V-5 Shoftim Be Deliberate

The Cities of Refuge were established havens for those commiting accidental manslaughter, but unfair judgements and prejudice kill in a different way. After eight months of fruitlessly searching for employment, I gave up. I couldn't afford sending out another resume. My stomach was empty. Each time I entered an office, abuse accosted me regarding my appearance-I had no resources to support myself or recover from the unseen debilitating illness within. Misery and hardship showed superficially through my ashblue-grey skin; my hair stringy from the incessant fevers and chills suffered from the agonizing pain of pelvic inflammatory disease. I bled internally for more than six months, but could not receive medical care because of the complexities and injustice of the American medical -social-welfare system. Had I been pregnant-now that was different-- even my university education could have been covered; but as a student, I had no right to apply for unemployment insurance. I could not sue the State as an employee of a State institution. Moreover, the company for which I worked in hospice services had siphoned my social security payments into another account. I was hit with penalties by the IRS for nonpayment of taxes. My own medical expenses were not tax deductible because I earned less than the poverty level. If that were not enough, the University of Washington denied my registration, and suspended not only my incoming graduate student aid; but also my student health insurance, not claimable after graduation. I was left, facing a preliminary diagnosis of probable cancer without personal resources at the age of 27-28. -"Even climbing the stairs in Suzzallo," the surgeon warned, "could kill you." In such situations, words kill and so do false judgements.

There was no deliberation. Judgement was a causal glance at my shoes, my old coat and the ashgrey face. No chance to go beyond the prejudice I faced. Poverty kills. For groceries, I begged at the food bank, but treated as useless bums, students aren't eligible. Until I doubled over in agony, I worked over sixty-eighty hours a week in hospice services caring for the hidden neglected and dying in the faceless labyrinth of geeky Seattle. I knew the horrors of chemotherapy firsthand from caring for leukemia patients. I watched doctors evade honesty with the agonizing family. Caught in the middle, aides are not permitted to admit the patient is dying. It seems grossly unethical and dishonest not to acknowledge death

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