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Everything you need to know about lung cancer but were afraid to ask, I think
Sue BB posted a blog entry in Sue B. Balcom
Two weeks. That's 14 days x 24 hours before my next doctor’s appointment. Actually, not with Dr. Rocket, but once again with “Irrational” radiology. In case you haven’t figured it out, the words in quote markets in the middle of a sentence could be something I made up. Just saying. Waiting to see what’s happening to your body isn’t easy when you can’t see inside. I was anxious to begin treatment and get it over with, but I was gently reminded that treatment plans take time and preparation. Thus began my next adventure on Planet Cancer — circling the planet in my tiny capsule until permission to land. I had no idea where I was going to land or what was happening next. In the meantime, I did what everyone warned me NOT to do — Google lung cancer. First, I tried to decipher the written notes from my medical doctors and technicians and tried to understand my test results. These are a few words I learned: Metastatic — this means cancer has spread to a different part of your body part than where it started. Grossly normal In medical terms — means not seeing anything abnormal on an imaging test. but there is some limitation in the evaluation. Unremarkable — describes the report as normal, which means that there is nothing to report. Nevertheless, it's a very powerful word used by radiologists that is helpful for medical experts. In the case of unremarkable meaning, there is nothing to worry about. It reflects that the patient is fine. Then there’s the opposite of unremarkable — worrisome. These are symptoms that cause distress and concern. Yep, distress and concern on my part, coupled with a deep and painful cough, kept me up most nights wondering if I would be gone by the end of the year. From February on, it was easier for me to breathe while sitting up on the new recliner sofa with my new fleece blanket, new aqua spa robe, and sometimes penguin pajamas. It’s the middle of the night. What else was there to do besides listening to the Calm app rainstorm and dreaming of summer, tuning into a Stephen Armstrong sermon or Googling lung cancer? (Insert swear words here) I didn't know what cancer was or really where it came from. This is what I learned. Lung cancer is the leading cancer killer in both men and women in the U.S. In 1987, it surpassed breast cancer to become the leading cause of cancer deaths in women. The five-year survival rate for lung cancer is 56 percent for cases detected when the disease is still localized (within the lungs). However, only 16 percent of lung cancer cases are diagnosed at an early stage. For distant tumors (spread to other organs) the five-year survival rate is only 5 percent. More than half of people with lung cancer die within one year of being diagnosed. Lung cancer is by far the leading cause of cancer death in the US, accounting for about 1 in 5 of all cancer deaths. Each year, more people die of lung cancer than of colon, breast, and prostate cancers combined. According to the American Cancer Society, lung cancer — and lung cancer caused by asbestos — is the number one killer, with 131,880 estimated deaths in 2022 alone, making it three times deadlier than breast cancer. I realize that October is breast cancer awareness month, and I am not trying to negate all the good that has come from pink campaigns, however, it was a surprise to me to find out about the cancers affecting people under the radar. Besides being the leading cause of cancer mortality, it receives far less research funding than any other cancer. There are two types of lung cancer Non-Small Cell Lung Cancer and and Small Cell Lung Cancer. Mine is NSCLC, the most common type diagnosed. It’s attributed most often to smoking. We grew up in the 60s and 70s and smoke was everywhere. We were laughing, all though it’s not funny about how the last four seats in an airplane were the designated smoking seats. The saddest part about lung cancer is about one-third of all diagnoses happen when the cancer has reached stage 3. The five-year survival rate for advanced-stage NSCLC is 33 percent. Everyone is different and responds differently to treatments so with the research on any cancer, survival rates continue to increase. That was good news. It’s uncomfortable not knowing what’s going on inside my body. In my mind, I imagined I would not be alive by the end of the year after that first doctor’s visit. I began preparing for the worst which included knitting hats to cover my bare head and keep me warm. There were visions of hospital beds with IV drips. I told my family I wanted to sleep in my high tunnel when that time came. But here I am, sharing these experiences and trying not to Google my disease anymore. Instead of focusing on dying, I am trying to focus on living. Each day, because each one of us only has the present. My friend Shelley said, “Cancer doesn’t kill people, hopelessness does.” This week, I leave you with this: May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope. Romans 15:13 My hope begins with every sunrise, and this thought about dying, “Not today God. I got shi_ to do.” (Pardon my French).- 2 comments
