Supposedly, I have a life-threatening melanoma due to a birthmark that they call a cancerous lesion. The surgeon who was not a dermatologist took a sample smaller than recommended and I should never have been diagnosed with cancer. The doctor should have gotten a slap on the wrist and I should have gotten an apology–but they went into coverup mode. If I had a camera for that doctor visit I could prove my allegations of quackery, but I only have the white mark on my arm to prove that the biopsy was obviously too small. I can’t donate my notably rare blood, anymore, and-I hope Obama’s daughter’s die, for lack of my blood in the system. Their father promised to reform the medical system and he sure didn’t do it.
Doctors gave me more reason to hate them today. Do I believe my birthmark is cancerous? No. Could I have cancerous lesion somewhere else? Sure, but that wacky appointment and the rather obvious lies have disintegrated my trust. Do I have an ounce of trust anymore? No. Nine out of ten doctors should be hung for fraud.
I’ll probably kill more doctors, in my novel, just for the fun of it. The main character can become psychotic, at any moment, so I just need to figure out how to get her in the room with some type of quack.
The death wish was a bit much, but hyperbole comes with frustration.