Paying for Treatments With Good Deeds

The immunotherapy I'll be taking (Ketruda/pembrolizamab) will cost $12,500 a month, and the treatments continue, I think, until it doesn't work or the side effects become too tough to take.  When faced with such costs (absorbed by you, my fellow taxpayers) against the three-quarter century that I've already lived and the unlikely possibility that the drug will actually be a cure, if I were a really good person I would go gently into the good night without imposing such a financial burden on society.  Instead, I'm perversely excited about the therapy. So, given my reluctance to leave this existence before first becoming one more economic tick, I resolved a few days ago to spend the rest of what life I have by Doing One Good Deed a Day.

The NPR program on TED Talks covered extreme altruism recently, with one of the researchers investigating people who donate kidneys to strangers. I decided this probably wasn't me yet.  For one, cancer patients are unlikely to be good organ donors, and, anyway, I wanted to build up slowly to extreme altruism.

Good Deed Day 1.  I never write thank-you or sympathy notes on actual paper to send out by snail mail, but I very much enjoy getting them from the few people who do (my older sister, a couple friends).  With this in mind, I bought three fairly costly boxes of Crane's notepaper several months ago. The first note I intended to write was to my terrific radiology oncologist and his nurses thanking them for the wonderful care they gave me last summer during my treatments.  The boxes sat on a table without expressing any gratitude or sorrow until Christmas, when I realized I could give two of them away as gifts.  This left only one to generate guilt rays. So, when I started my good-deed life, the first obvious deed was to finally thank the radiology staff. (I could have sent plants or a fruit basket, but they get that stuff all the time.  Nothing says thank you—literally—more effectively than a carefully crafted note.)

Unfortunately, I rarely write in long hand anymore except for signing an incomprehensible signature on the supermarket credit card terminal, so my handwriting has quietly deteriorated over time into an unbreakable Morse Code. Nevertheless, this was the only first good deed I could think of, so I persevered.

I typed out the letter first to use as a final copy that would not require any inky word changes.  I then placed a piece of paper flush against the sides of my note card to create a straight edge across it, serving as a guide so my sentences wouldn't drift up and down. Then I painstakingly scrawled what I hoped would be legible gratitude.  As I expressed effusive thanks to my doctor and his staff, I realized the note was going to be too long.  I left out a couple of charming but irrelevant sentences, and, even so I had to strangle the final line into tiny letters, with my signature riding up the right margin.  Then when I reread it, I saw that I had repeated one word twice, which I inked out in several cross-hatched layers until it was black.  It wasn't the best-looking thank you note in the world but it was done.

Later, Michael and I went out to lunch, and I told him to stop at the mailbox outside the post office and drop off the note.  It had been snowing the night before and he couldn't quite reach the slot.  The envelope fell onto a dirty hump of ice leaning against the mailbox. He opened the door and retrieved it.  The back was wet.

"It's not going to dry," He said.  "You'll have to redo it."

"No, I can dry it!"  I frantically blotted the envelope several times on my knee. 'It's just the back.  The front is fine.  I'll leave it in the car while we have lunch.  It will be fine." There was no way I was going to write this again. I left it on the seat.  When we returned from lunch, the note card was only slightly damp.  We drove by the mailbox again and this time the envelope fell safely inside, to be delivered in a few days to what I was sure would be the surprise and delight of the entire radiology oncology team. Good Deed #1 Done!

Good Deed Day 2.  Called an old friend whom I don't speak to very often because she talks far too long.  I spent an entire hour listening about minor problems with her car.

Good Deed Day 3.  Cooked at the Salvation Army, which I do anyway two days a week. I figure this will let me off the hook for coming up with a brand new good deed on Tuesdays and Fridays.

Good Deed Day 4. I was able to connect two young women together by email who recently moved upstate with their husbands.  Both are feeling isolated and looking for friends. I had been intending since summer to host a dinner for them and another couple, but things kept coming up.  They've now communicated and set up a date to get together, so I think that counts as a good deed.

