I had to come to the Cleveland Clinic and spend the night nearby for an early morning appointment. I had breast cancer 4 years ago—small tumor, no chemo, doing well. But I have checkups every six months.

It’s just mind blowing to me how crazy it is here. When I pulled up to the hotel, there was an ambulance taking someone out on a stretcher. There are cars pulling up with travelers from across the US all day and all night. The hotel feels full. The hotel next door is full. A young woman I met on the elevator was here for her third treatment for what she admitted is a complicated, fast-growing cancer that began in July.

I started my cancer journey before Covid, and even then I was shocked at how horrifyingly prevalent cancer is and how major cancer centers resemble busy little cities. But it’s twice as crazy now and there’s a feeling of urgency in the air, as if the whole world is being triaged. It’s like a plague has descended and people are rushing to the clinic doors to be first.

And seeing it up close and personal is a hard thing. I have compassion for the people coming here. Having cancer sucks no matter how you got here. But there’s this feeling that this is just a small sampling of what’s to come. The door is only slightly ajar and in time, it will be thrown wide open and we will experience the true horrors of depopulation.

When a medical helicopter landed on the roof of the hospital, I remembered how much we used to value life as a society. We RUSHED people to hospitals to save their lives with fervent urgency. Now people are being poisoned, young people are dying, and we’re getting used to death as their faces parade across our social media screens. The very idea of life and death is being altered.

My only solace tonight is my status as unvaccinated. I look back and my little cancer seems small to the horrors I’m witnessing here today.