News From Cancerland (or confirmation of diagnosis)
Hi everyone,
Welcome to Cancerland where the local temperature is 37 degrees Celsius and pain levels are hovering around 1. I have just had the immense privilege to meet my oncologist again. Why am I saying privilege? Here's an overview of the decorations in his waiting room...
"Top 500 Doctor's in 1992 and 2001 - Top OBGYN oncologist"
"Top doctors as selected by his peers in 2002 and 2003"
Next to this pedigree, my resume looks like a wafer. To my credit I must say that I am developing an uncommon specialty: that of always having to face events that have a chance in 1 billion to occur. I need to buy a lottery ticket, feeling very lucky these days.
Now that we have all agreed on a standard of greatness, I will do my best to honor your expectations and share with you the minutes from my medical meeting.
The oncologist opened up the show with a metaphysical question: "Do you want the bad news or the good news?" (<= note, this is oncologist humor) In the mouth of a waiter at a local restaurant, this sentence does not quite convey the same meaning as it does in an oncologist's office. But then, faithful to my principle of rarest event specialist, I figured "in an oncologist office, the most common occurence outside the staff has to be people with cancer, so the good news must be the least common event in the lot" so I asked for the good news first. "So the good news is that I am now certain of the diagnosis, there's no argument in the lab anymore about the nature of the tumor - ** odds were 2 against 1 in favor of cancer before ** and we don't need a specialist from Harvard. The bad news is that this diagnosis is cancer. It is called an adenosarcoma, or also called malignant adenosarcoma" (I don't mean to be pedantic here or to interrupt the grand master, but the second moniker sounds redundant to me) I looked this thing up - here's what I have found: "Adenosarcomas of the uterus are seldom observed and diagnosed". how useful is this definition to you on a scale from 1 to 10?
Anyhow - the oncologist seemed to remember the difference in size between my resume and his and decided to illustrate this cryptic medical language with a drawing. On a small piece of paper advertising "Fosamax, alendronate sodium tables", he went on drawing what looked like a light bulb with a rusty filament. I was wondering if this was a symbolic way of telling me that he had an idea but I was stunned to hear that this was a drawing of my uterus and cervix and that the part that was blacked out was what he had just removed (read 80% of the cervix). Darn, I'd never want this guy on my team if we play Pictionary. He would draw a picture of a spaceship and want me to guess an egg.
So, he explained to me that this form of cancer is actually not a cervical cancer but a uterine cancer (why it was on my cervix will probably remain a mystery until the end of time I suppose). It is a very rare form of cancer, and unseen to his knowledge in a patient falling in my age group (faithful to my principle, if there's one thing that I will remember it certainly is the fact that he doesn't see this every day) and it now looked pretty aggressive.
So apparently, they took loads of pictures during the surgery and the results of the biopsy are making their way around the high spheres of the medical authorities. I wish this would make me famous but I bet that everything is labeled case EO69-4. Trying to get hold of these for my family album. But I am going on a tangent here, let's go back to our main storyline.
There is only one permanent solution: a hysteric tummy, huh, no sorry, a hy-ste-rec-to-my. (although, technically, there is a high chance of this cancer developing again in nearby tissues, it is also recommended to do regular general screening. It is apparently also a cancer of the lungs and breast. I am sure that I could do with a little bigger breast but this approach would not be my preferred option).
So my oncologist has given me two options and two weeks. His main recommendation is a complete hysterectomy (I can hear my cats laughing already at the idea that their "mom" will be "neutered"). Given my young age ( (<= note, that is a man's compliment) and the fact that he's confident that he's removed the bulk of it for now, he said that he would allow me to wait and be watched (read, regular biopsies and scans). However, the cancer is not cured. So technically, I have cancer.
I asked the oncologist if he could rate the chance of re-occurence on a scale from 1 to 10. He gave me a 9.9999. Going back to 3rd grade math, I deduct that this type of cancer has a high risk of re-occurence in the uterus as well as the cervix that hasn't been permanently zapped (where did my 1 chance in a million go???), and it is not quite the type of baby I'd like to see grow in there.
Now, there are risks associated with this approach.
Risk 1: that not everything is caught in time and that there will be more need for chemotherapy and/or radiotherapy. A hysterectomy preserves the ovaries. This type of gentle treatment does not.
Risk 2: that if I did decide to wait (to start a pregnancy), the process might have to be cut short to treat cancer and if it is a tiny bit early, it might treat another growth in the uterus at the same time :(((
Risk 3: that his "surveillance" isn't 100% proof (this type of cancer cannot be detected by a pap test - don't ask me why, I don't know why the oncologist chose a red tie today either)
Finally, he is ordering a scan but we have to wait for the cervix to heal, right now, the scan would show only scar tissue and disturbed matter...I was so much longing to go back into this tube-like machine of MRI (took them TWO hours last time to get those pictures. I say, they should have been happy with the first shot and use Photoshop for the others)
So - that is the story in a coconut shell. See you in 2 weeks, guys, for Alien 2.
