Imagine you’re sick. Not fully sick as in Thorpie and his muesli bars but serious, ‘Don’t bother buying me a Christmas present’ kind of sick. You’ve exhausted all other possibilities and your last chance is a transplant, a risky procedure with an85 per cent failure rate, or a new drug that hasn’t even been tried on retarded slugs.
Hold that thought. So you’re racked withpain, depleted of hope and only have a short time left to come to terms withyour grief and anger. At the same time you’re attempting to make the most of the time you do have despite the relentless regime of medication, treatment, therapy and appointments you’re forced to endure while moving through a thick fog of fear, pain and sadness.
If someone said to you, ‘What’s your dying wish?’, would you say, ‘To have my final days documented in unnecessary and excruciating detail by total strangers and my most private moments broadcast by a television network whose only reason for existence is to sell shit to people they either don’t need, can’t afford or both. I want to have my tender and touching story sandwiched between an ad for dog food with added omega-3 and a promo for the steaming pile of shit on after this one’?
Last Chance Surgery. People who have nothing left apart from their dignity eagerly surrender it to Channel Seven producers in the hope they may meet a Daddo. That is, if they ‘make it.’ Cameras are shoved in their faces as they have their life shoehorned to fit a shooting schedule so advertisers can move another unit of Shit-in-a-Can, Crap-in-a-Box or the Bullshit 2000.
I can’t say I’m surprised. This year I’ve wondered if Channel Seven has been overdosing on Still the One pills as I’ve endured Gangs of Oz (Lock your doors! Wogs, slopes and towelheads have guns and they’re gonna kill you), Triple Zero Heroes (trauma porn) and Find My Family (relationship porn withemotionally manipulative music and reunions so intimate it feels like you’re spying through a keyhole watching your nana masturbate).
How did the producers con seriously ill people into having their souls raped and their misery mined? I imagine the producers laid it on thick withlines like ‘sharing your personal story,’ ‘your incredible journey’ and ‘inspiring others withyour courage.’
And Kerryn Phelps, you may be a doctor, but that doesn’t mean you’re above the corporate maggotry by enabling this culture of fear mongering, exploitative voyeurism and ethical bankruptcy by narrating this shameless breach of humanity.
It doesn’t matter how often you use terms such as ‘brave struggle,’ ‘tremendous courage’ or ‘a fighter whose strengthwill amaze you,’ or how many computer-animated medical procedures you include, it doesn’t make it OK. The fact that you’re a doctor suggests, but doesn’t guarantee, you should know better.
Last Chance Surgery is not a public service. By getting a doctor to do the voiceover, it’s legitimising ambulance chasing, mawkish schadenfreude and our curiosity for the emotionally macabre.