Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Friday, November 11, 2011
Can "Personalized Medicine" offer the cure for cancer we've all been looking for?
You just never know when it will happen. Cancer can strike any time. But with the advent of the concept of "personalized medicine," there is a new weapon in the battle against this disease.
Personalized medicine refers to tailoring or customizing a treatment to an individual patient.
Check out this compelling video from Mary Crowley Cancer Research Center in Dallas, Texas about using a vaccine to treat a patient with metastatic melanoma. This disease is virtually incurable -- most patients don't survive more than 2 years...and many not more than 6 months.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Introducing Cancer Survivors New Normal with Dr. Linda
Dr. Linda as we know her is introducing her new video blog series that focuses on cancer survivors and the "new normal" that occurs after a cancer diagnosis. No one, I repeat no one can know what it's like to have cancer more than Dr. Linda Timmerman. She is a two time cancer survivor and a life long educator. Plus, she understands the pain, terror, and crisis that people feel when cancer enters their lives. Please help me welcome Dr. Linda to docdano.com.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
When Cancer is a Family Affair
By Linda Timmerman, Ed.D.
According to a report from the CDC, there are nearly 12 million cancer survivors in the U.S. today.
That's 12 million people seeking "new normal" in their lives. Twelve million journeys. Twelve million stories.
Every cancer survivor is an individual, and no two journeys are alike.
My family of cancer survivors is a microcosm of those 12 million courageous souls.
My 86-year-old Dad approached his diagnosis of bladder cancer some 20 years ago the way he has always approached life: philosophically and through scripture. Ask about his cancer and he'll respond: "It happens. My God is in control, and I don't worry about it."
He does, however, think deeply about his cancer.
Shortly after he had completed his three-year maintenance protocol of BCG (Bacillus Calmette-Guerin, an inactivated form of the bovine tuberculosis virus that is instilled into the bladder to elicit an immune response), he called me and asked, "now that my treatment is over -- do I tell people I HAD cancer, or do I say I HAVE cancer?"
He's deeply interested in knowing how he got bladder cancer in the first place: he was a smoker for a number of years, but hadn't smoked in over 25 years when diagnosed. He was a dairy farmer exposed to pesticides and chemicals virtually every day.
Truthfully, it was Dad who found an article about BCG in Reader's Digest in 1991, took it to his urologist, and said, "they say this is a fairly new and promising treatment for bladder cancer -- can we try it?" It worked for him -- he's been in remission almost 20 years.
Today, BCG is still the gold standard for immunotherapy for bladder cancer.
Dad spends hours pondering the fact that I, his only daughter (who is still 16 years old in his mind), has bladder cancer and that having a first degree relative with bladder cancer is a risk factor.
"How did I pass that on to you?" he'll ask. Is there some test your children can take to see if they carry the gene?
My Mom, on the other hand, approached her journey with fear and trepidation. Mom is the official family worrier. She called me one day to say that she was so worried, "things are going so well, I just know something bad's about to happen."
Mom thought her lung cancer diagnosis meant certain death.
She grew up in that era. She and I were both there when her mother, my grandmother, died -- drowning in her own fluids from breast cancer that had metastasized to the lungs.
Mom didn't know many survivors in her life.
Mom never came to see me when I was undergoing treatment for breast cancer. She just couldn't. And I completely understood.
To this day, Mom can't believe that her cancer is gone. "All they did was remove the upper left lobe of my lung," she'll say. "The doctors say I didn't need chemo. It'll probably come back."
She has to worry. I completely understand.
My husband approaches his cancer stoically. He has had three melanomas, but rarely talks about it and doesn't want anyone to "make a big deal" of it. He has a skin condition that requires him to use ultra-violet light therapy weekly. It has to worry him that he exposes his skin to UVB light, but he does it without complaint.
He is vigilant. He visits his dermatologist regularly and uses sun screen religiously.
He and I faced our biggest fear two years ago when his daughter, my step-daughter, was diagnosed with a liposarcoma in her leg. This was different for our family: she was too young, and the mother of young children.