Ripley
Welcome to Cancerland where the local temperature is 37 degrees Celsius and pain levels are hovering around 1. I have just had the immense privilege to meet my oncologist again. Why am I saying privilege? Here's an overview of the decorations in his waiting room...
"Top 500 Doctor's in 1992 and 2001 - Top OBGYN oncologist"
"Top doctors as selected by his peers in 2002 and 2003"
Next to this pedigree, my resume looks like a wafer. To my credit I must say that I am developing an uncommon specialty: that of always having to face events that have a chance in 1 billion to occur. I need to buy a lottery ticket, feeling very lucky these days.
Now that we have all agreed on a standard of greatness, I will do my best to honor your expectations and share with you the minutes from my medical meeting.
The oncologist opened up the show with a metaphysical question: "Do you want the bad news or the good news?" (<= note, this is oncologist humor) In the mouth of a waiter at a local restaurant, this sentence does not quite convey the same meaning as it does in an oncologist's office. But then, faithful to my principle of rarest event specialist, I figured "in an oncologist office, the most common occurence outside the staff has to be people with cancer, so the good news must be the least common event in the lot" so I asked for the good news first. "So the good news is that I am now certain of the diagnosis, there's no argument in the lab anymore about the nature of the tumor - ** odds were 2 against 1 in favor of cancer before ** and we don't need a specialist from Harvard. The bad news is that this diagnosis is cancer. It is called an adenosarcoma, or also called malignant adenosarcoma" (I don't mean to be pedantic here or to interrupt the grand master, but the second moniker sounds redundant to me) I looked this thing up - here's what I have found: "Adenosarcomas of the uterus are seldom observed and diagnosed". how useful is this definition to you on a scale from 1 to 10?
Anyhow - the oncologist seemed to remember the difference in size between my resume and his and decided to illustrate this cryptic medical language with a drawing. On a small piece of paper advertising "Fosamax, alendronate sodium tables", he went on drawing what looked like a light bulb with a rusty filament. I was wondering if this was a symbolic way of telling me that he had an idea but I was stunned to hear that this was a drawing of my uterus and cervix and that the part that was blacked out was what he had just removed (read 80% of the cervix). Darn, I'd never want this guy on my team if we play Pictionary. He would draw a picture of a spaceship and want me to guess an egg.
So, he explained to me that this form of cancer is actually not a cervical cancer but a uterine cancer (why it was on my cervix will probably remain a mystery until the end of time I suppose). It is a very rare form of cancer, and unseen to his knowledge in a patient falling in my age group (faithful to my principle, if there's one thing that I will remember it certainly is the fact that he doesn't see this every day) and it now looked pretty aggressive.
So apparently, they took loads of pictures during the surgery and the results of the biopsy are making their way around the high spheres of the medical authorities. I wish this would make me famous but I bet that everything is labeled case EO69-4. Trying to get hold of these for my family album. But I am going on a tangent here, let's go back to our main storyline.
There is only one permanent solution: a hysteric tummy, huh, no sorry, a hy-ste-rec-to-my. (although, technically, there is a high chance of this cancer developing again in nearby tissues, it is also recommended to do regular general screening. It is apparently also a cancer of the lungs and breast. I am sure that I could do with a little bigger breast but this approach would not be my preferred option).
So my oncologist has given me two options and two weeks. His main recommendation is a complete hysterectomy (I can hear my cats laughing already at the idea that their "mom" will be "neutered"). Given my young age ( (<= note, that is a man's compliment) and the fact that he's confident that he's removed the bulk of it for now, he said that he would allow me to wait and be watched (read, regular biopsies and scans). However, the cancer is not cured. So technically, I have cancer.
I asked the oncologist if he could rate the chance of re-occurence on a scale from 1 to 10. He gave me a 9.9999. Going back to 3rd grade math, I deduct that this type of cancer has a high risk of re-occurence in the uterus as well as the cervix that hasn't been permanently zapped (where did my 1 chance in a million go???), and it is not quite the type of baby I'd like to see grow in there.
Now, there are risks associated with this approach.
Risk 1: that not everything is caught in time and that there will be more need for chemotherapy and/or radiotherapy. A hysterectomy preserves the ovaries. This type of gentle treatment does not.
Risk 2: that if I did decide to wait (to start a pregnancy), the process might have to be cut short to treat cancer and if it is a tiny bit early, it might treat another growth in the uterus at the same time :(((
Risk 3: that his "surveillance" isn't 100% proof (this type of cancer cannot be detected by a pap test - don't ask me why, I don't know why the oncologist chose a red tie today either)
Finally, he is ordering a scan but we have to wait for the cervix to heal, right now, the scan would show only scar tissue and disturbed matter...I was so much longing to go back into this tube-like machine of MRI (took them TWO hours last time to get those pictures. I say, they should have been happy with the first shot and use Photoshop for the others)
So - that is the story in a coconut shell. See you in 2 weeks, guys, for Alien 2.
Ripley
posted by Finance Monkey at 7:26 AM
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