Good Deed Days 5-15 (except for Tuesdays and Fridays). Have been distracted by weather, doctor appointments, various local Democrat meetings (possibly count as good deeds?), dinners with friends, and binging on the latest Great British Baking Show episodes.  Plan on starting good deeds again tomorrow or the next day…

Fishing for Programmed Death

The Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center waiting room is well over fifty feet long and packed with patients and their companions. Everyone is here to see the Experts — for first or routine appointments or for second opinions on newly diagnosed or metastatic cancer (the latter the reason I'm sitting here). My anal cancer cells have slipped into the lymph system and showed up in the middle of my chest — not in the lungs but in the nodes of the mediastinum, which lies between them.  On the PET scan, the new tumor appears as a gleaming star, as if it were physical evidence for the fourth chakra and not a harbinger of my last path. 

Collective medical settings, like ERs, intensive care units, and this bloated waiting room, are the purgatories of modern life. There, uncertainty extends time and clouds consciousness and conversations. Couples and small groups whisper to each other between distractions — fidgeting with their phones, watching daytime celebrities shriek with inane happiness on giant TV screens, or staring into the darkness of their thoughts. Every few minutes, like a hostess in a high-end restaurant summoning diners to their table, an appealing young women strolls by calling a name. The doctor will see you now.  With a sudden blank expectancy, the targeted patient and his or her companions hoist themselves out of their chairs, collect their coats, and follow her to their destinies. 

The oncologist we are seeing is a cancer superstar, my referral obtained by a kind former colleague at WebMD who has worked with him.  He is pleasant, academic, straightforward.  He recommends waiting a month and a half before starting treatment, unless symptoms develop.  He doesn't think it will affect any outcomes, and it will delay the difficult side effects. 

We then discuss one of the new immunotherapies called checkpoint inhibitors, which I've been researching. From the work I did as a medical writer and editor, my image of diseases in general, and cancers in particular, has them swimming in a swamp filled with shifting molecular critters, moving up and down and back in forth among the innumerable layers of our organism. Researchers fish among the layers for the stuff on which these diseases feed or the entourages that protect them. Most of the time, scientists end up snagging pilot fish that may or may not indicate a direction toward their prey.  If they're lucky, however, they catch a critical snack or an important guard and look for treatments to neutralize it. 

 

I'm hoping the new check-point inhibitors may be such agents by blocking specific proteins known ominously as programmed death (PD-1 and its ligand PD-L1). When bound together, the pathway they form helps ward off attacks by the immune system. When the PD-1 combination is benevolent, it helps prevent autoimmune diseases by blocking immune attacks on healthy cells. When it occurs in cancer cells, however, these same protective actions become treacherous, preventing the immune system from destroying the foreign malignancies. 

Checkpoint blockers jam the PD-1 pathway and open the way for an immune system barrage against cancer cells. They are, in fact, proving to be effective in many different cancers, including melanoma and lung cancer, even if they have metastasized. One of these immunotherapies, pembrolizumab (branded as Keytruda), has recently been the first drug approved by the FDA as "agnostic", meaning it can treat nearly any cancer in which biopsies show levels of PD-1 proteins and other factors that could make it a good target.

The day after my visit to Memorial Sloan Kettering, my Albany oncologist calls and she gives me the results of an in-depth assessment of my tumor; it is chock-full of PD-L1 – 90%. To me, this means that pembrolizumab should head toward my cancer like a torpedo aimed at a ship full of explosives. She thinks so too, and after talking to the New York expert, will be treating my metastasis first with this agent.  (Ironically, if I were to be treated at Sloan Kettering, one of the world's best research hospitals, I wouldn't be using the new therapy first: I'd have to follow the current standard protocol: starting with chemotherapy, and, when it inevitably failed, follow with pembrolizamab. My Albany doctor, however, has more flexibility, and can start off with immunotherapy.)  

Although the New York doctor has recommended waiting for another month to stall the onset of side effects, now that I have the company of my programmed death proteins I am eager to begin this next passage. I hope that it will be a long one. 

