My dad. He was originally diagnosed with bladder cancer back in late 2003, and after 18 months of unsuccessful attempts to treat it with chemotherapy and keyhole surgery targeting the tumour itself, he underwent an experimental series of operations at the Royal Liverpool University Hospital (He was the 2nd patient to ever undergo such an operation I believe). During one of my dad's follow up consultations, the consultant, a Dr Parsons did note that although my dad had no cancerous cells present in his blood samples, that secondary cancers, specifically Lymphoma would remain a danger for some time afterwards. Fast forward to summer '07, about 18 months after that warning, and my dad begins to complain of a worsening pain in his hip (which were his lymph nodes swelling as tumours took hold and spread),for which he was referred, incorrectly to an orthopaedic surgeon. Appointment after appointment was cancelled, rescheduled and cancelled, time and time again, meanwhile my dad's condition continued to deteriorate, until, one morning in mid November, I found him curled into a ball on the bathroom floor, weeping like a newborn and vomiting from the pain. He was rushed to Warrington hospital, and after 13 hours we knew nothing more of his condition, only that the only thing that could touch the pain was intravenous morphine, however, his hip was X-ray, shoulders were shrugged and he was sent home with a prescription for painkillers. This cycle continued right throughout Christmas and New Year, with ever stronger painkillers being prescribed so that my dad ended up using morphine patches at home, until it was decided to give him an MRI scan.
Things moved rapidly afterwards, with a consultant at Warrington hospital, previously too busy to see him until weeks later calling us to get him into his office the next morning. That day, January 8th, my father was diagnosed with terminal lymphoma. Left unchecked, the cancer we'd been warned of ,and that had been noted on his medical records, had spread aggressively throughout his body. There was little doctors could do but to offer chemotherapy to slow the cancer, and medication to limit the pain. My dad fought on, and clung to life by the skin of his teeth, suffering unimaginably until he sadly passed away aged 57 on September 7th. Needless to say, my dad's death is still a raw,open wound, and his treatment by the NHS only invokes in me anger, bitterness and hatred. I have no faith whatsoever in the local primary care trust that failed him so catastrophically, so much so that I'm giving serious thought to moving out of it's catchment area.
The fact that they're black is irrelevant.