The biopsy was clear, but pathology on the very large tumor showed that approximately one-third of the mass was cancerous. They couldn't remove all of the tumor without removing her leg.
She is teaching us how to use humor to cope. She respects the disease, and she knows that she must be followed closely for the rest of her life. She will do what it takes to thrive and survive.
I cope by being involved.
I participate in cancer "causes," -- Relay for Life, the Koman Breast Cancer 3-Day walk, I attend a support group for bladder cancer survivors, I speak to groups, I counsel fellow survivors, I raise money for cancer research, and I blog.
I use this involvement to find my "new normal." I use it to challenge the disease that has invaded my life and the life of people I hold dear: my husband, child, mom, and dad. My prayer is that my children and grandchildren will never have to battle this disease in any form.
12 Million Survivors. 12 Million journeys. 12 Million ways to cope. It's a good thing. It gives me hope.
Linda Timmerman, Ed. D. is a two-time cancer survivor and life long educator. She blogs regularly about cancer survival and real information from real people with the disease.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
According to a report from the CDC, there are nearly 12 million cancer survivors in the U.S. today.
That's 12 million people seeking "new normal" in their lives. Twelve million journeys. Twelve million stories.
Every cancer survivor is an individual, and no two journeys are alike.
My family of cancer survivors is a microcosm of those 12 million courageous souls.
My 86-year-old Dad approached his diagnosis of bladder cancer some 20 years ago the way he has always approached life: philosophically and through scripture. Ask about his cancer and he'll respond: "It happens. My God is in control, and I don't worry about it."
He does, however, think deeply about his cancer.
Shortly after he had completed his three-year maintenance protocol of BCG (Bacillus Calmette-Guerin, an inactivated form of the bovine tuberculosis virus that is instilled into the bladder to elicit an immune response), he called me and asked, "now that my treatment is over -- do I tell people I HAD cancer, or do I say I HAVE cancer?"
He's deeply interested in knowing how he got bladder cancer in the first place: he was a smoker for a number of years, but hadn't smoked in over 25 years when diagnosed. He was a dairy farmer exposed to pesticides and chemicals virtually every day.
Truthfully, it was Dad who found an article about BCG in Reader's Digest in 1991, took it to his urologist, and said, "they say this is a fairly new and promising treatment for bladder cancer -- can we try it?" It worked for him -- he's been in remission almost 20 years.
Today, BCG is still the gold standard for immunotherapy for bladder cancer.
Dad spends hours pondering the fact that I, his only daughter (who is still 16 years old in his mind), has bladder cancer and that having a first degree relative with bladder cancer is a risk factor.
"How did I pass that on to you?" he'll ask. Is there some test your children can take to see if they carry the gene?
My Mom, on the other hand, approached her journey with fear and trepidation. Mom is the official family worrier. She called me one day to say that she was so worried, "things are going so well, I just know something bad's about to happen."
Mom thought her lung cancer diagnosis meant certain death.
She grew up in that era. She and I were both there when her mother, my grandmother, died -- drowning in her own fluids from breast cancer that had metastasized to the lungs.
Mom didn't know many survivors in her life.
Mom never came to see me when I was undergoing treatment for breast cancer. She just couldn't. And I completely understood.
To this day, Mom can't believe that her cancer is gone. "All they did was remove the upper left lobe of my lung," she'll say. "The doctors say I didn't need chemo. It'll probably come back."
She has to worry. I completely understand.
My husband approaches his cancer stoically. He has had three melanomas, but rarely talks about it and doesn't want anyone to "make a big deal" of it. He has a skin condition that requires him to use ultra-violet light therapy weekly. It has to worry him that he exposes his skin to UVB light, but he does it without complaint.
He is vigilant. He visits his dermatologist regularly and uses sun screen religiously.
He and I faced our biggest fear two years ago when his daughter, my step-daughter, was diagnosed with a liposarcoma in her leg. This was different for our family: she was too young, and the mother of young children.
The biopsy was clear, but pathology on the very large tumor showed that approximately one-third of the mass was cancerous. They couldn't remove all of the tumor without removing her leg.