Waiting for Metastasis; A Five-Day Diary

December 16, 2018

Lit up for the Christmas Party,

Neck strung with colored flashing bumps,

Small and flashy, face shivering with wrinkles

but maybe not that old, just skin leaden with travel,

Elaine has been everywhere:

Writing small plays promoting condoms in Burma and Uganda and Ethiopia;

Sailing and cooking on the Mediterranean;

Living in Venice;

And now, with a three-month rental in New York,

learning to paint geometrically constructed nudes.

"I don't like landscapes." 

The night before, she told me, her hosts were out and she went onto the deck into ice-driven blunt December. 

The door behind her whispered "lock".  

Windows pressed shut, neighbors as far as buoys in a wind-wracked sea, no way in.

But the extra car was open.

For 50 minutes till her friends came home, she sat inside, humming yoga breath,  

In out in out in out. 

"I was very Zen." 

Then, vibrating to the party, she glitters away on tick ticking feet, a gyre whirling in place until the center fails to hold.

December 17, 2018

Old Killick,

Fur plating his back with stegosaurus shards, can't clean, can't eat,

All bones flattened on a chair.

He must be dying. 

I empathize. Neither of us are telling time anything right now. 

I pet him.  Sad, sad, all things pass.

Then off to the vet and out comes his bad tooth.

By midday he is off his chair, eating again, and complaining if dinner is late.

Betrayed, I'm the only one dying now.

December 18, 2018

A fellow volunteer, 86 years old, a cane beneath one hand, props Xmas clichés -- plastic holly, ivy, wreathes-- in neon clusters at the tables' ends, 

Certain to cheer the gray and mottled diners later on. 

In the kitchen, where I'm cooking, we hug, then back tap our way apart.

"I fell in the bathroom last week." A growly voice with a smoker's burr. "On the floor for twenty hours.  First on my back, then I pulled my way to the wall and sat for the rest of time. I could hear the phone ring."

"Who found you."

"My son in law, thank god."

We talk of our mutual joint pain, worthless analgesics, Internet cures untried, Christmas. 

"What are you going to do?"

"See my kids and visit my sister."

As she leaves, she gives me a kiss that smells of mother's powder.  

It never happened before. So she knows too.

December 19

My friend's brother has multiple dystrophy.  His beautiful, far younger, wife-- "I want someone to grow old with--" has taken up with two millionaires and wants to go to Africa with one, along with their two girls.  

He believes she'll blacken both her eyes and pretend abuse so she can grab them.  He is shattered and dying.

Mid-forties is the crazy girl time before invisibility, sexual Godzillas stomping on children and men. Been there. 

My former husband after my diagnosis, sent me books to read.  

My last husband is here. How did I get so lucky?

December 20

Metastastis confirmed. Ten years gone, my friend, sitting in a Tuscany sun, slides beneath my search for trials, saving my screen but not herself. Her death was an exhale and her hand on mine, a release. Soon, when sitting against a wall or in a car or boney on a chair, I will be breathing in and breathing out, breathing in and breathing out. 

Wolves and Bells at the End of Treatment

The final phase of my cancer treatments, I was told, was the toughest part of the process, since I'd be clobbered for several weeks after they were completed by the cumulative effects of two chemo weeks (mouth sores, nausea, creepy smell and taste sensations, exhaustion) and 30 days of radiation on the whole pelvic area (second degree burns, burning urination, bowel craziness, more exhaustion). On July 18^th, with two radiation hits left, I tottered into the cancer center dehydrated, shaking, with white and red blood cells tanking, and in considerable pain. My radiology oncologist kicked me into the hospital, where I was gratefully incarcerated for the next five days, cared for by Michael and teams of angel nurses. 

