For whatever reason moo knew is not allowing me to update posts without publishing them many, many times, so I shall start a new one, eh, my devoted Cake Eater readers, and avoid the hassle.

The biopsy went fine. I was very nervous until I actually got to the hospital, at which point I calmed down. I don't know why, but the point you'd think I'd be getting even more nervous is actually when I calm down. It happens this way every time. I don't know why, but I suspect it has something to do with "action" and not just sitting around, stewing in my own juices. We got checked in, were handed a buzzing coaster, just like the type they give you at Cheescake Factory to inform you, an hour and a half later, your table is finally ready. Fortunately, it buzzed within about fifteen minutes, and we were off to Care Suites. It's not a good thing when the nurses and nurses aides start recognizing you. It's just not. No one wants to be a regular at the hospital. The Nurse's Aide who brought me down said, "You were just in here, weren't you?" Oh, God. Yeesh.

Despite that, I got settled in, had my IV started, blood drawn and sent off to the lab to make sure my platelets were at a level ideal enough for me not to bleed all over the CT scanner, and then I laid down in my oooga-boooga-uuuugggly gown and bathrobe to watch Anthony Bourdain tour New Orleans. I love the fact they have cable in these rooms. The lovely, soothing idiot box and my "educational programming" courtesy of the Discovery Corporation. Seriously. Nothing soothes quite like it. Anyway, right as Emeril looked like he was going to bust a nervy-looking Bourdain's chops, a RN showed up early to take me down to the CT scan. That doesn't happen very often, so I was wheeled down the hallway, and this time the husband came with, so he could be in on the chat with the radiologist. They had my previous CT scan up on the screen in their monitoring room, and after confirming that it was, indeed, my pelvis, the husband got curious, went over and looked through the window, and commented, "Nice monitor," as he walked back over to where I was sitting, on the CT scanner. You can take the geek out of the computer repair shop for the day, but you can't get rid of the geek entirely, I suppose.

The radiologist turned out to be a fairly nice, level-headed guy, who made the effort to appear as if he was on my level: he squatted down while he was talking to me, instead of hovering over me, which I have to say, was somewhat comforting, particularly considering the circumstances, which turned out to be trickier than I thought they would be. He made sure I understood the problem he was facing with my biopsy: the affected area was about a centimeter wide, and it was in an area with loads of blood vessels and intestines, just to make things more complicated. He told us that instead of coming in vertically with the biopsy needle, he was going to go in horizontally, starting at my hip bone and proceeding toward my pubic bone with a needle about the length of a pencil, because this would make things easier, with less chance of him rupturing a blood vessel, or puncturing something he shouldn't. (Although he did say he could go through a bowel loop "if he had to" and it wouldn't cause too much damage, but he'd prefer not to. I agreed that was probably wise. Curious, isn't it, the things you learn?) He was concerned that he wasn't going to be able to get a good sample, however, because, again, the affected area was so small and because lymph node tissue and fat pretty much look the same to the naked eye. He was afraid he wasn't going to get the right kind of tissue sample, and that it wasn't going to be enough to determine if it was, indeed, cancerous. He warned me that he might not be successful, and that I might wind up having to have a full-blown lymphnodectomy, despite his best efforts. They always seem to do that, these radiologists. I don't know why. It hasn't happened before, and I suspect this time won't be any different. Anyway, after the explanations were over and done with, the husband kissed me goodbye and we got down to business.

I had to have an introductory scan---with contrast!---to light up the vascular system, and all of the lovely blood vessels that the radiologist was determined not to hit with his needle. I hate the contrast. Yeeeuch. It makes you feel like you're having a hot flash whilst having to pee really badly. Awful stuff, but moving along, this is when the nurse shot me up with the IV sedation drugs, and from there on in, things get a little fuzzy. This radiologist wasn't too chatty, unlike my previous radiologists, and he was all business. In and out of the CT, some time spent with very long, very thin needles, everyone leaving the room and in and out of the CT machine again. Lather, rinse and repeat. Twice. By the end of it, I was informed he thought he'd gotten one very good sample, one not so great, and another that was fairly good. Hopefully that will be enough---and of the right stuff---for the pathology department to do their business. Then it was back to my room, where I ate lunch and watched War Games on tee vee until they finally released me, two hours later.