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- lung cancer stage iii
- tumors
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PET scan day. Another day, entering the unknown. The weather was awful, so we left for Bismarck early. My desire to get these exams over and done outweighed my impatience at sitting in hospital and clinic chairs for hours at a time, staring at the walls, watching solemn faces entering and exiting. Although arriving early to appointments, we never had to wait long to enter the inner sanctum of the hospital, those closed doors to the great unknown led by people much younger than myself who always want to know your name and birthdate. About five minutes from the hospital parking lot, the radiology tech called to make sure we would make the appointment. Snow was falling, and it was blustery, but not impossible, to navigate the streets. The problem was the snow in the driveway leading to the county road and then the county road connecting to Highway 1806. It took some time and man power to clear a path from the garage to the road. County plows had miles and miles to clear, and many times it was late afternoon when they reached our neck of the woods. This winter had started early and was relentless, with snow piling up around around our yard and the wind sculpting a most beautiful prison wall around the house. Our house has three exits. Thie first challenge of the day this winter was finding a door that the wind hadn’t packed full of snow overnight. But heck yea, we will be there. I’m not going to miss this appointment. But, with this wild winter — storms and snow, and travel warnings nearly every week, there were more than a few moments of panic as our path to the hospital began shrinking with every passing weather alert. It’s North Dakota. We have lived here all our lives, and cold, windy, snowy days don’t always mean you can’t get around in town. But living in a semi-secluded place without a farm tractor to move those drifts became an issue. The weather was much better Thursday than Wednesday when we went for the biopsy. I could NOT miss either of these tests. “Absolutely, we will be there in about five minutes,” I said. “We will be there 30 minutes early for the appointment.” It paid off to arrive early. After a very short wait, a young man in a mask, named Max, called my name. No one really explained the PET scan. Maybe I wasn’t listening, I found some notes about not eating or drinking six hours before the test. I knew I had to have an injection and wait for the solution to make its way through my body, followed by the scan. It would probably be two and one-half hours at best. I longingly looked at the water fountain over my shoulder as I said goodbye to my husband and followed the young man down a long dimly-lit green hallway. It was cold. Really cold. We entered a room, or sort of a room with an industrial lift. You know, a platform with a railing like construction workers would use to paint a ceiling. “What’s this?” “Can’t have you guys walking up the stairs now, can we?” Max said. He all but strapped us in with safety harnesses, and up we went. It was a smooth ride. As we rode the lift a mere four feet to a bank of computers, another man in a mask turned his chair around but didn’t say a word. I had no idea if he was smiling or not. That’s the trouble with masks. To the left was what looked like an airport jet bridge. You know, like an airplane connected to the walkway connected to the terminal. It was even colder in this room, if you could call it that. At the end of the jet bridge, an empty scanner like the ones for the CT scan took up a substantial area in a dark room. I found out later that it wasn’t a room but a semi truck trailer in disguise. It looked more like a space ship. Max guided me to the right to another very industrial-looking room. Once I settled in one of two chairs separated by a divider, he drew some blood, checked my sugar and put an IV in the vein in the crook of my arm. He carefully put on a new pair of rubber gloves and lifted a canister from a heavy metal cooler in front of yet another couple of computers with ever moving screens and blinking lights. The room has an eerie atmosphere under the fluorescent lights and bare walls. The radioactive symbols, the lights, cold and darkness were reminiscent of the 50s sci-fi movies