On the first night, however, I had a strange visit.  My younger sister Ginny, who is a nun, appeared at my bedside in full habit. (This was peculiar since her convent is in Maryland and I wasn't expecting a visit.) She quietly explained that I had been recruited for a clinical trial. "You're going to be sent to a secret location in the woods and assigned to one of three teams.  Team three has fairly healthy patients, team two less so, and team one is made up of totally disabled people."  She went on dispassionately to describe the study methods: "Wolves come out of the woods and attack team three first and tear them apart.  The survivors then run to team two, who are then also attacked by the wolves.  Those survivors then join team one, and the wolves follow to rip everyone up."  I was slightly puzzled about what outcomes were being measured, but Ginny left before letting me know what they were or what team I had been assigned to.  

Somewhat later, in the middle of the night, a siren went off and a loudspeaker bellowed, "Team three, report to Level 5.  Team three, report to Level 5."  Still not knowing what team I was on, I tried to get out of the bed, but was unable to move. "I guess I’m on team 1," I thought. 

A nurse then came into the room, looking competent and normal, and I asked her where I was.  "St. Peter's Hospital," she said.  

I turned my head and looked out the window. It was daylight and the view was not a dense forest full of beasts but the neighboring medical building: homely, solid, and comforting. "Oh."  I turned to her.  "I think I was hallucinating."  

I described the wolf attack, and she wrote on my chart. "NO MORPHINE!  ALLERGIC!!!" 

At no point during the hallucination was I frightened—more like catatonic.  In the days following, however, the experience peeled back my mental kingdom where I am the ruling control freak and revealed a bleak wilderness, in which vicious beasts, unrelenting and unbeatable, inflicted suffering and death. I was thrown into an emotional darkness and, while depression is almost universal among cancer patients, I had not anticipated this intense hopelessness. 

After my diagnosis, I had the arrogant intention of transforming the whole cancer process, including any pain and the prospect of death, into a spiritual journey fueled by decades of random Buddhism-made-easy books, various yoga and meditation teachers, a few lectures by popular on-line gurus, and a lot of inspiring science fiction. But I hadn't counted on the wolves. My Catholic sister Sister had described a horrific vision and then walked away, taking her faith with her. No nice meditative respite, no tunnel of light, no pleasant Jesus or Buddha mitigated the desolation I experienced from this morphine-induced grim "study". 

Fortunately, as the treatment effects receded so did the bleak despair, and slowly the warmth from my wonderful husband, family, and friends and a vivid appreciation of ordinary moments shooed the wolves back into their lairs. (Full confession, many shallow pleasures—watching favorite comedies from the 80s and 90s, playing video adventure games with my younger son, and keeping up with Marvel series—were also excellent guards against the encroaching beasts.)

There's a custom among many cancer centers around the country to ring a bell when a cancer patient finishes treatments. Sometimes they read a poem placed near the bell. Everyone applauds and congratulates the lucky cancer parolee. This practice has its fans and also its opponents, typically those with metastatic disease who sit in the chemo unit while the bells ring, knowing they will most likely never experience the end of their treatments.  

Bell ringing also reminds me of George Bush's banner "Mission Accomplished" after bombarding Iraq, which was then succeeded by years of war, still ongoing. Cancer treatments are the gauntlet through which we trudge as part of our path through the dark woods.  When they end, we are not necessarily out of reach of the beasts.  Celebrating a single milestone trivializes cancer's emotional and physical outreach, which, whether it's metastatic or not, often exists for many patients as a continuous underground river of anxiety for the rest of their lives. 

I'm most grateful that St. Peter's, my cancer center, did not ring a bell when I had my last radiation hit.  I got hugs from my wonderful nurses and I hobbled home to face the next six weeks of nasty healing.  My scan in October will reveal whether tumors still lurk in the corners of my pelvis or, worse, have slipped their leash and gone hunting through my body's wilderness.  But at this moment, I welcome each autumn day and remain in awe of the kindness of my family, friends, the hospital staff, and many random strangers. The bells should toll for them.   

Half Baked

My anal cancer treatments passed the half mark this weekend.  All cancers are difference and so are treatment effects.  Here are mine during the first three weeks. 