She is teaching us how to use humor to cope. She respects the disease, and she knows that she must be followed closely for the rest of her life. She will do what it takes to thrive and survive.
I cope by being involved.
I participate in cancer "causes," -- Relay for Life, the Koman Breast Cancer 3-Day walk, I attend a support group for bladder cancer survivors, I speak to groups, I counsel fellow survivors, I raise money for cancer research, and I blog.
I use this involvement to find my "new normal." I use it to challenge the disease that has invaded my life and the life of people I hold dear: my husband, child, mom, and dad. My prayer is that my children and grandchildren will never have to battle this disease in any form.
12 Million Survivors. 12 Million journeys. 12 Million ways to cope. It's a good thing. It gives me hope.
Linda Timmerman, Ed. D. is a two-time cancer survivor and life long educator. She blogs regularly about cancer survival and real information from real people with the disease.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Sunday, March 6, 2011
What Are the Odds? Why information discovery about cancer on the internet might be like online gambling
By Linda Timmerman, Ed.D.
You might think the first place you visit after being told you have cancer would be to a cancer doctor, or oncologist.
But you'd be wrong.
The first stop for most of us? The internet.
Google any form of cancer, and a plethora of websites are instantly available. Some are good, and some are downright dangerous (but that's for another blog).
We tell ourselves we're looking for information about the disease, where to seek treatment, what types of treatments are available.
But what we really want to know is "what's the prognosis?"
"Can I survive this cancer?"
"What are my chances?"
"How long do I have?"
I remember the evening a friend and colleague called and said, "Can you come over? The doctor says I have esophageal cancer, and my wife and I just need to talk."
Truthfully, I didn't even know there was such a thing as esophageal cancer -- so before grabbing my car keys and husband, I starting Googling.
Unfortunately, my friend and his wife were doing the same thing.
By the time we arrived at their home, they were completely focused on the statistics: the 5-year survival rate ranges from 70% to 5% depending on the stage of the cancer at diagnosis.
His first words were, "this thing is going to kill me."
I certainly advocate knowing everything you can about your disease. Some cancers have low survival rates primarily because by the time symptoms appear the cancer is too entrenched or has spread.
It's the nature of the beast.
But how one copes with and acts on this information is vital, I believe, for every survivor traveling the road to the new normal.
Greg Anderson, diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer and given 30 days to live in 1984, went on to found the Cancer Recovery Foundation. He interviewed over 16,000 cancer survivors who had been told they were "terminal" and shares their wisdom in his book, Cancer: 50 Essential Things To Do.
It's a "must read" for survivors. Cancer, say Anderson, must be dealt with on all levels: physical, psychological, and spiritual.
When I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1997, my first act was to look to the sky and ask, "Oh God, what am I supposed to learn from this?"
On hearing the diagnosis of bladder cancer just last year, my first thoughts were, "Obviously, I'm a slow learner."
To live with cancer, we must know and believe that we can have a quality life and achieve wellness. If the five-year survival rate is 2%, then focus your energy on being in that 2% group.
Emile Coue, a nineteenth century pharmacist in France, encouraged his patients to practice positive affirmation rather than focusing on the fears associated with a serious illness.
His words still ring true: "Every day, in every way, I am getting better and better."
Linda Timmerman, Ed. D. is a two-time cancer survivor and life long educator. She blogs regularly about cancer survival and real information from real people with the disease.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
You might think the first place you visit after being told you have cancer would be to a cancer doctor, or oncologist.
But you'd be wrong.
The first stop for most of us? The internet.
Google any form of cancer, and a plethora of websites are instantly available. Some are good, and some are downright dangerous (but that's for another blog).
We tell ourselves we're looking for information about the disease, where to seek treatment, what types of treatments are available.
But what we really want to know is "what's the prognosis?"
"Can I survive this cancer?"
"What are my chances?"
"How long do I have?"
I remember the evening a friend and colleague called and said, "Can you come over? The doctor says I have esophageal cancer, and my wife and I just need to talk."