I watched on the old movie channels. Remember, I love Star Trek. Most websites will tell you you receive only a small amount of radioactive sugar called fluorodeoxyalucose-18, FGD-18 for short, it sure seemed like a lot more in my head. Thank goodness once the radioactive glucose was injected, the IV was removed. I hate those things. I’m sure I commented more than once on the chill in the room. Max grabbed a heated blanket, helped me spread it over my legs, and drew the curtain. He said he would return in 45 minutes. UGH. The chair reclined but not enough to be comfortable. I was cold and not prepared for the starkness of the room. The computer was the only light I could see. The numbers went up and down with no rhyme or reason. I tried to close my eyes and relax. Thank goodness I didn’t notice the clock on the computer until at least 15 minutes had passed. I waited with my eyes closed, hoping the time would pass quicker. Max came back, but not for me. It was only then I realized someone was waiting behind the curtain hiding that second chair next to me. If the scan lasted 30 or 40 minutes, that meant at least 30 minutes till my turn in the scanner. This experience has been a lesson in patience for sure. After more time had passed, Max returned and asked if I wanted to use the bathroom before the scan. I said sure, at my age not wanting to miss an opportunity to pee. Rather than go out past the waiting room where my husband was reading, we went down another hall, a locked elevator, a couple of wrong turns and a restroom with that same circle in yellow and maybe red. You know, the radioactive warning symbol. I don't recall right now. PET, or Positron Emission Tomography, is a nuclear imaging technology. According to a Stanford Medical website, “Nuclear medicine is a branch of medical imaging that uses small amounts of radioactive material to diagnose or treat a variety of diseases, including many types of cancers, heart disease, and certain other abnormalities within the body.” Thinking about radioactive materials, on the way back to the scanner I said, “Might I glow in the dark?” Max said, “Sorry, no.” Oh well, I tried. Obediently, I followed him across the jet bridge into the space ship, then into the scanner and out again. It was painless. The platform moved ever so slowing from the top of my head to my knees pausing at intervals to complete a scan section, or at least that’s what I assumed. They said I did good, meaning I didn’t wriggle around. I got up and we went down the lift and out the key-coded door to the waiting room. Much to my surprise and joy, another friend, Diane, had taken the time out of her day, made her way across the snowy Missouri Interstate 94 bridge and kept my husband company during this unknown ordeal. There she was, and I was overwhelmed with gratitude. It meant a lot to me that she showed up and agreed to go to lunch with us before she was off to donate blood. I had been craving pancakes for days.
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- lung cancer
- pet scan
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We will soon know what’s inside my chest. My friend Shelley met us at the hospital at 7 a.m. on a bitter below-zero Wednesday, Feb. 22. The sun had not yet met the horizon, and the city was beginning to wake up. The hospital light looked dim in the surrounding dark, one of the only fully lit buildings downtown. Today’s patients and staff were trickling in by ones and by twos. There were three of us. It was biopsy day. After checking in, I stared at the woman behind the counter for a minute, confused. I needed directions to the lab and then IR Radiology. Not knowing where anything was located caused a few strange looks from the staff. How was I to know? It had been five years since I was in the hospital for a SVT ablation, and that took place across the street at the other hospital. And, what was "IRrational Radiology?" The whole day was efficient, to say the least. Wait time for lab was less than 15 minutes. The person drawing my blood was roly-poly and talkative. I tried not to engage. It was a somber, scary day for me. As the days passed ever so slowly, I found talking had became more and more difficult. The cough was deep and painful. Sometimes it felt like I would never catch my breath. Fatigue set in. I was grateful for a good night’s sleep before this procedure. The unidentified mass was in my right lung. I usually fell asleep on my right side, curled up, knees to my chest, until my husband came to bed. At that time, I switched sides to avoid an accidental elbow to the face. Eventually, I had to learn to sleep on my back. Although Dr. Curl told me later that there was no way I could have been squeezing my lung by laying on that side, I believe it did. However, sleeping on my right