Week 1. The first week's main event saw few unpleasant side effects other than The Bag (see link to the $48,000 chair). 

Week 2. During the second week the chemo effects washed up like detritus from an oil spill and provided continuous indignity and weirdness.  Some examples:

•         I was a bit random with my anti-nausea meds the first week, and on the way to Albany for my daily radiation -- a speedy 45 minutes up the highway with few exits -- I realized I was about to vomit with a great degree of violence.  Making not the wisest choice, I opened the window and let loose without considering the physics of speed and wind direction.  Back it came inside, stopping first at my face.  Lesson learned: take the meds regularly and keep a plastic bag in the car.  
  
•         Our car suffered a flat so we borrowed a friend's truck for one day's ride to Albany. Our friend is obsessively neat about his things, and Michael hates borrowing stuff from him out of anxiety that something bad will happen to it.  Although the drive itself was uneventful, about half way up my hair took the opportunity to fall out, first onto me, then onto our friend's lovely leather seat.  Desperate, I pulled hunks out and clutched them like an Adam's Family bouquet until we got off the Thruway and could stop. This time I was able to open the window and hurl my bodily traces out without a comeback.
•          Food tastes like ethnic meals in a country you never want to visit again.  Something happens to your taste buds so that anything you eat is transformed into peculiar unfamiliar chemicals with a mothball undertone and repellent mushy textures. I can't figure out if I'm actually tasting what food is really like, if the chemo is mixing it all up, or "It's People!"  Here's what I can stand eating: Greek yogurt, cooked fruit, and hot dogs. In that order.    The second week saw an explosion in mouth sores.  They did not enhance the taste of the food. I have not lost one pound.
•         I will not bother to describe the other intestinal indignities, which would only amuse small children.  

Week 3.  On the third week, the chemo effects settled down, and the radiation effect – The Hard Man -- hasn't kicked in much yet, except for a couple of ulcerated areas that apparently have healed up.    Naps are lovely.  I collapse around two or three and sleep like a baby.  At night I wake up around four, but. then, even without cancer I always wake about around four.  Same-o Same-o.

Summary

Perhaps the most disturbing aspect to the whole process so far is the metamorphosis of Self into some unfamiliar, unpleasant animal.  Ones impulse is to hide in a cave and let those lovely naps take over.  Aside from death fear, I think a lot of the depression comes from this perception.  So, during my early AM wake-up, I get up and meditate, letting all the strange body sensations and the churlish thoughts drift off until I'm back where I belong, the deep heart that came with me at birth and will be my companion to the end.  It makes me happy.   

  

The $48,000 Chemo Chair

"I love this chair!" The man in the neighboring chemo pen was talking to the nurse. "Supports my back.  Never gets sore.  I could sit here forever! I looked it up on Google.  It costs $48,000.  You better keep an eye on it.  I may take it on my last day."

Not exactly like the one I had but close enough. 

My own chair had cheap looking upholstery--plastic with shiny metallic threads--and was as rigid as stone, which I tried to soften up with a couple of pillows.  The hard composite arms were too narrow to rest an elbow on, and only one knob that tipped the back was available for any adjustment. In other words, I was sitting in an airline seat, only a little wider. The curtain was drawn between my neighbor and me so I couldn't see his extraordinary chair.  I very briefly nurtured a scheme of coming in early and nabbing it before this guy did and then remembered that my own stay in the chemo playground would only occur on two days – this one, my first treatment day, and one more five weeks later.

Two months ago, after many weeks of annoying symptoms that I assumed were from my hemorrhoids, I finally decided to see a surgeon to get rid of them.  After the examination, he said.  "You don't have hemorrhoids.  You have anal cancer."  That's when the brain stopped peacefully yattering. It became a nothing. A blank. He followed quickly with, "The treatment is tough, but it's very curable." The mind edged up again, and continued processing.

