To the moon!

We’re sharing a blog post written by the director of the Holden Comprehensive Cancer Center, Dr. George Weiner. Tomorrow Dr. Weiner will be in Washington DC, as a guest of Vice President Joe Biden, to attend the Cancer Moonshot Summit. Back here in Iowa City, we will host a satellite summit that can be followed live through the HCCC Facebook page. This summit is just the start to what might be the best chance our nation has of ending cancer as we know it.

“Mo, what’s your cancer moonshot?”

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“My moonshot is for us to remove cancer from the human race and
put me out of business.”

 

About a year ago, I blogged about “going to the moon” as a metaphor for cancer research. More recently, the phrase “cancer moonshot” has taken on new meaning. In his state-of-the-union address, President Obama charged Vice President Biden with refocusing the nation’s effort on cancer and cancer research. To quote the President – “Vice President…

via Cancer moonshot – all systems “go” — Holden the Line on Cancer

Waiting

 

Today’s post comes from guest Blogger, Fletcher Summa. Thanks, Fletcher, for sharing your story with us! 

 

 

I sat in the waiting room on February 8, 2013 in the Cancer Center preparing to tell Dr. Mo that I didn’t want to do this anymore. My treatment was entering the 11th month and my body was bloated and scarred and bore little resemblance to my pre-diagnosis self. I looked around the waiting room and I focused on what I wanted to say to Dr. Mo and settled in to wait for my name to be called. Waiting is something you become very good at as a cancer patient; my mom sat next to me lost in her usual game of Candy Crush Saga on her phone. This situation had been part of my life for almost a year: the two hour trip to Iowa City every other week, wait for a bed, get hooked up to chemo, stay for days, go home, feel awful, get better, then repeat. However, this time I could no longer go in and just face it the way I’ve done in the past.

The chemicals were really starting to take a toll on my body, especially my heart. The methotrexate I was scheduled to take had been cancelled due to my lab results. This meant that I would have only two rounds of treatment remaining—“only” two but it was dependent on the results of my heart scan. Regardless of the result, I planned to tell Dr. Mo that I was done with all treatment.

It all began when I was diagnosed with Osteosarcoma on March 21, 2012 and within weeks I began treatment, then on June 21, 2012, I underwent surgery. The surgeon removed the tumor and if the tumor was over 90% dead then I would have a shorter treatment plan; if it was below 90% then the treatment would be more intense. Yet because my heart scan results had not improved I was informed that I couldn’t receive further treatment without risking permanent damage. Though it doesn’t quite sound like it would be, this was indeed good news. This was the day that I waited almost a year for. “No more chemo.” And it was finally over.

Photo 1

I smiled when I heard this news and feelings of joy overwhelmed me. I could get on with my life and not deal with any more side effects. Aside from the doctor appointments every three months, I thought I never had to think about cancer again.

I was wrong.

What I didn’t take into account was just how much this experience had consumed my life. Living and surviving became indistinguishable. Together with the nausea, the doctor visits, the questions from friends and family, the pills and treatments, and the pain, being a cancer patient became who I was. My return to the real world after the chemo was extremely difficult. I simultaneously wanted to talk about it and to NOT talk about it.

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Yet life goes on and my life had to continue to move forward. My hair was growing back, I was losing weight and I had more energy than I’d had in a long time. The mindset I had throughout chemo was that each round was a victory and that every small nauseating triumph would accumulate to success overall. And what is cancer but a concentration of painful battles? If I had won against that, then surely I deserved to live without any more inconvenience.

Again, I was wrong.

Without this understanding I might have gone through life thinking that the world owed me something and that every hardship had to be reimbursed. What if I spent the rest of my life asking “why me?” or cursing the wind every time my leg hurt, then there would be no time to appreciate the fact that I made it through the treatment. Sometimes, often times, life is unfair. But that is only part of the picture and a small one at that. Maybe this is the real lesson I learned.

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It’s been 29 months since my chemo ended and I’m still not sure I’ve really ever left that waiting room. What remains though after spending so much time waiting and reflecting on my life, is an enormous appreciation for those who supported me throughout this journey. The fact that so many people supported me, including my wonderful family who sat alongside me in the hospital all those days bored out of their minds and not knowing what the future holds. To the doctors and nurses who were able to balance their work responsibilities while being kind and compassionate, proves to me that people are capable of extraordinary acts of kindness and strength. It is because of them that I made it through an otherwise horrific experience, and it is because of them that I appreciate life so much more now.

