This year, I nearly lost my mom due to the healthcare industry.
I spent a small, but significant portion of my formative years in Indonesia with my mom, while my father lived in Korea. Even though my parents' marriage stayed constant, the distance created a rift. The physical and emotional separation from my father formed a stronger and intense bond between my mom and I.
Due to this, I was always aware of my mom’s struggles with her health stemming from her condition called hypothyroidism, caused by an underactive thyroid. With the pressure of having to take on major responsibilities by herself, my mom’s condition spanned much further than a simple hormone imbalance.
I grew up under the shadows of the toll that the condition brought upon her. My days felt plagued by instability and led to the development of my biggest fear, a sudden deterioration of my mom’s health.
But in the fall of last year, this great burden of anxiety was alleviated, or so I thought. My mom moved to Korea to be with my father and I found myself in the midst of a busy, and at times chaotic schedule at St. Mark’s.
However, when I went back home to Korea during winter break, my mom revealed to me that she was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. Despite having spent my entire childhood worrying about my mom’s health, my immediate reaction was surprisingly, “It could have been a lot worse,” since thyroid cancer has a relatively high survival rate and is considered highly treatable.
But then, my heart sank, my mom was suspected to have medullary thyroid cancer which is the rarest form of thyroid cancer that only makes up around 1 percent of total cases. Due to its aggressive nature, it could have possibly spread to her lymph nodes or lungs, and the only way to find out whether it was truly cancerous or not was through surgery. I learned about the expected outcomes of the surgery including permanent numbness in the chest, difficulty swallowing, and limited movement. Soon, my future mirrored a game of gambling, a 50/50 chance of cancer or no cancer.
Returning to school, days after my mom’s diagnosis was hauntingly difficult. Leaving my mom’s side at the airport, sitting for sixteen hours in the crowded plane alone, and preparing for midterms felt overwhelming.
The surgery during spring break was a beacon of light where everything could return back to normal. However, in early February, I received the news that my mom’s surgery would be in a week, not March. I was surprised but glad that she would be able to get the help she needed earlier.
But, days before my mom’s surgery, in a dramatic twist of events, the surgery was canceled. She was never told of another date and all she received as a cold, dismissive phone call from a receptionist at the hospital.
This was because doctors in Korea had begun a strike after the Korean government had announced an increase in the number of medical students. Doctors, out of fear that the value of their jobs would decrease, began abandoning their jobs in protest. I was outraged that people responsible for my mom’s and thousands of other people’s lives would disregard their well-being for something so shallow as their salaries.
With sheer helplessness, I watched on as my mom attempted to put on a brave face to shield me from the unpredictability of the situation. It hurt so deeply to see the persistent smile of resilience fade away and her fear reveal itself from afar. I spent countless, sleepless nights over the phone with my mom having hard conversations about the “what ifs” as her hope of a life-saving surgery diminished overnight.
But after a week of desperate phone calls, my mom was able to receive her surgery at another hospital. Yet, even in this new hospital, her surgery was threatened to be canceled four times in a matter of 72 hours.
In one instance, she was told that an anesthesiologist was not available as she entered the surgery room. Post-surgery, we found out that the mass was in fact, cancerous and without the surgery, the tumor could have spread further.
I experienced the immense pain that people suffer without access to reliable and affordable healthcare. Still, vulnerable and marginalized groups of people such as minorities and veterans, disproportionately lack access to proper medical services. According to the World Health Organization more than half of the world’s population lack proper medical care and in 2021, the American Community Survey found that 17.7 percent of Hispanic or Latino individuals do not have medical insurance while a comparatively less amount of six percent white individuals do not.
These statistics and our lessons about human rights in TGS sparked my interest in the fine line between a want and a need.
Everyone, regardless of their socioeconomic status or background, needs healthcare. But still, the medical industry, so much like everything else in our status quo, revolves around monetary gain.
Why is a visit to the doctor’s office a luxury? We all hear about human rights, we all talk about it, but few actually work to enforce it. Ideas are just ideas without action, when is it time for true change?
Ahyeon Kim is a sophomore at St. Mark's School in Southborough, MA. With a keen interest in healthcare reform and social justice, her personal experiences with her mother's health struggles have shaped her deep understanding of the challenges within the healthcare system. As a student, she engages in discussions about human rights and hopes to advocate for equal access to health care, especially in marginalized communities. Outside of academia, she enjoys running, rowing, art, and talking to her mom on the phone.
"From the hospital bed" by beketchai is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0.