I slept off some of the drugs when I got here, and I felt a little more even-keeled after I ate dinner. Apparently, I need a lot of these drugs---the RN said the amount she had to give me was enough to fell the average little old lady---and it was apparent that I needed to take it easy. Right now, I'm sore, a wee bit woozy from all the drugs, and I'm about to move it back to the sofa, but will take a detour to the kitchen to pick up my ice pack, which is chilling in the freezer. I can only imagine how sore I'll be in the morning. I suspect it won't be pretty, but hopefully, it'll be ok.

In all respects.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:50 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 1088 words, total size 6 kb.

Well, my devoted Cake Eater readers, I have yet another scintillating episode of the lymphocele that would not quit for you. I'm under the gun here this morning, so I don't have time to go a searchin' in the archives for the relevant posts to refresh your memories. You can go looking for yourself.

When we last left the story, about two months ago, we'd drained it, then drained it again and sclerosed it with alcohol (and had a catheter inserted. yeuuch.), before it got infected and the catheter had to be pulled. Then I was told we were going to "wait and see" what it did, because it had shrunk, and also because, as Dr. Academic put it, "the more you mess with these things, the worse they become." The problem with this plan of attack, as I saw it, was that I was still in pain, and week before last finally called in not to ask them to reup my pain medication prescription (well, not only) but to see just how long this "wait and see" period was going to last. I updated the main nurse on what was going on, that it seemed how it had shrunk, but that I was still experiencing pain, and that just wasn't acceptable to me. She related this to Dr. Academic, who, again, came back at me with the "the more you mess with these thingsblahblahblah" line. I'd had it. I told the nurse, in a very kind and polite manner, that perhaps it was time for me to seek a second opinion on this. But, being clueless as to just what type of doctor I should go to for said second opinion, I asked her who she thought I should go to. She replied that she thought a general surgeon would be my best bet. Then, in a completely unexpected turn of events, told me she'd ask Dr. Academic who I should go to and would call me back.

When she called back she stunned me further. Dr. Academic, apparently, decided to ante up. She told me that Dr. Academic would now like me to go in for a Pet Scan, a CT Scan and that we'd move up my appointment to see him directly. She said that maybe now would be a good time to figure out why it was inflamed in the first place. She asked me if this would work for me and I said, "Yes, it does." Three days later, I drank a boatload of the two various types of contrast necessary for either scan, and went in first for the Pet scan and then for the CT Scan. It took the better part of the day to accomplish this task, but once it was done, I was happy that we were finally going to get to the bottom of this thing.

The only problem with this scenario is that when the results came in, the Pet Scan showed something surprising: not only was the lymphocele gone entirely, but a lymph node in my left pelvis was glowing. The radioactive sugar solution they shoot you up with before receiving a Pet Scan is designed specifically to look for cancer cells, because they will metabolize the sugar more quickly than regular cells and it will show on the scan. One solitary lymph node, on the side where all the troubles have been lately, lit up, and that generally means there might be cancer there.

All is not lost, however. When Dr. Academic's main nurse called me to related this information, she said Dr. Academic thinks that the lymph node might simply be inflamed, rather than cancerous, and that's why it lit up on the Pet Scan. But he didn't know for sure, and to figure it out, he wanted me to go in for a CT Guided Biopsy, which is scheduled for one o'clock CDT today. GOOD TIMES!

I swear to God I'm going to start glowing in the dark soon because of all these scans. It's just a matter of time, I'm sure, before the husband isn't able to sleep at all because of the radioactive glow I will emit when the lights go down.

The big question, of course, is Is it cancer? Well, I don't know. Dr. Academic doesn't know, which is why he's sending me in for the biopsy, and is why he patently refused to put any odds on either outcome. If it is, that means another ride on the chemo bus. If it isn't, then they'll most likely give me some anti-inflammatories to take. Do I< think it's cancer? No, I don't. Is it possible that the cancer is back? Yes. Anything's possible. Is it probable? No, I don't think it is. Of course, I am Longshot-Girl-Pays-Off when it comes to this crap, but it just doesn't seem likely to me that the cancer would reappear where it had never previously been, but rather in an area that I've been experiencing problems with---and have fiddled with twice---for the past six months or so. It seems unlikely. The "inflamed lymph node" option seems more likely to be the culprit. Or that's at least what I keep telling myself.