side became increasingly uncomfortable. My lung cried out in protest. The sound was more a protest than a wheeze. During an afternoon nap, which soon became a daily routine, I began batting at my pillow, thinking there was an insect buzzing near my right ear. Winter’s cold in the high plains usually meant the end to flying pests — it was my lung — crying. After the blood work, the three of us made our way to the inner sanctum of the lower level of the hospital. Somehow I avoided eye contact with the one person we knew in the entire hospital who happened to be waiting for the same elevator. Darn. I wasn’t really ready to share. I’m still not sure about sharing, especially before knowing what was going to happen to me. I didn’t want sympathy or questions for which were still no answers. We barely had time to settle into the waiting room before being called back to prep for the biopsy. First, the hospital gown; more like a half of a hospital gown. After all these years, you would think they could come up with something more comfortable and covering then the thin, washed up tie-in-the-back gowns that you can never really tie properly. One staff shared their thoughts on the gowns worn and faded condition. It was so people wouldn’t steal them. I guess that makes sense. I laughed for the first time that morning. I took my position as the center of attention on chair behind the curtain and looked forward to the heated blanket; but not looking forward to what came next, the IV. It creeps me out to have that needle thing on the back of the hand, although my veins are perfect for needles — close to the surface of brown spotted old hands bulging with blood. For years, nurses and phlebotomists openly admired my veins. Because the biopsy required me to put my hands over my head on the CT scanner, we opted for the IV to be placed further up on my wrist. Even creepier. My support group of two stopped by for a few minutes before I was escorted into the dimly lit scanner room. My spouse and friend listened carefully to the procedure instructions, followed by the wait time. Wow, the biopsy was over in a New York minute, but I had to stay until the puncture wounds sealed and the staff made sure my lung didn’t collapse — two or more hours. In the event something would go wrong it would mean an overnight in the hospital with a tube to inflate my lungs. I think they went to breakfast. Never having thought much about how lungs, filled with God’s breath (I might remember to talk about that later), are the ultimate source of life. After that first x-ray, before I knew about the biopsy, I Googled lungs. Lungs are funny organs. One has two lobes to accommodate the heart, and the other has three lobes. I heard they look like North Dakota’s winter trees, bare branches of all sizes shaped like an oval. I was surprised to learn after the biopsy, lungs are much higher on the back than I expected. I didn’t know what to expect. I never gave it thought until now. Under the influence of the IV sedative, before they carted me off to the “room,” I asked the doctor to remove his mask. I wanted to see the face of the man about to stick a needle in one of my precious lungs. He was quite handsome, and very young. In the scanner, a barely lit room, face down with my hands over my head, I realized what day it was and said to the young lady, the only person in my field of view, “It’s Ash Wednesday.” “What?” “Ash Wednesday. You know, the beginning of Lent. The 40 days of Lent (not counting weekends) before Holy Week and Easter,” I explained. “Oh.” I don't think it was on her radar. The biopsy was painless and over in a very short time. I waited back in my curtained cubical. My lung was fine, everyone was fine. No hospital stay or complications. “This isn’t so bad,” I thought. We heard nothing about the biopsy. The next day, Thursday, Feb. 23, was PET scan day. It occurred to me at this moment, Ash Wednesday, this day was the beginning of my Lenten journey. I did not emerge from my “nest” until Easter dinner at Ernie’s, 46 days later.
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- lung cancer
- tumors
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Trialbee is recruiting for a clinical study to evaluate an investigative treatment for Lung Neuroendocrine Tumors (Lung NETs). You may have heard of this condition being called Lung Carcinoid Tumors, Bronchial NETs, or Pulmonary NETs. A total of 216 patients will be a part of this global study, which has been approved by the FDA and relevant ethics committees. We are looking for both males and females, aged 18 years or older, who are diagnosed with a neuroendocrine tumor of the lung (Lung NET). To find out if the study may be suitable for you, please visit this website. This post has been approved by LUNGevity Foundation.
