it.  I've been angry at the cancer and I've been upset a couple of times by peripheral staff I've come across but never in the vein of the article.

Gosh you're all making me jealous of the care you had during chemo. It once more backs my 20/20 hindsight that I should have gone public.

I also had fantastic personal care during chemo. It was the same head nurse every time and we even had cake when it was her birthday! When I was admitted to the same hospital on day 11 after Chemo 4 she came racing in to put the cannula in for IV antibiotics. She also came and sat with me during her breaks while I was in hospital that one time. It really helped to have that personal care during the toughest part of treatment. 

Radiology was also a very supportive and personalised experience. It is awful to think that anyone experiences what this article describes.

I agree @kezmusc. A very depressing read. I only have good things to say about the chemo nurses at the R.B.W.H.  As a public patient they were all amazing nurses. I had the same bunch of nurses every time. Even now some of them say hello.

Wow.  That's almost the most depressing thing I think I've ever read.  I hope nobody reads that right before they are about to start chemo.  They have mostly the same staff at the hospital I went to.  Everybody still remembers me right down to the receptionist.  Pays to be the first chick that kept her hair right...lol.

Yeah I have to say the chemo nurses were excellent (St Vincent's Public Hospital Melbourne). Radiotherapy was a whole other kettle of fish and they tried to fob me off to another oncologist at one point, but I refused.

I had much the same staff right through, the senior oncology nurse was brilliant. Gun stabber! And there were beds! 

I didn't do revenge hair drops either!

Chemo was a bit production line-ish in the small private hospital I was in. They were just terribly busy, and after my first one it was a little set and forget. I didn't overly mind but it would have been nice if the nurses had had time to talk a little, to help take your mind off what was happening. When I finished I don't think anyone there knew anything much about me at all, apart from the NUM who was there on the first infusion. And she wasn't there on the last. It was oddly impersonal for something so intense.

I think the article must be read with the American medical system very much in mind.

Anne Boyer has a remarkable ability with language. And if I had seen no benefit from chemo in regard to
my tumour, I too would have been deeply disappointed. It’s the anger that I don’t identify with. No-one hated me, I felt no need for revenge, through hair deposits or any other mechanism. My male surgeon and oncologist were honest and never casual. My temporary toxicity was the result of the severity of my illness, and the use of the available tools (which in some cases are improving although slowly). Sometimes the only way to defend is to counter attack. It’s worth  remembering that progress in treating breast cancer beats practically all other cancers. It’s a powerful and personal view.

@kmakm I certainly identify with elements of the story.

For instance the bizarreness of having substances so toxic that no-one else can even risk being in contact with your bodily fluids, injected directly into a vein. I remember finding about the origins of Cyclophosphamide as mustard gas, and again feeling how strange it was - colluding with medically qualified people to allow it to be intravenously administered into me.

At times I did feel like I was a part on a production line, despite the best efforts of the medical team (especially the chemo nurses) to treat me with care and kindness.

And I do remember thinking that, despite the assertions of my oncologist, the treatments have not changed much since my mother's BC diagnosis in the late eighties.

I didn't go around leaving hanks of my hair as a representation of distress, although by the time it fell out I had already shaved it to a number four.