I'm tweaked as all hell about this biopsy. I barely slept last night. My stomach is in a rumble this morning, and not just because of the fact that I'm on the "no food or drink" rule before the procedure. I had to email my entire family over the weekend to let them know what was going on, and I hate having to do that. I don't like having to do this biopsy, not only because I think it's probably going to hurt like hell afterwards because of the location, but because I want to get it over with as quickly as possible, in the unlikely event that the pathology lab at the hospital could get the results back to me before the holiday. I doubt I'll get them back before then, but maybe the good fairies will be looking out for me.

Keep your fingers crossed, my devoted Cake Eater readers, that this doesn't turn out to be my death sentence, eh? I mean, it's not every day you go in for a test that could, possibly, determine the cause of your eventual death.

Because if it comes back as cancerous, I'm screwed, my devoted Cake Eater readers. Screwed, I tell ya. If ovarian cancer recurs, well, as I've written here many times before, that's when a cure will be beyond me, or any other ovarian cancer patient. That's when you get "salvage chemo" to make you stay alive longer---and you could live thirty years longer, but the cancer will always be present in your life. I don't want or need that.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:23 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 1137 words, total size 6 kb.

I'm a little late with this, but yesterday the FT published an analysis piece that delved a little more deeply into the subject covered this post:the joys of socialized medicine and cancer treatment.

{...}The ethical issue of whether patients seeking some private treatment should be excluded from the NHS is only part of a much broader global debate on the rising cost of medicines. It has been brought to a head by a new generation of cancer drugs that typically cost £30,000-£70,000 a year per patient. Concern over the rising total bill to the NHS prompted government negotiations that resulted in a 5 per cent average cut in medicine prices last week in a new contract with the pharmaceutical industry.

Around the world, escalating prices and expanding use are creating similar tensions. “Five years ago, the system worked, but now public health watchdogs are increasingly withholding treatment,” says Jonathan Anscombe, joint head of the European health practice at A.T. Kearney, the management consultancy.

Patients are being squeezed between the opposing forces of a state increasingly scrutinising whether new medicines are both cost- and clinically effective, and drug companies that resist lowering prices. Cuts may jeopardise the delicate financial balance that allows new treatments to be developed, the industry argues.

Options for reform include efforts by manufacturers to hold prices down and by regulators and reimbursement bodies to modify the criteria they use – and the costs they impose on drug development in the process. Patients, even in countries used to universal health coverage, may also have to start assuming a growing share of the costs directly

{...}One-third of people in the industrialised world develop one form or another of cancer. Desperate patients – and their doctors – are keen to try anything that may work. But Harpal Kumar, head of Cancer Research, the UK-based charity, cautions that most medicines remain blunt instruments. “The vast majority of cancer patients are cured by surgery and radiotherapy, not by drugs,” he says. “Most of the drugs are not saving lives but extending them by a small number of months.” His view is shared by Michael Rawlins, chairman of the National Institute for Clinical Health and Excellence (Nice), which advises the NHS on whether it should reimburse new medicines.

Nice has recommended that the NHS should not pay for six different cancer drugs in recent months. Two were rejected for lack of proven clinical effectiveness and the rest because, despite some demonstrable benefit, they were judged too expensive and would have been given at the expense of cheaper or more effective treatments for other patients.

“I think the drug companies are really going to have to take a hard look at the value of their products and price them accordingly,” says Prof Rawlins. “If there is a small benefit, they cannot charge premium prices. Traditionally they charged what they thought the market would bear. But we can only afford to pay when the price for innovation is in proportion to what it delivers.”{...} Oh, yeah. It gets better. Go and read the whole thing. But if you can't be bothered, the message seems to be, "Tough shit if you've paid taxes all your life and expected free cradle-to-grave health care. You're probably not going to get it. The meanie pharmaceuticals won't come down on the cost of drugs, and we're not going to pay their price, so you're pretty much SOL. Sorry, but it's not our fault."

I ask again: Why do some people want to inflict socialized health care on us? You pay through the roof for lowest common denominator health care, and, then, because the government decides it's going to break its "social contracts," you're going to have to pay some more? No thank you.

Methinks some people would be begging for a privatized health insurance system, should we wind up going that route.

Or at least they will be when it's their life that's on the line.

Posted by: Kathy at 01:09 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 522 words, total size 4 kb.

Hide Comments | Add Comment