Archive for Cancer
I know that this is Week 3 of Foodierama here in Cancer-for-Christmas-land. I’ve been accused of being food obsessed before, so it is what it is.
Yesterday, as I ranged around seeking wi-fi in the aftermath of Irene’s blowdown of the power lines connecting me with the volts necessary for my at-home office, I listened to Fresh Air with Terry Gross. The episode was an interview with Grant Achatz, molecular-gastronomy rock star and chef at Chicago’s Alinea, who among other things has won the James Beard Award and landed 3-count-’em-3 stars in the Chicago edition of the Michelin Guide.
He’s also a guy who beat Stage IV tongue cancer. He talks about both of these achievements in his book Life, on the Line: A Chef’s Story of Chasing Greatness, Facing Death, and Redefining the Way We Eat (the link will take you to the book’s page on Amazon.com). As I listened, I found myself thinking about my recent post about the choice that Anna Stoessinger was forced to make after a stomach cancer diagnosis, and also about the aftermath that Roger Ebert faced after repeated surgeries to treat thyroid cancer left him disfigured, mute, and unable to ingest anything by mouth.
Maybe we can blame Chicago for at least two-thirds of this epic epicurean destruction? Kidding.
Grant Achatz traveled to New York seeking medical treatment – he was told that the best approach was to surgically remove his tongue and all the lymph nodes in his neck, followed by aggressive chemo and radiation treatment. They would try to replace his tongue with muscle tissue from elsewhere in his body. He was told that this treatment protocol would maybe buy him another few years of life.
He took that message home to Chicago, and discovered that there was a clinical trial at the University of Chicago that turned the traditional treatment dance on its head: aggressive chemo and radiation treatment, no surgery. This approach would burn the **** out of his tongue, and make him sick as a dog, but in the face of a “you’ve got Stage IV” diagnosis, he went for it.
Remember, he’s a world-renowned chef whose entire career has been about playing with flavor and texture. The treatment completely killed his sense of taste, and much of his appetite. But … it came back. Happily, the cancer did not. And he’s been cancer-free since late 2007.
If you take nothing else from this story, take this: don’t take any one doctor’s word for it. Whatever “it” is. Seek at least one other opinion, and if you’re facing some really scary stuff, get a few. And go with the one that gives you the most hope with the best provider possible.
Be informed, be your own advocate, and then surrender to the process.
And let’s all plan a trip to Chicago sometime soon, including reservations at Alinea. I personally can’t WAIT.
If you had to live without something, what would you choose?
And if you didn’t have a choice, how would you handle that forced forgoing with grace?
An op-ed in the NY Times is making a big noise in the health blogosphere, and is – in my opinion, at least – an essential story about how to be an e-patient, even in the most challenging circumstances.
Anna Stoessinger, a freelance advertising writer in New York, is a life-long foodie. In her opening line, she refers to herself as a “ravenous” eater, one that friends and family have compared to a wolf at the dinner table. She grew up grabbing gastronomic getaways with her mom – close to home, and as far as southern France – where they would savor a cascade of gustatory delights ranging from roadside cheeseburgers in Connecticut to filet of sole in the south of France.
Her recent marriage, to a man whose appetite for epicurean exploration matched hers, was only 10 months old when the case of heartburn she thought she’d brought back from Italy turned out to be a tumor: stomach cancer. Adding to the impact of that discovery was her doctor’s revelation that she’d lose her entire stomach – a gastrectomy – to ensure the cancer troll was defeated.
What could you live without if you had to? What would you sacrifice in order to stay alive, what defines your quality of life?
This is a question that millions of people face every day, as they weigh treatment options for a variety of diseases and conditions. From cancer to ALS, from congestive heart failure to sarcoidosis, patients are often forced to make choices that take something they love off the table. Forever.
Ask yourself what you could give up, and what could make you decide to forgo treatment for a life-threatening disease. That’s just the sort of “worst case scenario” planning that helps you make informed decisions about your medical care.
Diagnostic information is only half of the information making up a decision tree. The other 50% is your history, your knowledge of yourself, your sense of what makes your life livable, your vision for what makes your life yours.
Life is more than existence. But what you think is the central feature of your quality of life might be able to take some slings and arrows from that outrageous fortune b*tch and still live to fight another day. Enjoying the tastes, the touches, the experiences that remain.
Think about it: what could you live without?
Why aren’t doctors telling more jokes?
I asked that question as an aside over on the Mighty Casey Media blog earlier this week. We’re all about the comedy here at MCM. That, and the self-referencing that is “meta.”
Hey, a grrl’s gotta build links somehow, right?
Back to the topic at hand: laughter, its potential to heal, and its place in healthcare.
I know from hard personal experience – cancer for Christmas, remember? – that laughing in the face of adversity makes you feel more like you can deal. With illness, with financial setbacks (How much easier to manage would the recent debt-ceiling bitch-fest have been if they’d been trying to crack each other up, rather than beating each other over the head? Just asking. ), with family trauma, with pretty much any sling or arrow of outrageous fortune – nothing can’t be softened by a good belly laugh.
That’s truth, not conjecture.
The first time I remember seeing/hearing the phrase “laughter, the best medicine” was in Reader’s Digest, when I was a grade-school kid just learning how to read past “see Jane & Dick run.” It made perfect sense to a seven year old – I always felt better after a good laugh.
None of the doctors I’d met to that point seemed to have the same philosophy, and my experience since then hasn’t revealed any hidden comedy gold in the MD zone. Other than Ken Jeong. Medical care itself can be funnier than ****, considering the positions and situations we find ourselves in.