Truthfully, I didn't even know there was such a thing as esophageal cancer -- so before grabbing my car keys and husband, I starting Googling.
Unfortunately, my friend and his wife were doing the same thing.
By the time we arrived at their home, they were completely focused on the statistics: the 5-year survival rate ranges from 70% to 5% depending on the stage of the cancer at diagnosis.
His first words were, "this thing is going to kill me."
I certainly advocate knowing everything you can about your disease. Some cancers have low survival rates primarily because by the time symptoms appear the cancer is too entrenched or has spread.
It's the nature of the beast.
But how one copes with and acts on this information is vital, I believe, for every survivor traveling the road to the new normal.
Greg Anderson, diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer and given 30 days to live in 1984, went on to found the Cancer Recovery Foundation. He interviewed over 16,000 cancer survivors who had been told they were "terminal" and shares their wisdom in his book, Cancer: 50 Essential Things To Do.
It's a "must read" for survivors. Cancer, say Anderson, must be dealt with on all levels: physical, psychological, and spiritual.
When I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1997, my first act was to look to the sky and ask, "Oh God, what am I supposed to learn from this?"
On hearing the diagnosis of bladder cancer just last year, my first thoughts were, "Obviously, I'm a slow learner."
To live with cancer, we must know and believe that we can have a quality life and achieve wellness. If the five-year survival rate is 2%, then focus your energy on being in that 2% group.
Emile Coue, a nineteenth century pharmacist in France, encouraged his patients to practice positive affirmation rather than focusing on the fears associated with a serious illness.
His words still ring true: "Every day, in every way, I am getting better and better."
Linda Timmerman, Ed. D. is a two-time cancer survivor and life long educator. She blogs regularly about cancer survival and real information from real people with the disease.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Location:Stonewall Dr,Streetman,United States
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Cancer Survivors New Normal: Dr. Linda Timmerman explores living through cancer -- twice!
(Please join me in welcoming Dr. Linda Timmerman to docdano.com. Linda is a two-time cancer survivor and patient champion with a long history in education and health care. She will host a new video series blogging about cancer survival and the new normal that occurs after a cancer diagnosis. The focus will be on real stories from real people that survive, treat, or live with someone with cancer.)
By Linda Timmerman, Ed. D.
About a year ago, it became official: I’m a “double D”!
A Dual Diagnosis Cancer Survivor.
It was devastating in 1997 to hear the words from my breast surgeon, “what we have here is invasive ductal carcinoma.” There are no words to describe how I felt thirteen years later when I heard my urologist say, “it’s a really large tumor and I’m 99% certain it’s malignant.”
During chemo and radiation for the breast cancer, all I wanted was a “normal” day. I thought that would come at the end of treatment.
Silly me.
Cancer changes everything about life, physically and emotionally. It took me several years to realize that “normal” simply didn’t exist. So I started seeking my new normal – that place where I could feel comfortable, safe, and confident again.
And I almost found it.
I no longer panicked when I made the annual appointment for my mammogram, chest x-rays, and blood tests. I went days, weeks, and even a few months without thinking about cancer. I changed careers, loved learning new things and meeting new people, my husband and I built a home on the lake and we bought a condo in the city.
Our children got married and had children. Life was good.
And then the day I’ve now named “Red Thursday” occurred. Three surgeries, two rounds of chemo, and umpteen million tests later, I’m seeking that “new normal” again. I still have two years of chemo treatments every six months and scopes of my bladder every three months, but I’m surviving.
During treatment, it’s physically difficult. And there are days when I feel I’m hanging by a thread emotionally. For right now, at least, that’s my “new normal.” It’s very much like driving in the car with my GPS navigation system.
Every now and then, I take a wrong turn – or I simply choose to go another way – and the voice sighs, “recalculating.”
That’s what happens in the new normal – we all recalculate and then press on. Any like any journey where you’re not certain if you’re on the right path, there are both tears and joys in the unknown.
There are thousands on the road to new normal with me.
My goal for this blog is to encourage cancer survivors to tell their stories, to become educated about their disease, and to draw strength and courage from each other.
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