A Husband’s Thoughts on Cancer

Those of you who have read my blog know that my first cousin, Laura, was diagnosed with HER2+ breast cancer in 2012—and that just a year and a half later, she felt a lump in her neck, which led to the devastating news that she had metastatic recurrence to her lungs, liver, and multiple lymph nodes.  She immediately began treatment again, this time for metastatic breast cancer (MBC).

Fortunately, she responded incredibly well to her combined targeted HER2 treatment with Herceptin and a newly approved HER2 targeted agent, Perjeta, and was found to have no evidence of disease (“NED”) since October 2014.  But as she explained in her blog, in the spring of 2015: “I started feeling a tiny bit off when doing flip turns at the pool.  That’s all.  And my eyes felt bleary from what I assumed was my two day per week job in front of a computer where, with my reading glasses on, I had to be very close to the screen.  In my former life, I would have chalked it up to [being] tired or hungry.  In my occupation as cancer patient, I knew to request a brain MRI.”  And it was then that she learned her cancer had metastasized to her brain, with 18 lesions that were too poorly differentiated for localized gamma knife.   She therefore underwent whole brain radiation and, later, following the development of more brain lesions, gamma knife procedures.   In March of this year, Laura wrote the following about her most recent scans:  “’My body has no visible cancer right now.  Yea!  My brain has five tiny lesions that aren’t a big enough deal right now to treat.  Yea…..? This is a ‘great report’ from both of my brilliant docs.  Grace is my interior screaming, ‘What Kind of Fuckery is This?*’ while trying to be content with walking around with five cancerous lesions, however small and asymptomatic.”  (*As Laura explained, “It’s what Amy Winehouse sang so gorgeously in ‘Me and Mr. Jones.’  ‘WHAT KIND OF FUCKERY IS THIS?’  I love curses I’ve never heard before, especially when they fit a situation so well.”)

Also in March, Laura’s husband, Jon, wrote a deeply moving post on his Facebook page that brought me to tears.  In the days that followed, my thoughts kept returning to his words, and it struck me that far too many people have never heard such thoughts from the loved ones of women or men living with MBC.  I therefore contacted Jon to ask whether he would be willing for me to share his post on my blog, explaining that I had two reasons for my request.  First, there was no doubt that his words would deeply resonate with so many.  And second—and so importantly—his post could go far in educating others who have far too many misconceptions about MBC.  Jon graciously gave me his permission, and so, without further ado, I’m honored to share the following with you today.

Jon and Laura

Jon Graves and Laura Snyder

“My Thoughts on Cancer” 

“Every now and then, I try to write something about what it’s like with my wife having metastatic breast cancer (MBC).  Laura has been living with metastatic cancer for just over 33 months, which happens to be the median life expectancy for someone with MBC.  This statistic could be a little skewed, since there are a couple of new [targeted] drugs (Herceptin and Perjeta) that have become available over the past two to four years that should increase life expectancy for those with HER2 positive breast cancer.  She is [also] on chemotherapy and will continue on chemo of one type or another for the rest of her life.

“Right now, Laura has five brain mets (tumors) she is just walking around with.  They are very small, so her radiation oncologist just wants to wait before doing a procedure.  But this is me telling facts and not feelings.

“Ever looming is death.  Metastatic cancer is the cancer that kills.  So death is the first thing that is always lurking.  Every three months, she has scans, and we see if there is cancer in the body or in the brain.  Her cancer likes to invade her brain.

“But beside the big thing (death) is the human trait of planning ahead.  Thinking of the future.  Our future is lived in three month scan cycles.  But at the same time, I think about what is happening in ten years when I’m in my early 60s.

“My birthday is next week.  I will turn 53.  My Dad died when he was 52.  I have been afraid of 52 for a long time.  Laura made it past 52, and it looks like I will,  too.  But it brings up lots of emotions–especially the long-lasting void left for my wife and kids, who never met my real Dad.

