The Trump Biopsy

America in the Waiting Room

(First appeared in The Progressive Populist)

For many of us, certainly for those of us here at The Progressive Populist, there was an unease when Donald Trump rode down that escalator in 2015 and announced his intention to run for president. There was Barack Obama fatigue, Hillary Clinton wasn’t very well liked, the Bernie Sanders wing of the party was furious — nah, it was Donald Trump. Surely, the country wouldn’t even consider him.

He was in single digits, then double digits. He was finishing second in hypothetical races with other Republicans. He started winning primaries. Huckabee dropped out, then Santorum, then Christie.

He was now a reality in much the same way as an intermittent pain you start having under your ribs.

Probably nothing, though.

“I don’t want you to worry,” an internist told you, after results came back that showed your liver’s Alanine Transaminase Level, ATL, was higher than normal.

“We’ll keep an eye on it.”

“Could it get bad?” you asked.

“It’s not good if there’s significant liver damage, or if it’s cancer and it spreads, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Surely the GOP was not stupid enough to nominate a man who bankrupted casinos, was a huckster, and treated women like short-term rental properties … and, more to the point, wouldn’t support a man who didn’t even seem like he wanted to be president.

You developed skin rashes. Your ALT levels increased.

Trump received the Republican nomination.

“Do we worry now?” you asked your doctor.

“It’s concerning,” he said, “but it’s not time to panic.”

“Is there a good time to panic? you asked.

He laughed.

Your internist referred you to a hepatologist.

He ordered a biopsy.

Is this really happening?

“Do you have a history of excessive drinking?” the oncologist asked.

“No.”

“Does your family have a history of  liver problems?”

“No.”

“Then how …?

“We don’t know,” said the internist. “It happens.”

Trump was consistently behind Clinton in the polls throughout the 2016 campaign, but only by a few percentage points

Can you imagine if … ? It was unfathomable.

Another test revealed you had hemochromatosis, a disorder that causes the body to absorb too much iron. It’s treatable and is only fatal 1.7 cases per 10,000 occurrences. You were sent to a phlebotomist.

A week before the 2016 election, Trump’s own campaign thought he had only a 15% chance of winning.

After a few treatments, your ALT levels were better.

Then the treatments stopped working.

On Nov. 8, 2016, Trump was elected president of the United States.

Your ALT levels were now worse than ever. A hepatectomy, a partial removal of the liver, was ordered. In recovery you were told the body has remarkable recovery skills. The liver would grow back, resemble its old self.

In the ensuing four years, Trump separated children from their parents, weaponized the Justice Department, obstructed investigations, and … and … and.

You lost weight, hair, suffered from diarrhea, vomiting, and mouth sores. The drugs and radiation and constant obsessing were making you irritable and fatigued.

You were in denial; you were furious.

You were surviving, barely.

In 2020, Trump was defeated, barely.

It was messy, touch and go, but he was out of the White House. Joe Biden promised normalcy again.

Your oncologist called with good news: no cancer was detected in the latest rounds of tests.

“I’m cured, right?” you asked.

“I don’t like using those words. Hams get cured. Come see me every six months. Let’s stay on top of this.”

“When will we know if I’m cured — I mean, if the cancer is gone for good?”

“Five years.”

“So, like, 2025, 2026, something like that?”

“Yeah.”

You did as you were told. You stayed vigilant. You did research, talked to survivors, joined discussion groups, bothered friends and family with your progress, setbacks. You feared the cancer was hiding somewhere inside you, hiding, though, or that it had already spread through your body and nobody was picking up on the enormity of it.

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

In 2023, Trump came back. He was running again.

You suddenly had trouble peeing.

Last July, around the third week, the pain was so bad, you had to go to the ER. You thought you saw the doctor on duty, not yours, looking at your chart shaking his head.

Trump, a convicted felon, was once again the Republican nominee for president.

More scans, biopsies, blood work were ordered.

The part few months Trump blamed Democrats for trying to kill him (twice), accused Haitians of eating dogs and cats, posed for a photo-op in Arlington National Cemetery, questioned the race of a Black candidate in front of Black journalists, promised to protect women from the very policies he set in motion, pre-blamed Jews for his election defeat, saw crowds at his debate with Kamala Harris that didn’t exist. He was a rambling, incoherent mess. He started channeling Hitler.

His approval ratings had never been higher.

Trump had pulled even in Pennsylvania, Wisconsin and Michigan.

You Googled everything you could. You had a 50/50 chance of beating this.

Another round of tests. Your internist himself called. He was taking the case back.

“What did it say?” you asked of the results.

“Come see me. We’ll talk.”

“Is it time to panic?”

He didn’t laugh this time.

The appointment is for the morning of Nov. 6th.