Anal cancer.  WTF.  Regardless of its position, it isn't the same as its colon and rectal cancer neighbors. It's pretty rare and occurs mostly in people with HIV and women over 60 (that would be me), with most cases caused by the human papillomavirus, or HPV (also me). The virus is mostly famous for causing cervical cancer, but it also triggers my very own anal and many oral cancers. (Parents of teeners – get your kids vaccinated!) HPV is usually sexually transmitted, and I had, indeed, been a lively young woman, but now I'm 75 with decades of virtue behind me. Obviously the HPV had been skulking about until my aging immune system wore down so it could leap through to bill me for the wages of my sin.

Well, this might be it, but although leaving three quarters of a century of life is not tragic or even particularly scary, the urge to continue is stupidly stubborn.  So with a certain amount of liberal guilt, I am adding to the costs of our exorbitantly expensive health care system and throwing my body into its slurry of chemical and technologic treatments.

Now, before the 1970s people with anal cancer were surgically mauled and then usually died miserably.  Then Norman Nigro, whom no one has heard of but who deserves some minor variant of Nobel prize, developed a treatment protocol that avoided surgery and cured most patients.  And the Nigro protocol, is it's called, is still used: 60 Gy of radiation every weekday over a five week period, with continuous administration of the chemotherapies fluorouracil (5-FU) for the first and last 5 days and mitomycin, which is administered on the first day of each chemotherapy treatment. According to my radiologist, the tumors "just melt."

So I'm on day 5. I've had five rounds of radiation that haven't done anything special yet.  But, every week day over the next six weeks, Michael will drive me for the hour commute between Hudson and Albany to receive a ten minute radiation zap. Over time, the radiation will accumulate, and with 2 degree burns to the nether region, become nasty. Take it as it comes.

The chemo side effects supposedly aren't as bad.  On Monday, the nurse administered the mytomycin (which is purple) into my chemo port through an enormous syringe.  (The port had been surgically placed last week during a pain-free procedure--thank you Fentanyl-- when, fully alert and from under a sheet covering me from head to toe, I passionately argued with the team in support of the first Blade Runner movie and for a nuanced approach to the #metoo movement.) After the mytomycin, another nurse used the port to umbilically tether me day and night to a 10-pound case filled with a container of 5-FU and a large battery. I lug it around as a shoulder bag during the day and put it next to me in bed at night. Every few minutes it whirs like a rewound tape while pumping its poison into my veins, which at night feels like I'm cuddling up to a dysfunctional Sony Walkman, circa 1979. To keep clean, I can only sponge – no bath or shower. Today, the visiting nurse will come to our house and take it away, giving me a three-week reprieve until she comes again to hook me up for its final five days.

 I'll only have to go to the chemo room once more for the mitomycin plunger, during which I will sit for the second and final time in an airline seat – even if my neighbor's has become available.  This is because, as he left on my first day and passed my station, I commented on his good fortune.  "I really envy you. Your chair sounded fabulous." He frowned and looked puzzled, "But you have the same one."  

Note: I Googled chemo chairs and found the article he probably had referred to, which did say that our chair cost $48.000, but it was for 13 of them.  So each one was around $3700.  After digging further, I couldn't find any similar chemo chair that cost more than $3000, and most were on sale for half price.

The Witch Trials: A Cautionary Event

My older sister sent me the following essay, which echoes my own thoughts.  I was going to write something on Franken, including the mention of our great great great grandfather, but she did it first, as always.  So here it is. 

Our country is devolving into what could potentially become a culture of mass hysteria. I'm referring specifically to the “Me Too” movement on social media. We are undergoing a period of intense stress and fear, and I believe we should be very careful.

My ancestor, Andrew Eliot, was a juror at the Salem witch trials and was responsible, along with the other jurors, for the execution of over 20 innocent women. For this reason, I am especially on the alert when I see evidence of mass hysteria and the punishment of individuals for alleged deeds that are committed years before what might be an irrational phenomenon.