“What is it like living with metastatic cancer (from a caregiver/observer view)?  Day to day can be good, generally is good.  Dog walks and amazing dinners.  Laura is cooking more than ever before in our marriage, and the food is amazing.  But there is a knot in my stomach, a catch in my throat, when someone talks of retirement or the future.  I wonder if I should be paying attention when people talk about swiping left or right on Tinder or Teaser (?) or whatever the dating app of choice is.  Will I be looking for someone to retire with in 15 years, or will Laura be there by my side?  Like everything in life, I just don’t know, but my mind wanders to the uncertain future late at night or early in the morning.

“I also feel guilty about wondering about my future when Laura is doing well while having cancer in her brain.  There are interesting and potentially life-saving drugs out there in trials that could make all the difference in the near future.

“Am I a bad person for making jokes that she can’t remember something?  She does not have nearly the cognitive abilities that she had five years ago.  Brain radiation will do that, as well as years of chemotherapy.  Her eyesight changes every few months, and she needs new glasses lenses, but I taunt her for not being able to see …  I know, I suck and should be better, but I can’t help making jokes about what is hard.

“We are thinking and dreaming of building out on our Knappa land above Big Creek.  It is great to think about moving out there when I retire, but what does that really mean–am I with Lu or alone?

“If you have read this far, please do not worry about me.  I am the same ebullient, happy-go-lucky fellow you know.  At times, I think too much, just like my lovely wife.”

Thank you, Laura and Jon, for allowing me to share this post.  I recalled that in an interview for the blog “Voices of Metastatic Breast Cancer,” when Laura was asked to share her favorite poem or song, she responded by saying that The Beatles ‘Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da’ really resonated with her in this phase of her life, as did Lucille Clifton’s poem, ‘Blessing the Boats.’”  I’m therefore sharing the below as a way of expressing my gratitude to you both.

blessing the boats

BY LUCILLE CLIFTON

                                    (at St. Mary’s)

may the tide

that is entering even now

the lip of our understanding

carry you out

beyond the face of fear

may you kiss

the wind then turn from it

certain that it will

love your back     may you

open your eyes to water

water waving forever

and may you in your innocence

sail through this to that

Lucille Clifton, “blessing the boats” from Blessing the Boats: New and Selected Poems 1988-2000. Copyright © 2000 by Lucille Clifton. Reprinted by permission of BOA Editions, Ltd., http://www.boaeditions.org.

Source: Blessing the Boats: New and Selected Poems 1988-2000 (BOA Editions Ltd., 2000)

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da

 

A Fascinating Discussion: Bringing Expert Clinical Interpretation to Complex Tumor Cell Genomics

As a cancer survivor and an active advocate, I typically attend several cancer research symposia, conferences, and workshops every year.  But one of my favorite meetings is always the American Society of Clinical Oncology (ASCO)’s Annual Meeting, since it brings together tens of thousands of oncology clinicians, researchers, advocates, and other oncology professionals from around the world, where attendees learn from leading-edge scientific and educational sessions, clinical science symposia, oral abstracts, poster discussions, and plenary sessions.

During this year’s Annual ASCO Meeting in  Chicago, I decided to attend a half-day “pre-meeting session” on a topic that is particularly timely for every cancer patient, researcher, oncology clinician, advocate, and all other stakeholders involved in and impacted by our current genomic revolution in cancer.  Called Genetics and Genomics for the Practicing Clinician, the session included several expert panelists whom discussed cancer genetics and tumor genomics specifically for clinicians who work directly with cancer patients.  While discussing tumor (somatic) and inherited (germline) mutations and the tools and tests available to oncology clinicians, the panelists used case-based presentations and a multidisciplinary tumor board format to highlight crucial clinical considerations and to connect the panels’ content to real-world scenarios to help ensure that participants may apply what they learned to their daily clinical practice for the benefit of their cancer patients and family members.

