Most weeks, I like to write about personal experiences that other people can relate to, and imbue them with humor, snide comments, or everyday frustrations. This week is different. I’m mad. It is an anger still festering after 20 years

Tom O’Brien, my late husband, died of esophageal cancer 19 years ago. Prior to that horrific diagnosis, he had never been hospitalized, never been an emergency room patient, rarely even had a cold. Other than a lifelong need for antacids due to his heartburn, Tom was super healthy. But he was a heavy smoker.

It was the one thing we consistently argued about. We’d been married five years when we were expectant parents for the first time. Tom promised the obstetrician he would quit smoking by the time our baby was born. He did not succeed.

Years later, he finally licked his nicotine addiction. But he was so miserable, the children and I were almost willing to buy him a new carton of Salems. Tom had always been easy going, not an argumentative man, and his change of personality flummoxed us. It took about six months, but he finally worked his way back to his old self. He did admit to me that he still craved a cigarette after dinner and with his morning coffee. He’d been a hard-core smoker since age 14.

When his esophageal cancer was discovered, it was at an advanced stage. And that is usually the problem. There are no symptoms until it’s too late. The oncologist advised us that he could live three to five years. I sat there thinking, “What can I do to see that he makes it past five?” He told me later that he thought, “I’ll never make it to three years.” He lived a year and a week.

I spent a lot of time at Pittsburgh’s Hillman Cancer Center researching, trying to learn what I could. One statistic floored me. The average esophageal cancer victim is a 67-year-old Caucasian male smoker who usually has an acidy stomach. Tom. Exactly.

The “rock star” surgeon in Pittsburgh convinced us that removing his diseased esophagus was the answer. He would remove it entirely, and attach the top of his stomach to the bottom of his throat. I won’t bore you with those details, except to say that it was a nine-hour surgery and he was in hospital for a week.

He continued his treatment with chemotherapy and radiation at the Warren Cancer Center. When his throat began to close so he couldn’t swallow easily, we wound up traveling to Pittsburgh every three weeks to have his throat surgically stretched so he could eat. Even that didn’t allow for much. The weight peeled off him.

Every trip to the docs in Pittsburgh brought another insurmountable problem. It was a long difficult year, yet much too short.

I give you all this history to explain why I am still so angry. All those years ago, I learned to my horror that no significant research was being done to cure esophageal cancer. The more I read, the clearer it became: it’s a “small cancer.”

W-H-A-A-T? The journals explained that “only” 15,000 men (usually men) get esophageal each year and “only” 15,000 men a year die from it. It depends on the statistical source as to how many women are diagnosed, but most numbers point to one in five victims being female. I’ve known nine victims – all male.

But 15,000 victims is “small?” To my way of thinking that’s 15,000 sons, husbands, dads, and grandpas. It’s 15,000 souls who are co-workers, fishing buddies, friends. A good-sized small town has 15,000 citizens. 15,000 is a large university. A multinational corporation. And 15,000 devastated families.

I understand that curing lung, prostate, and breast cancers would save many more lives. But research only extends to treatment for this “small” killer? It’s easy to say Don’t Smoke, but all cancer prevention cites the same warning.

I recently met a gentleman at my grandson’s graduation in Massachusetts. He is a research oncologist at a prestigious university and hospital. As we chatted about his work, I asked him about improvements in esophageal research. I told him of my frustration learning of the 15,000 diagnoses vs 15,000 annual deaths twenty years ago. Shaking his head he said, “It is such a shame – the figures are exactly the same today. There’s nothing working towards a cure – only treatment.” He commented that research is all statistics driven, and of course the “big” cancers get the big bucks.

Nineteen years times 15,000 = 285,000 insignificant victims? And their countless destroyed families and friends.

As any widow knows, that destruction endures. You get to live, to eventually go forward, from devastation to … different. Sometimes even to some happiness.

Tom didn’t get that chance. Too small a cancer. The anger is still much too large.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.