Cancer Diary: Carl Died from Cancer, Not Covid, But Covid Carries Blame Nonetheless

 

Carl died of cancer. That much is true, and terrible, and simple on the surface. But the story is more complex than a single disease. COVID-19 didn’t cause Carl’s cancer—but it surely made his path to diagnosis, care, and support harder. It distorted the shape of the last chapter of his life in ways that were subtle, cumulative, and unforgivable.

Carl’s cancer was diagnosed late. How late, we’ll never know. But we do know this: in the early months of the pandemic, Carl’s doctor wasn’t seeing patients in person. Like many, he was doing only virtual visits. So when Carl started losing weight—quickly, inexplicably—it was easy to dismiss it as something positive. Carl himself believed it was a good thing. He looked thinner, healthier even, after years of carrying extra pounds. In a regular year, a doctor might have seen the warning signs: how the weight was distributed, how Carl moved, how he looked close up. Maybe they would have ordered tests earlier. Maybe they would have caught it in time to give him more quality time. Maybe.

But Carl’s doctor wasn’t there. In fact, at one point, he took leave to help in overwhelmed hospitals in New York City. I admired his courage—but it left Carl in the care of a part-time substitute, someone unfamiliar with his history. Appointments lagged. Prescriptions took longer to refill. Blood tests were delayed. It all added up. When time is the most precious thing a terminal cancer patient has, delay is more than an inconvenience. It’s theft.

And then there were the visits to subacute care facilities—places Carl needed to go to recover from treatments or manage symptoms. These facilities were under strict COVID controls. Visitors were limited. Protocols shifted constantly. Each visit was a risk—not just from cancer, but from COVID itself. We lived in constant fear that one wrong exposure would tip the scales.

The hardest part, for both of us, was the isolation. As his spouse, I couldn’t accompany Carl to most of his appointments. He had five terminal cancers and suffered from "chemo brain" and cognitive fog brought on by hypercalcemia, a complication of bone cancer. He often couldn’t remember what the doctors said, or got it mixed up. I would sit in the car, allowed only to call in on speakerphone—thankfully, his oncologist was compassionate and permitted this workaround. But it wasn’t the same. I couldn’t see his body language. I couldn’t lock eyes with the doctor or read the subtle cues that tell you how bad things really are. I couldn’t advocate for Carl in real time.

And more than that, I couldn’t be there. Physically. Emotionally. For Carl. For myself. That absence eroded something vital—our confidence, our shared understanding, our strength.

I often felt like I was living inside a snow globe, peering in. I could see Carl, and he could see me. I was close enough to care, but too far away to help in the ways that mattered most. I was inside and outside at the same time, part of the story and yet unable to shape it as I should have been able to.

Carl’s cancer killed him. But COVID shaped how he suffered and how he died. We lost time, clarity, presence, and peace. I will always wonder what might have been different—if only the world had been able to function as it should.

So yes, Carl died of cancer. But COVID is not blameless.

For other Cancer Diary posts, click HERE.

Blog editor's note: As a memorial to Carl, and simply because it is truly needed, MSI Press is now hosting a web page, Carl's Cancer Compendium, as a one-stop starting point for all things cancer, to make it easier for those with cancer to find answers to questions that can otherwise take hours to track down on the Internet and/or from professionals. The CCC is expanded and updated weekly. As part of this effort, each week, on Monday, this blog will carry an informative, cancer-related story -- and be open to guest posts: Cancer Diary. 

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