genomics

This pre-meeting session was absolutely worth the price of my entire trip to ASCO this year.  Yet what I remember most is actually a question that was posed by a gentleman in the audience toward the end of the session.  As he directed his question to all the panelists, he made the following provocative statement: “I would argue that evidence-based medicine is incompatible with precision medicine and, as currently practiced, is not effective for cancer care.”  If you have read my blog in the past, you know that its tag line is “It’s all about the evidence,” so it may be of no surprise to you that I was intrigued by the gentleman’s statement.  At the session’s close, I introduced myself to him, explained my role as a cancer research advocate and blogger, and asked whether he would be willing to be interviewed concerning his perspective on precision medicine versus evidence-based medicine and, as it quickly emerged, his role as a classically trained human geneticist and molecular pathologist.  To my pleasure, he readily agreed.  For those of you who are cancer survivors, advocates, oncology clinicians, and any other stakeholder type affected by cancer (essentially everyone), I have no doubt that you’ll find this discussion fascinating, as it essentially serves as a primer for those interested in the genomic interpretation of tumor and inherited mutations in cancer and the many considerations and implications regarding such interpretation.

Without further ado, I’d like to introduce you to Gabriel Bien-Willner, MD, PhD, FCAP.

dr-gabriel-bien-willner

 

Board certified in Anatomic Pathology and Molecular Genetic Pathology, Gabe has deep expertise in next-generation sequencing (NGS) and a long history of providing critical insight into the molecular basis of disease in cancer patients.  You can click here to read our interview, published by the American Journal of Managed Care on my AJMC contributor’s page.  Or you can also read our complete interview here as a PDF by simply clicking on the link below:

Interview-with-Dr-Gabriel-Bien-Willner

I’d also like to take this opportunity to again thank Gabe for our truly fascinating and informative discussion and for his crucial ongoing efforts on behalf of all of us who have been, are, or will some day be affected by cancer personally.

 

