My experience was atypical because of all the other things going wrong at the time, so I mostly missed the anger phase (or maybe it's still ahead of me), but I suspect that's a normal thing most cancer patients go through.
Yes, I agree that the doctors, nurses, radiology and lab techs, and everyone else (except maybe the private insurers; I'll reserve judgement there) are doing their very best to keep us alive and healthy with the resources they have available: too few staff and facilities for too many patients, serious funding shortfalls, an aging population, etc etc.
But at the same time, I think it's natural to feel shock and surprise that your cancer doesn't seem to matter as much to medical practitioners as it matters to you. After all, this is the only life you have, while a typical oncologist has to care for 100s (?) of patients, some of whom aren't as sick as you, and some of whom are in their final days. They'd burn out in weeks if they couldn't find a way to keep at least a little professional distance.
Eventually, I think most of us reconcile ourselves to that reality. We realise that people are being born and dying in the hospital every day, and while the medical staff really do care and do their best for each of us, we're just individual pixels in a very big picture of life. It takes time to reach that perspective, though, so when I see a new-ish forum member seething with rage at the system, I cut them a lot of slack.
yes, we eventually stop shaking our fists and start filling out forms. We trade indignation for intake. The real trick isn’t in reconciling with mortality—it’s learning to nod politely as yet another cheerful nurse explains the difference between a CT and an MRI, as if it’s our first day in Cancerland and not the sequel nobody asked for.
You don’t rage at the system because it’s not malevolent—it’s just monumentally impersonal. A glacier of protocol moving at glacial speed, crushing individual identity into barcode labels and scan results.
And we accept that. Eventually. Somewhere between the third waiting room and the fifth repetition of our birthdate.