COVID unleashed Pandora's box of woe because our society is structured to exclusively benefit its top income earners.

My phone keeps reminding me by showing photos of myself from the early days of December 2019 that the ebb and flow of human activity was normal back then. Clip, clop, clip clop went the pace of our days four years ago. No one expected a cataclysmic change to their lives or society. I certainly didn’t despite omens foretelling that on a personal level I was in a dire place health wise.

My body’s check engine warning light was flashing signals that there was danger ahead for me all through 2019. But I ignored the alarms and chalked it up to grief over my father's death the year before. I had things to do personally and professionally, so I buggered on. I even went off to stump for Labour during that year's General Election despite being a great deal of physical discomfort. 

I travelled to northern marginal constituencies in an attempt to sell the socialism my father espouses in Harry’s Last Stand to a public ginned up by right-wing rhetoric about "Getting Brexit done." Nobody was buying it and as each day of the campaign progress, I felt physically worse. The cold blowing down off the from the moors bit into my bones like a pack of dogs. But I shrugged it off, along with bouts of persistent rectal bleeding. Haemorrhoids, I reasoned- a blight for Martin Luther, so why not me? 

It was a miserable election for Labour, lost before the writ was even dropped because democracy in the 21st century is much like a Britannia Hotel by an airport. It has seen better days. 

The establishment outside and inside the party wasn't having Corbyn as PM. So he was derided as inept, incompetent, anti-Semitic or a friend to terrorists. Boris Johnson, however, was portrayed as a self-deprecating politician who might- under the right conditions- have the greatness of Churchill in him. It was all bullshit, and anyone with an ounce of sense could predict making Johnson Prime Minister was as sensible as taking a ride home on a motorbike without a helmet from a mate who is pissed out of his head but makes you laugh in the pub. 

On the day after the election, I returned to Canada physically exhausted. I was gutted by the knowledge that any hope for a Britain returning to a 1945 socialism was now dead after the Tories had won an overwhelming majority. Corbynism was political history. It was devastating to realise that much of the work my father and I had done during the previous ten years- to not make his past our future- would be swept away in the torrent of fascism to come. 

Two days after my return to Canada owing to my rectal bleeding I went for a colonoscopy.  

A general surgeon performed the colonoscopy, and after I woke from the procedure, he informed me that “worrisome” lesions were discovered.

His tone suggested "worrisome" was the Big C. This was further reinforced by scheduling me for an emergency CT and MRI scan over the Christmas break.  

I was scared and confused by what lay ahead for me. Once thing I was certain of was I didn’t want the doctor who performed my colonoscopy doing cancer surgery on me. He seemed proficient, like an auto mechanic who can fix all sorts of problems to keep your car running- just not at its peak performance.

 But a sawbones for many parts of the human anatomy is not what I wanted for my cancer which required delicate surgery to treat it effectively. 

So, I looked online for an oncological surgeon who could open me up and remove my cancer with my precision. I found one on a google search in Toronto. I thought he might give me the best possible chance to save me and give me a better quality of life after surgery. I wrote this letter to him, hoping he would see me for a consult.

January 2, 2020

My name is John Max Smith. I am 56 years old and waiting for confirmation from a biopsy, blood work, MRI and CAT Scan that the "fairly" small lesion found in my lower rectum is cancer. Naturally, I am afraid- not so much of death because that just makes me feel sad. I am more afraid of the mutilation from the surgery and how it will change my life. I have known ill health before- as I had a heart attack 13 years ago- and that transformed me. I think it made me a better person. This cancer, however, I fear won't because I am drained of all my reserve strength because I gave it all to keep my dad alive for the last 8 years of his life after my brother died.

Let me explain a little about myself. I am the son of a man called Harry Leslie Smith, who died in Nov 2018 at 95. The media dubbed him the World's Oldest Rebel because he travelled the world and implored people to fight for public healthcare as well as the Welfare State his generation built after the Second World War. I was his partner in that endeavour. During that time- we were like oarsmen plying a small craft across a dangerous sea. My mother died in 1999, and my brother succumbed to IPF in 2009 at 50 after enduring schizophrenia throughout his adult life. So for many years, my dad and I were alone but for our love for each other. Our work was a means to relieve ourselves of the grief we experienced by losing a son and brother. During that time, my dad because of my impetus and help created five books. They were about his working-class past and how 21st-century politics needed the return of “A New Deal.”

In his books, speeches and interviews, my dad advocated for refugees, the vulnerable and the right of every human being to public healthcare where treatment is determined by need rather than wealth. We travelled rough and ready across Britain, Europe and Canada so my dad could speak to people. He talked to them about his experiences during the Great Depression and why a Welfare State is needed now more than ever. Since his death, I have continued with our Last Stand project while writing a book about our life together. I have much to do to preserve my dad's legacy. I also want to scratch some joy and simple happiness from the hard ground of my life while I am alive. 

Best regards,

John Max Smith

After reading my email, the surgeon agreed to take me as his patient. He operated on me at the end of March 2020 during the first onslaught of Covid. The terror and loneliness of being treated for a lethal cancer during a pandemic was profound. It's been a long slog ever since. But there is nothing unique in that because many of you have been on a similar trek in this new normal we call the present.

Now, as we reach the end of 2023, the chances of a return of my cancer have lessened but is still a clear and present danger. The cancer treatment also weakened my body and left me not as I once was.  

 In some twist on the no good deed deserves to go unpunished, a follow-up CT scan for cancer discovered my lungs are fibrotic. At this moment medical science is uncertain how quickly this disease will shorten my life as my brother succumbed to it at 50, an aunt at 55 whilst my dad fell afoul of it at 95. I am willing to split the difference, but we shall see.

One thing is for certain, COVID unleashed Pandora's box of woe not because it had to but because our society is structured to exclusively benefit its top income earners. No ordinary person is safe from an early demise or a life diminished by penury, since this pandemic- which is not done with us yet.

As always, thank you for reading my sub stack posts because I really need your help Your subscriptions to Harry’s Last Stand keep the legacy of Harry Leslie Smith alive and me housed. So if you can join with a paid subscription which is just 3.50 a month or a yearly subscription or a gift subscription for 30. I promise the content is good, relevant and thoughtful. Take Care, John

Photo by National Cancer Institute on Unsplash