“Facts are Facts and Will Not Disappear on Account of Your Likes”*

“Facts are stubborn things; and whatever may be our wishes, our inclinations, or the dictates of our passion, they cannot alter the state of facts and evidence.”
~John Adams, from The Portable John Adams
~~~~
I’ve always loved this quote, and it seemed the perfect way to begin my newest blog postings on the American Journal of Managed Care (AJMC)’s Contributor’s Page.  Those who regularly read my blog here know that in my roles as a cancer research advocate, patient, and cancer survivor, I’m always deeply concerned about anything that interferes with evidence-based, patient-centered clinician and patient decision-making.  This includes governmental mandates that are not rooted in the science, but rather, stem from political ideologies, agendas, or biases–as well as misleading, inaccurate, or overly simplistic dialogues about complex medical topics in the popular media that may lead folks to make potentially dangerous decisions about their health due to such misinformation.  I’m similarly concerned when the facts surrounding such complex information become inadvertently buried due to passionately held opinions or, far too often, purposefully due to inconvenient facts that are contrary to one’s mission or agenda.  That’s why I found it so important to express my concern as a patient advocate about the newly proposed Medicare Part B Drug Payment Model regarding its level of transparency and the evidence.  This is a critical issue, where it’s important for all Americans to get past the noise, emerge from the avalanche of misinformation, and learn the facts about this proposal, one where the first part of this Medicare experiment is deeply flawed (and, IMHO, should be completed eliminated), yet the second portion proposes value-based pricing when appropriately supported by high-quality evidence, including published randomized controlled trials, reviews, or evidence-based clinical practice guidelines.  Thus, I hope that you’ll click below to read my three-part series at the American Journal of Managed Care, entitled:
(*The quote that forms the title of this posting is from Jawaharlal Nehru, leader of India’s nationalist movement, India’s first prime minister after its independence, and Indira Gandhi’s father.)

 

Ode to Jody

 

Jody1

This Wednesday, May 18th, so many of us experienced a tremendous loss.  Our beautiful friend, Jody Schoger, gained her wings.  There is so much to say about Jody, about her warmth, compassion, wisdom, eloquence, determination, and strength.  She was a tremendously talented writer and patient advocate who blazed a unique trail through social media, co-founding “Breast Cancer Social Media.”  Also known as #BCSM, it quickly became a global online community, providing powerful support, connecting thousands of people from around the world affected by breast cancer, and sharing critical information that was always grounded in and supported by medical evidence.

Jody was fiercely committed to #BCSM and those who formed this tremendously important community.  In fact, shortly after she learned that she had metastatic breast cancer, she wrote to me:

“This was a huge shock, but we are absorbing it, and I need to do some rearranging of activities, so I can treat this and still advocate.  It is as important as ever.”

And as her #BCSM co-founder, Alicia Staley, shared in a beautiful tribute to Jody, “When it came time to leave, she insisted on walking me to the door and down the driveway.  I knew this would be a long walk for her, but stubborn as she was, there was no stopping her.  She walked with me, one arm around mine, another hand on her cane … She squeezed my arm and pulled me in close. ‘Now listen, you know what needs to be done for #BCSM.  It’s up to you to take care of them now.’”  This powerfully shows so much about Jody: her resolve and inner strength, her poignant honesty, her innate ability to gently guide and teach us the most important life lessons–and the simple, but profound fact that she was always an advocate for others in her heart, throughout her soul, and with every breath.

Yet as I have tried to write this tribute today,  I’ve found that it is nearly impossible to adequately describe Jody with any words I might share.   Rather, it is her own words–such as her blog’s tag line, “Working for a better world, one word at a time”–through which we can remember the beauty, joy, knowledge, and compassion she brought to so many.  The following is from Jody’s blog, “Women with Cancer,” a place where I’ll be returning often, to again spend time with her in one of the few ways I still can:

Tuesday, March 24, 2015: “Stable Disease”:  “It’s one of those days.  I can’t stop smiling.  Spring has arrived after a long, grey winter here in south Texas.  It was dank, it was long, it was wet and cold … On my part, I’ve learned a lot about the seasons of metastatic disease in these past four short months … I’ll always have cancer, yet I have a team at MD Anderson that will go the distance with me.  Friends have stepped forward and clearly demonstrated their love, compassion, and courage.  Yes, some things could be better as far as my health news.  But being here and writing and chatting with you today is simply marvelous.  It just is.”

Jody2

Friday, April 26, 2013: “Cancer: Round Two”: “It has been difficult, and still is, to relate to this new information.  Yet my life is different.  How I prioritize will be different.  One thing is steadfast: my commitment to #BCSM and advocacy.  This is as strong if not stronger than ever. So is my knowledge that I am not alone in living with metastatic breast cancer.  When there are times of complete stillness, I know all of you will be with me.  That is how I feel about you.  And that we are all in this together, in this moment and those to come.”

Jody and Katie

