A quick Question

why is dying from prostate cancer more dramatic than dying from good health?

by Someone Who’s Had Just About Enough of It

If dying is the inescapable invoice for the simple act of being alive, then why, exactly, are we spending billions trying to negotiate a discount? Cancer care alone gulps down enough money annually to fund a small moon landing, all in service of delaying the inevitable by months, maybe years, rarely decades. It’s a curious economic model: throwing limitless resources at a guarantee. We don’t spend this way on education, on poverty, on mental health, or on people who are actually alive but inconveniently struggling.

No, we save our fortunes for the dying; for those circling the drain in sterile rooms, hooked to machines, generating a tidy profit with every scan and side effect. It’s less about curing and more about extending the invoiceable portion of existence, one billable unit of suffering at a time.

Let’s start with the only real truth worth the copay: life ends. Always. Universally. Irrevocably. A 100% fatal condition, stubbornly resistant to treatment despite centuries of research, prayer, green juice, and good intentions.

So why, if death is so predictable, are we so pathologically afraid of it? Why do we shrink from it like it’s some unthinkable deviation rather than the most democratic event we’ll ever attend?

Here’s a darker question: if the final outcome of prostate cancer is death, whether from the disease itself or from the charming bouquet of side effects gifted by its treatment, why do we fight it like cowards with credit cards?

We nuke our glands, choke our hormones, shatter our bones with bone-sparing drugs that rot our jaws, and then crawl through the wreckage to the next appointment. For what, exactly? Another month? Another scan? Another staged conversation about “quality of life” from a doctor wearing a Rolex and a mask of concern?

If the logical outcome of life is death, and spoiler alert: it is, then why, exactly, are we so hell-bent on prolonging the agony? Why do we clutch our pearls at the mere mention of dying, as if we weren’t all hurtling toward that destination with the same inevitability as a prostate swelling under the guidance of time and testosterone? And why is dying from prostate cancer more dramatic than dying from good health?

We spend billions, yes, with a b, each year on prostate cancer alone. Not to cure it, mind you (heaven forbid we do something so radical), but to manage it. To monitor it. To metastasize the bureaucracy. To fund the glorious arms race of radiation beam penis preservation. Meanwhile, people who are merely alive, a far more precarious condition, really, get sweet bugger-all in support. Can’t work? Can’t eat? Can’t afford rent? Sorry, not dying fast enough to qualify for aid. Come back when you’ve grown a tumor or two, and we might stick a needle in you or, better yet, a radioactive seed.
There’s something perversely elegant about it all. If you die of cancer, it’s tragic. If you live in poverty and die quietly, it’s statistics. We’ve medicalized death and economized life. It's all very tidy. Why the disparity? Why does the oncology wing have walnut paneling and espresso machines while social workers share a single stapler and a bag of off-brand raisins?

Simple: Dead men don’t invoice. But the dying, the dying are a goldmine. We can milk them for imaging, biopsies, hormone therapy, pain management, end-of-life counseling, grief therapy, genetic testing, dietary supplements, robotic surgeries, and yes, inspirational TED talks with titles like “Dancing with My Diagnosis” or “My Tumor, My Teacher.” And prostate cancer? It’s the crown jewel of this carnival. Slow enough to string out for decades, dangerous enough to frighten, and deeply entangled with the organ most closely associated with masculinity, making it a veritable jackpot of fear, shame, virility, and Viagra. The trifecta! Or quadfecta, if you count the incontinence pads.

But here’s the cosmic joke: whether we die of the disease or the side effects of trying not to die of the disease, we die anyway. We march in the same parade, just in different costumes; some dressed in hospital gowns, others in hospice sheets, others yet in three-piece suits. Most without money, some very rich. The worms don’t care. You taste all the same.

The real disease isn’t cancer. It’s our delusion that death is optional, a failure of planning or insurance coverage. It's the irrational belief that if we throw enough money at the problem, the Grim Reaper might accept a copay.

And where did this sectioned, diverse, perverse logic come from? Somewhere between the hospital marketing department and a bottle of Ativan. Somewhere between the priest and the pharmaceutical rep. Somewhere in that uneasy alliance of capitalism and compassion, where the human body becomes a ledger and a life becomes a subscription service, cancelled only upon nonpayment or non-breathing.

Meanwhile, the living who simply can’t go on, who suffer from a chronic condition known as being alive in a system not designed for them, remain overlooked. No radiation. No research grants. No glossy pamphlets. Just another appointment missed because the bus didn't come, and the rent did.

So yes, we fear death. But not as much as we fear irrelevance. And death, at least, still gets top billing. Living poor? That's just bad taste. But really… we keep living, not because we’re brave, but because no one wants to admit the game was rigged from the start. We fight death not to win, but because surrender would mean acknowledging that the emperor not only has no clothes, but has terminal cancer, a ten-thousand-dollar deductible, and a follow-up in six months. And so we persist. Not because it makes sense. But because nonsense, when properly funded, becomes the standard of care.