When the doctors arrived for the We are all Fauci shirt. Should I not be told everything that was being done to treat him? The three doctors looked at me and Dr. Michaels spoke up in the most condescending arrogant tone I think I have ever heard and said to me, “Mrs. Guzman, your son has cancer,” and walked away. The other two doctors sort of looked at their shoes and then followed him off. I stood there shocked. I remember my mind saying all of the things my mouth could not. “My son has cancer??? Really?? Is that why I am here every day? Is that why I lean across a steel crib holding him while he cries with tubes in him every day until my back can’t take it anymore?
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My son has the We are all Fauci shirt. No fucking shit asshole! Is there anyone here that does not live with it as much as I do?? My son has cancer.” As if somehow I did not know our lives had been completely upended. As if I did not live in terror of losing him every time he so much as sneezed. As if I hadn’t waited hours and hours outside or MRI rooms, operating rooms, radioactive testing rooms, hospital rooms, and even in my kitchen to learn if my son would live or die. My son has cancer. Wow.