On the same day that Jody posted the blog excerpted from above, she sent an email to several of us that began in her always honest, open, and eloquent manner: “I wanted you to hear this difficult news from me first instead of Twitter where the link below will be published sometime today.   When I went to MD Anderson two weeks ago for my annual survivorship clinic, metastatic breast cancer was discovered in lymph nodes in my neck and axilla.  I was so shocked, the only thing I could say to the radiologist who’d performed the FNA was, ‘really? are you kidding me?’ Of course she wasn’t kidding … We are adjusting.  I am adjusting, reorganizing, and sticking close to home.  Thank you for your friendship and the concern I know that will come my way.  You all help make my world go round.”

Jody, you have helped make the world go round for so many, and your words on your blog and #BCSM will continue to be a source of comfort for us.  We are heartbroken, but as you showed us, we are adjusting.  And we know that we must still advocate, now more than even before: as a wonderful and wise woman once said, “It is as important as ever.”

Rest in peace, dear Jody.

wings

 

Immunotherapy Part II: Understanding the Unique Spectrum of Adverse Events

In last week’s blog, entitled “Cancer Immunotherapy: a Patient’s Perspective,” I discussed the increasing excitement concerning new immunotherapies for patients with advanced and difficult-to-treat cancers, the need for caution in interpreting results while the data is still young, and the necessity for more mature data with much longer follow-up on an increased number of patients.
Part II of this blog series, now posted on The American Journal of Managed Care’s Contributors Page, continues on this important topic, focusing on why it is so critical for patients and their caregivers to understand the unique spectrum of adverse events that may be associated with these agents.  Unfortunately–and unsurprisingly–when reporting on the potential benefits of immunotherapy, some in the popular media have stated that there are “few to no side effects” associated with such therapies.  Though immunotherapies are typically not associated with the same adverse effects seen with chemotherapy regimens, “The Promise of Cancer Immunotherapy: Why Patient Education is Critical, Part II” outlines why the statement “few to no side effects” does not tell the entire story and may be extremely misleading for patients–and emphasizes the information that must be shared with patients before beginning any immunotherapy treatment.
tcells

 

This is the Hard Part: the Other Side of Advocacy

I’m not sorry to say good-bye to 2015.  It was a cruel year during which we lost several beloved patient advocates, who were wrenched away from their families, their friends, and so many loved ones by the monstrous, hydra-headed beast, cancer.   It was the year during which I learned that my first cousin had been diagnosed with brain metastases due to her stage IV HER2+ breast cancer. It was the year when I began to fear going onto Facebook, since I’ve now learned heartbreaking news about dear friends there far too many times. And it was the year when I began to dread receiving any emails whose subject lines simply contained the name of a fellow advocate with cancer—because it almost always meant the same thing, more tragic news, the loss of yet another dear friend and remarkable advocate.

In years not so long ago, when I was asked to explain what it meant to be a cancer research advocate, I welcomed the question. After all, I was being asked about my passion, what in many ways had become my raison d’etre. I could pinpoint with precision the very week when I stepped out of my role as a cancer patient and into that of a research advocate. After much difficult, fascinating, intellectually inspiring work, I was now sitting at the table as a partner with researchers, clinicians, and fellow advocates to drive the critical research questions that truly mattered to cancer patients themselves. I was an engaged, vocal participant at national cancer conferences, sometimes watching history being made as new treatment breakthroughs were being presented—and sharing deep disappointment with the oncologists, scientists, and advocates in the audience when novel agents that were followed with excitement ultimately failed to live up to their promise. And I was meeting highly passionate, intelligent, driven people from all parts of the country and, often, other nations, who were fellow cancer survivors and committed advocates, forming immediate deep friendships. It’s very difficult to describe how meaningful such friendships are. They involve an instant recognition of a kindred soul–one who knows first-hand just what you’ve been through from all aspects, including physically, emotionally, mentally, socially, spiritually, when cancer so rudely knocks at your door. These are folks who truly “get it,” to whom you immediately and without hesitation find yourself opening your heart and confiding the most private thoughts and concerns in a way you never could, nor wished to do so with your loved ones, in your reflex to protect them from your darkest thoughts and fears. Such friendships are life-changing, they are life-long, and they are one of the indescribable gifts that can give even the most difficult lives meaning. And yet. When your lifelong friend’s life ends far too soon—and due to the very reason that brought your life paths together when they otherwise never would have crossed—what then?