Stirrups. Hospital gowns. Turn your head and cough. They’ve got a million of ‘em.
Here’s my proposition: let’s help our healthcare providers, and ourselves, find the funny. I’m not suggesting that you prepare a five-minute standup set for your next annual physical – since your GP only has about seven minutes to spend with you, you want to keep it short and tight! – but encouraging the healthcare providers in your life to look at you, and laugh with you, will make a huge difference.
Really.
It will make them see your humanity, and help them connect with their own. In the most dire of situations, if you can laugh – particularly with your medical team – you’re building a pathway to healing. Try it. Even if you’re dealing with a chronic – or a terminal – illness, helping yourself move toward the lightness that laughter brings can make dealing with the most sucky of circumstances possible.
Try it. And let me know what kind of difference it makes.
I admit that my default in all things is “first, you laugh.” It’s a lot easier to laugh than to scream. Plus, it hurts less.
So it will come as no surprise to you that I’m a big fan of Showtime’s The Big C.
I bring this up because the cancer that Cathy Jamison is battling is one that gets very little attention in this very pink world: melanoma.
Melanoma is the fifth most common cancer diagnosed in the US, behind prostate (#1), breast (#2), lung (#3 and rising), and colon/rectal (#4) cancers.
When was the last time you heard of an awareness campaign for melanoma? Or saw someone wearing the black melanoma awareness ribbon?
BTW, how telling is it that the melanoma ribbon is black? Too often, melanoma goes unnoticed until it’s reached an advanced stage – like Cathy Jamison’s Stage IV diagnosis. At any stage, the treatment can be pretty draconian: wide-excision surgery and radiation at the least, with chemo and/or interferon added at more advanced stages.
If you’ve got skin, you’re at risk for melanoma. If you’ve got white skin, your risk is higher. Every time you put on a bathing suit, ask a family member or friend to take a look at the parts of your skin you can’t see easily. Follow the A/B/C/D/E guidelines (click the link to see the list), and if you see anything suspicious, make an appointment to see your family doctor.
Laugh. Learn. LIVE.
I had the great good fortune to be listening to Washington DC’s NPR affiliate, WAMU, early last week (yep, still love the radio – and particularly love that there’s an app for that on my Droid ;>) and heard a promo for a guest on that day’s Kojo Nnamdi Show: Dr. Gayle Sulik, a sociologist and researcher whose latest book is …
Pink Ribbon Blues: How Breast Cancer Culture Undermines Women’s Health
(note: I would have inserted an image of the book cover here, but WP isn’t playing nice today. Meh.)
The topic of Gayle’s book identifies one of the core reasons I kicked off #teamplaid – “pink” has done a great job making early detection a viable, life-saving way to avoid dying from breast cancer that isn’t diagnosed in the early stages.
I’m living proof of the viability of mammograms as early detection.
However, the focus on a cure – which has driven Komen to all kinds of questionable business partnerships, like the one with Kentucky Fried Chicken (really??) and the pink-cleated NFL in October 2010 - has watered down Komen’s early detection message.
If awareness is the goal, Komen achieved that at least a decade ago. Now it seems to be all about Komen’s brand visibility (see my buddy Alicia Staley‘s terrific post Lawsuits for the Cure (part 1 is here, part 2 is here). Moving from advocating for breast health and early detection to flogging fried chicken, pro football, perfume, and paraben-laden skin care?
I’m out.
And in with #teamplaid – lending my voice to the chorus seeking early detection for ALL cancers. Including lung cancer, which is now killing more women than breast cancer – the majority of which diagnoses and deaths are not smoking-related.
So: out with pink. Build your own plaid ribbon, and join the chorus.
WEGO Health and their newly-launched companion site: WEGOHealth.tv, has two posts up on their Breast Cancer channel (there are five other channels: Chronic Illness, Diabetes, Joint Pain, Multiple Sclerosis, and Sickle Cell), featuring my partners in cancer-fighting Alicia Staley, known online as@stales and Awesome Cancer Survivor – after fighting cancer 3-count-’em-THREE times, she has full rights to that title; Jamie Inman, @ibeatcancertwice on Twitter and founder of Stay in the Pink, which encourages women to prevent breast cancer through good breast health; and yours truly @MightyCasey, Ms. Cancer for Christmas herself. I only had cancer once, so I feel privileged to be in the room! Want a taste?
Here’s the second Breast Cancer post, “Are you a cancer ‘victim’?” (clue: hellz no!)
Breasts are beautiful
But can become dire terror
At a cell’s small whim
Did that headline make you look twice? Did you want to click on it?
Yeah, snake oil sales language of the 1st water. It’s identical to the current “belly fat” online ad campaign that seems to be everywhere from CIO Magazine to TMZ … and about as likely to be (a) real or (b) effective.
Here’s the rule on health care information – on the web, on the phone (with friends and/or family), on the street – if it doesn’t come from a recognized expert, it’s likely a load of hooey.
Who’s a recognized expert?
- a scientist doing research on the disease/condition
- a doctor who treats people with the disease/condition
- a nurse or nurse-practitioner ditto
- a patient who has or has had the disease/condition
- a caregiver who has cared for someone with the disease/condition
Even if the person you’re talking to is in that group, apply both due diligence (fact check!) and caveat emptor (only guarantee in health care is that there are no guarantees in health care).
Or maybe it should be click-at emptor?
Whichever, wherever, consider the source. Check facts. Make a choice, and surrender to the process. Don’t be a meat puppet, but also don’t fall prey to Shiny Object Syndrome…