Andrew Eliot, a humble cordswainer and respected citizen in the Salem area, along with his fellow jurors, later apologized:

 We confess that we ourselves were not capable to understand, nor able to withstand the mysterious delusions of the powers of darkness and prince of the air, but were for want of knowledge in ourselves and better information from others, prevailed with to take up with such evidence against the accused as on further consideration and better information, we justly fear was insufficient for the touching the lives of any, Deuteronomy 17.6, whereby we fear we have been instrumental with others, though ignorantly and unwittingly, to bring upon ourselves and this people of the Lord, the guilt of innocent blood, which sin the Lord saith in Scripture, he would not pardon, 2 Kings 24.4, that is we suppose in regard of His temporal judgments. We do, therefore, hereby signify to all in general (and to the surviving sufferers in especial) our deep sense of and sorrow for our errors in acting on such evidence to the condemning of any person.

 And do hereby declare that we justly fear that we were sadly deluded and mistaken, for which we are much disquieted and distressed in our minds, and do therefore humbly beg forgiveness, first of God for Christ's sake for this our error. And pray that God would not impute the guilt of it to ourselves nor others. And we also pray that we may be considered candidly and aright by the living sufferers as being then under the power of a strong and general delusion, utterly unacquainted with and not experienced in matters of that nature. We do heartily ask forgiveness of you all, whom we have justly offended and do declare, according to our present minds, we would none of us do such things again on such grounds for the whole world, praying you to accept of this in way of satisfaction for our offense, and that you would bless the inheritance of the Lord that He may be entreated for the land.” 

Foreman, Thomas Fisk,Thomas Perly Senior,William Fiske, John Peabody, John Batcheler,Thomas Perkins, Thomas Fisk, Junior, Samuel Sather, John Dane, Andrew Elliott [sic] Joseph Evelith, Henry Herrick, Senior

 From "The Apology of the Salem Jury," 1697.

This apology has taught me that any of us, in any place or time, could be carried away by fears that are increased by lies and worse.  It deserves reprinting.

I was a hearing officer with the Connecticut Department of Labor, had occasion to hear a few sex harassment and discrimination cases. Although I was sympathetic to the women who complained, having had some nasty incidents myself in previous employment, my job was to develop accurate and objective findings of fact before making a legal decision as to whether she quit her job for reasons attributable to the employer that would qualify her for unemployment benefits. I had a memorable case in which a woman accused her boss of sexual harassment, and it turned out that she exaggerated some minor incidents, which were disproved by credible testimony from her former co-workers. As it happened, she quit her job because she did not want to share her commission on a sale with another (female) coworker who closed the sale. I found she left for reasons that were not attributable to the employer. Privately, I was astounded that someone would cruelly go to those lengths to cause unbearable stress to a man and his family out of revenge and in order to receive unemployment benefits.

So, I am very disturbed when I see evidence of other motives behind some of the complaints of sexual harassment. This is not meant to be critical of women who have had legitimate experiences of sexual abuse that have damaged their lives and who have had the courage to speak up, but we must be very careful in our accusations so that the consequences of a man's sexual behavior fits its actual intent and effects on a woman.

As a connection to the witch trials I found an email in reddit.com/r/history submitted a year ago about the effect of ergot, a mold-like substance on rye wheat that supposedly caused the weird behavior of the supposed victims in Salem:

“Just finished my thesis on the Salem Witch Trials. The Ergot thing was disproven decades ago. One of the most damning facts was that "witches" didn't just come from Salem, they came from all of the surrounding towns and villages in that county as well. Most likely the accusations were the product of a sue happy culture using the moment to settle old scores. For instance the Putnam family accused a man hundreds of miles away simply because he owed them money. The first afflicted girls who blamed Tituba later admitted they were bored. Tituba was an easy target since she was a slave and a Native American.”

I therefore urge that we all do detective work and turn ourselves into fact-finders, using reliable sources — and carefully, dispassionately evaluate the evidence before ruining the lives of decent people and rewarding those who would destroy them for political reasons and profit.

Lee Ellen Terry