It’s now been more than 8 years since I’ve stepped into the role of an advocate. And with each year comes an increasing wave of devastating news. The terrible truth is that this should not have been unexpected for we who are cancer survivors and research advocates. For those of us affected by breast cancer, for example, we know that HER2+ and triple negative/basal-like breast cancer subtypes are associated with early relapse risk. And we know that ER+ tumors are associated with persistent late relapse risk beyond 5 years, with up to one-third of patients recurring potentially decades after active treatment. Yet every single time I learn that one of my advocate sisters or brothers has developed metastatic disease, I’m blindsided. And worse, when I receive the terrible news that a friend with stage IV cancer has passed, I still somehow allow myself to be blindsided yet again. After all, for my friends with metastatic breast cancer, I knew that they did not have curable disease. Each time, we prayed that their treatments would lead to “no evidence of disease” (NED) and that this would last indefinitely–or until additional, much more effective treatments became available. And for some friends with stage IV disease, they have remained with NED for several years. Others have sought new clinical trials after their cancer became resistant to their current treatment and were able to maintain stable disease for quite some time, sometimes for years—and if they became resistant to that agent, some were able to enroll on another clinical trial. And yet. There have been more of those times when, after seeing my friends year after year at the same conferences or grant review sessions, they suddenly were not there. Or they were, yet it was impossible to deny how frail they appeared, how very sick they were, that their cancer had become more adept at resisting treatment. And perhaps the most soul-shattering times were those when, after speaking with a friend who seemed to be doing extraordinarily well with her new treatment, we learned very shortly thereafter that she was no longer with us. Each and every time, I’ve been blindsided by their deaths; I’ve been lost, angry, completely unaccepting of their loss from this world.

When undergoing my active cancer treatment for Hodgkin’s and, later, for breast cancer, I often worried about my oncologists and the oncology nurses who spent so much time with us, who supported us at the scariest times of our lives, who provided comfort and strength not just to we as patients but to our families as well. Both of my oncologists and their oncology nurses essentially became honorary family members, as they did for so many others whom they treated day in and day out, year after year. How were they able to form such powerful, caring relationships, yet learn how to cope with their patients’ deaths, the deaths of far far too many patients? Fortunately, in more recent years, there has been increasing discussion and recognition about the impact of such repeated losses and the need for improved resources and support for oncology professionals. As noted in Cancer Therapy Advisor, “Everyone who enters the field of oncology knows that many of their patients will die, but foreknowledge is not protection against the cumulative effects of loss.” I would argue that the same is true for cancer research patient advocates, particularly for those of us who have been actively engaged for several years and are experiencing what has been described as “cumulative grief”–the compounding emotional, physical, and spiritual responses to repeated exposures to profound loss. Just weeks ago, upon learning of another friend’s death, I shared with a fellow breast cancer survivor that I was still reeling from the terrible news (and the awful news before that, and the devastating news before that)—and her response was direct, simple, and wise: “Deb, this is the hard part.”

That it is—and during this past year, the sheer weight of it was sometimes more than I thought I could bear. Yet it’s during those times that I try to remind myself: in addition to being advocates for cancer research, we’re here to advocate for one another, and the support we provide to our fellow advocates during these devastating times is crucial. Oncologists and oncology nurses have appropriately stressed the need for greater institutional and professional support to help them cope with their grief due to their patients’ deaths. It could be extraordinarily helpful if we, too, as dedicated cancer patient advocates, similarly received such supportive and educational resources through cancer organizations and professional societies on topics such as cumulative grief, end-of-life care, pain management, and palliative care. After all, as we know so well, knowledge is power and often provides the tools and the strength to transform even the most difficult, painful problems and emotions, including grief, into truly positive outcomes.

In addition, every time we experience these terrible losses, it serves as a stark, powerful reminder of why we became advocates in the first place. As cancer patients and advocates, we are the ones who bring a critical sense of urgency to identifying the cancer research questions that truly matter, that will have the most impact, that will ultimately lead to more cures. By working to support one another and to transform our grief into remembrance and renewed commitment to our advocacy efforts, perhaps that is the most appropriate, necessary, and powerful way to honor all of those we have lost.

peaceful

“Grief starts to become indulgent, and it doesn’t serve anyone, and it’s painful. But if you transform it into remembrance, then you’re magnifying the person you lost and also giving something of that person to other people, so they can experience something of that person.”

~Patti Smith

A Postscript

It pains me to say that just 5 days after the new year, our cancer patient advocacy community has experienced yet another devastating loss.