Inhabited

“It’s just so hard, Mo!” she exclaimed amidst tears, taking in labored breaths with her oxygen on. I had delivered the news that the tumors again were stable, which just meant they were not growing. “Stable”, I wonder where we come up with such terms and expect our patients to grasp the meaning. Stable, I guess, means: it’s quiet, not dramatic or anything, not out of control.. but then it is all relative. The cancer has not left her body. In each nodule billions of cells divide and multiply, and the CT scan is unable to tell the whole truth of what really was going on.

The conversation took a turn to where she was now sobbing. So lets do this like the movies, where a screen shot would say something like ….

10 minutes earlier

I had walked in and greeted my patient with a hug, she was a big advocate of my program and always supported cancer research. I had gone off on a tangent telling her about a new way of attacking cancer based on a test we were now doing in the cancer clinic identifying potential genetic targets. Here I go again sounding all sophisticated, but cancer growth often is dependent on what we call “pathways” that cause the cancer cells to survive in the environment they grow in. If identified, these signals can also be interrupted and the cancer treated, controlled or stabilized. I had found a potential agent that could be added to her current regimen and I was talking to her about this, when she suddenly started to sob.

“Stable” the word just hung there in the air. Not better, not gone. I felt the hard truth was that she was inhabited by this cancer. It was not going away like we would hope when we deliver therapy. She carries it along with her every day, in her body, memory, and heart. She must live amongst her family and forget that it exists. The oxygen prongs in her nose a constant reminder of the damage it had done to her lungs and her breathing. How does she do it? Is that what is hard?

Her next words, the gist of which was…..”I know the day will come when what you will say is not what I want to hear, that day when my tumor gets the better of me.” She followed by ” You need to blog. Your blogs help, they help me”. She is not the first to reach out to me to write.

What is touching is that she came with a gift to the scientific enterprise that comes up with answers and defines new attack schemas against this un-welcomed inhabitant. This gift, I explained to her, opens the doors to researchers that find ways to understand the alien lurking inside her for future cancer patients.

I held the envelope in my hand and I thanked her for her supporting cancer research: “every breath, every word and every gift goes a long way” I said. She told me that what I said helped. She wanted to share her message with her friends, explaining to them the power of what we can do as a collective group, to fight the rarity of what she has as we define the finest details of this complex disease.

Cancer has a different face now. It is constantly changing; evolving and so is our understanding of it. While this cancer is an intrinsic inhabitant of some of the people I have come to love and respect, never does my mind rest in searching for solutions to the issues that it keeps presenting. It cannot bend the spirit of the patient fighting, the family supporting and of the researchers who strive to impact the lives they so stringently try to save. “Stable”, while good, is far from where we want to be.

I am with you today my friend

Mo

 

Take a Moment…

We recently published Nancy’s Promise, a newsletter which shows the scientific enterprise created from donations made by generous patients. I’d like to take a moment to thank all of those who participated in this endeavor. It’s been an incredible and successful journey. Today I reblog my earliest post as it is a promise to all of my Heroes.

DOCTOR MO IOWA

Let us take a moment to reflect on why we do the things we do.

It’s for my heroes.

For my patients that have battled melanoma or sarcoma and have helped move science forward. They truly are a part of every decision I make.

They are my true teachers, my inspirations.

Those who have suffered with an ailment that drives us to understand what makes it such. Those that help me help someone else because they dared to take on something new.

It is amazing to sit alone on a Tuesday night, thinking about things. I often sit in silence, and talk to those who have passed. What did I learn? What could I have done better?  What did their lives leave in lessons? 

I must admit that I miss my heroes as I sit alone on my couch letting my day settle. They motivate me and enrich a desire in…

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Muffled.

Cancer interrupts lives. It takes away from our present moment like a thief, stealing what was dismissed but is really precious. This is what she taught me when she came to see me today. I share with you an old blog. Muffled are the voices around me.

DOCTOR MO IOWA

This is a difficult blog for many reasons that I will not divulge. But I will take you to where I am. 

Immerse your head under water at a poolside. Around the pool you can hear the loudness of all the people around you. You dip your head to dive beneath the water. As you dive deeper these voices fade and become muffled. Submerged you know there is something out there but you are unable to understand it.  There is some security in not being able to hear exactly what is being said. In the water you feel somehow protected, but vulnerable because of this perceived security. Those standing outside the pool talking about you, trying to explain complexity to you. You hear a little but you choose to stay secure. This is where my patients go when they are diagnosed. When what I say to them does not quite…

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