Unhealed Wounds

Tonight was the second time Tonya and I had spoken on the phone. Tonya was soft-spoken, articulate, and tired. Extremely tired. Every word sounded tinged with a sigh.

Even before she'd started telling me her story, I'd seen Mark's picture, I understood.

Tonya had been a nurse until an autoimmune disorder left her unable to continue working. Mark had been the assistant manager at a furniture store, his salary supporting his mother and child. Tonya and Mark lived in a tent by to the bay in Union Beach, but relocated to Tent City a week before Sandy hit. They remained there about a year and a half, then spent a year at a motel in Seaside, where his condition worsened.

Having run out of options, their only alternative after that was living a trailer with no running water on a friend's property.

That is where Mark is spending his final days.

It was impossible to stem the tears when I looked at that photo. The cancer had taken its toll, and Mark's face was completely ravaged, his left eye missing, a gaping hole where his nose used to be.

It started with a wound on his face that would not stop bleeding. He was diagnosed with a "minor infection," prescribed medication, and sent home. He returned to the doctor when the side effects became too much to bear. The doctor took a culture but couldn't give an answer. A clinic ordered a PET scan and callously assumed the wound on his face was the result of an addiction. Mark's 18-month shuffle between various hospitals, doctors, patient advocates, and insurance companies began. The diagnosis of cancer was not made until April 2014, long after he'd begin to lose part of his nose.

Since then, Mark has lost nearly seventy pounds, his nose, and an eye. Medical professionals have determined that his condition is "too complicated" for them to treat, as he oscillates between recurring infections and the increasing aggressiveness of the malignancy; the chemotherapy and radiation treatments suggested by his oncologist could prove deadly. Tonya describes the multitude of proverbial doors that have been slammed in their faces: the Social Services resources that he has allegedly exhausted, the medical expenses that are not covered by Medicaid, the lack of communication between healthcare establishments that has delayed the delivery of the initial biopsy to the proper hospital

In the meantime, Tonya does whatever she can to make Mark comfortable, even as she herself struggles with systemic lupus. And Mark is left with little more than hoping for a pain-free day and a chance to watch some television.

They have done a lot of hoping - for the next doctor, the next hospital, the next door to be the miracle they're waiting for.

To me, just hearing their story, this is not only heartbreaking. This is a travesty. No one in this nation of plenty, regardless of their income, should have to die without decent shelter, or unable to receive adequate medical care.

But perhaps even more tragic is the fact that if we sit by idly, we allow it to happen.

I pray that we can work together to find adequate and humane housing in which Mark can comfortably spend his final days.

Peace and love to you all.