Ellen Stovall was the Senior Health Policy Advisor at the National Coalition for Cancer Survivorship (NCCS) and a founding member of the Institute of Medicine (IOM)’s National Cancer Policy Board.  As I posted on Ellen’s wall on Facebook, she was a shining light to so many of us, and it is impossible to articulate the profound difference she has made for cancer survivors in this country. She spoke profoundly and powerfully on the need for further knowledge about the very serious late effects that can result from cancer treatment. Though I never had the honor of meeting Ellen face to face, I was and will always be inspired by her remarkable accomplishments in cancer survivorship advocacy.  As I’ve written about here in my blog, like Ellen, I was originally diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and I also went on to develop potentially life-threatening late effects of my treatment, including breast cancer and cardiac disease. It is absolutely devastating that Ellen passed away 2 days ago due to sudden cardiac complications secondary to her cancer treatments. Her passion and commitment touched so many lives, and her legacy will continue–a legacy of ensuring that cancer survivors are able to become true partners in their medical care and that shared decision-making with their medical team will help to prevent or mitigate such life-threatening late effects for many cancer patients. My first major focus as an advocate was the need for improved cancer treatments that minimized the development of serious acute and late effects while continuing to ensure optimal efficacy and positive patient outcomes. Going forward, my efforts in this critical area will be in tribute to Ellen, one of the true pioneers of the art and science of cancer survivorship.

Ellen Stovall

Back in 2002, Ellen shared the following thoughts when speaking during a National Cancer Institute (NCI)/American Cancer Society Survivorship Symposium in Washington, DC, called “Cancer Survivorship: Resilience Across the Lifespan.” Fourteen years later, her words resonate just as deeply:

“So, my closing thoughts to you are, as you leave this room today to go back to the very, very important work of writing grants, reviewing grants, and helping people in your communities day to day deal with their personal journeys of survivorship, please know that the cancer advocacy community, represented by scores of organizations that were founded by and for cancer survivors, stands ready and eager to tell you our stories of survivorship with the belief that while grateful for the blessings of survivorship, for the increasing length of days, months, and years added because of new and improved therapies for cancer, that this diagnosis is filled with many punishing and adverse consequences as well as joy for living each day.

“The physician Victor Sidel once said that statistics are people with their tears wiped away. That is the way NCCS views cancer survivors, and on behalf of all of us at NCCS, thank you for your attention and for all you do for cancer survivorship.”

Thank you, Ellen, for all you have done for so many.  Rest in peace.

“Financial Toxicity” of Cancer Treatment: Have You Been Affected?

During that indescribable moment when you first learn that you have cancer, many of us experienced a virtual avalanche of thoughts, worries, and raw emotions–or, for some of us, everything came to a standstill, and a thick fog seemed to drop from the sky, blocking all sounds and sights.  Or somehow, due to the mystery that is the human brain, both may simultaneously occur, as it did in my case with both of my cancer diagnoses.  When I received my first cancer diagnosis, my initial thoughts were stark terror, confusion, denial, the wish to turn back the clock, intense fear that I  wasn’t strong enough to handle the pain and terrible side effects that may come with my treatment, a sense that I’d ultimately get through this, deep panic that maybe I was wrong–and then came the self-protective haze to help cocoon me from these far too troubling worries.  But one thought that didn’t come to mind was concern that I wouldn’t be able to pay for the costs of my treatment.  After all, I was fortunate in that I’d just started working full-time shortly after graduating from college, and I was confident that my insurance would immediately provide coverage for these costs.  Silly girl: oh, how wrong I was.

For this month’s special edition of Evidence-Based Oncology’s “Cost and Value Edition,” I was asked to contribute a piece from my patient perspective concerning the financial toll that cancer treatment takes on so many patients.  As I began to compose the article, I found myself describing a soul-shattering confrontation I had with my insurance company as a stage III Hodgkin’s lymphoma patient at the age of 22–an experience I’ve never written about before since it was so upsetting, yet one that almost certainly will resonate with many of you who have been diagnosed with cancer.  But as I note in this piece, as terrible as that experience was, so many cancer survivors have gone through–and more and more are currently experiencing–far worse.  Because the fact is that due to the ever increasing costs of cancer treatments, particularly in this genomic era when the cost of one targeted agent may be upwards of $10,000 per month, such rising costs together with increasingly restrictive health insurance coverage, expensive deductibles, and increasing specialty visit and drug co-pays have created “financial toxicity,” an adverse effect with serious implications that may lead to changes in treatment-related decision-making, higher rates of nonadherence with oral chemotherapy drugs, and decreased overall quality and, potentially, length of life.

DMadden, EBO2

As I noted in the article, during this year’s American Society of Clinical Oncology (ASCO) Annual Meeting, I was struck by the fact that the phrase “financial toxicity” suddenly appeared to be on everyone’s lips.  I remember appreciating that this very real adverse effect of cancer treatment finally had a name—yet also thinking that though the term may be new, the condition itself was not.  Importantly, however, the crucial difference now is that an increasing number of oncologists, patients, advocates, and other stakeholders are speaking about this openly, honestly, and effectively and actively working on measures to prevent or better manage this serious toxicity of cancer.  Please click here to read my patient perspective in this month’s edition of Evidence-Based Oncology: “Financial Toxicity: a New Term, but Not a New Reality for Many Cancer Patients.”  And please consider sharing your thoughts here on this serious issue.