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I think I can, I think I can — I can do anything for 15 minutes. Nothing could have prepared me for the hijacking of my body the way cancer did. How long had those mutating cells been slowly taking over my lung? Had I been feeling healthy for a year, or two, or three, on the outside while inside my chest a mass began to build and then spread. It has taken me weeks to absorb the diagnosis. It could have been better. What could I have done to find this sooner? Why did I think it was possible to walk or run a half-marathon if I trained for a year? Cancer changes everything. On top of all things health-wise, it was a challenging winter. We almost didn’t make that first appointment on March 1. Snow began falling on February 28 at the rate of one inch per hour. Our driveway was impassable. We don’t own a large tractor, so we usually blew the snow into the trees with walk-behind snow blowers. Looking at the wind pushing the snow across the driveway, I panicked. My husband wanted me to cancel the appointment. I said, “No, I will walk to the main road if I have to, but I cannot give up an appointment that could save precious time in beginning treatment.” He dutifully dressed for the cold and began creating a path for the blade on the ATV. Eventually, he had moved enough snow for a vehicle to exit. That was only the first step of that morning’s commute. We had no idea what we could find on the farm-to-market road to Highway 1806. Depending on the wind’s direction, storms can build three-foot finger drifts across the road, making it difficult to see where the road ends and the ditch begins. Sinking into the ditch at 7 a.m. would be bad. Thank goodness, the road appeared to be fairly clear in the growing light of dawn. Northwesterly winds were continuing to blow the snow across the adjacent fields. Traffic moved slower than usual on the main roads and in town, but we made it to the Sanford Cancer Center by 8 a.m. It was the doctor who was a few minutes late, but I didn’t care. I was on the road to dealing with my diagnosis. In addition to the MRI that afternoon (which showed no cancer in my brain), several appointments were scheduled for the next two weeks. First — back to “Irrational Radiology” for another biopsy. This time my lymph node at the base of my neck. Second — after that biopsy, there would be a port placed. That’s a story for next week. Third — I will be doing chemoradiation followed by immunotherapy. Okay. Without question, I followed along as best I could with all this information. Fourth — A referral to a radiologist and the Bismarck Cancer Center. Things began to happen fast. I felt weightless in the atmosphere of the clinics, my thoughts focused on accepting the fact that I might not be here by the end of the year. These thoughts were only in my head because no one said a word about survival — except Google. And we all know better than to Google your way to good health. My referral to a radiologist began by filling out the same forms, different building, different staff, different MyChart medical portal, same me. Check the boxes — no illnesses, no drugs, no nothing, except this new cancer. Strangely enough, when I was told I would be seeing Dr. Reynolds, I asked if it was my Dr. Reynolds who had by chance re-entered the workforce. No. This would be a different Dr. Reynolds. Hmmmm. This Dr. Reynolds had piercing blue eyes and I still see him nearly every day on a television promo around the time we watch the news. Bismarck Cancer Center was a couple blocks away from the infusion center. Infusion center? I looked up the word. It means introducing a new element or quality into something. In medical terms that quality was liquid and varied from patient to patient. That experience comes later. We didn’t talk about that aspect of treatment in detail. Yet. Dr. Reynolds said radiation would be fairly painless, until the end of the six weeks when my esophagus would be “sunburned” and swallowing would become difficult. “Bulk up,” he said, after looking me up and down in the chair across from his. Nobody has ever suggested that to me before. I was trying to maintain my weight for my first-ever trip to Cancun in November. I had three new swimsuits and several other goodies ready to be packed into a new suitcase. I was hoping to make it to November and not be a different size — whether my weight goes up or down. You know what the images in my mind are at this moment. Again, the new doctor and new nurses explained what was going to happen over the next few months. Most of the information fell on deaf ears. It was only later that someone suggested recording these visits with my phone and reviewing the instructions at home. I think I was done with radiation by the time that information soaked into my brain. Somehow, the scheduling and treatments would be happening at the Bismarck Cancer Center in tandem with Dr. Rocket and the Sanford Cancer Center. Every week beginning when? March 20 — that’s two weeks away. “Treatment planning takes time,” Dr. Reynolds said. “And, there are a few more things we need to do. Are you claustrophobic?” YES. Really claustrophobic. Remember the story about burying people with a bell back in the day? Radiation didn’t involve being slid into a tube like the MRI, but it would take place on an open bed like a CT scanner. I can do that, I thought. That was NOT the gist of that question about claustrophobia. The doctor ran his hand over his face ear to ear and said they would be building me a plastic mask. To hold my head still. Accuracy was an important improvement to current radiation treatment. Okay, a mask like the ones we wore during Covid. I can handle that. I’m not that claustrophobic. “You mean like with a 3-D printer?” I said. He seemed puzzled at my question. I found out why a wee bit later. After a short wait, some young technicians appeared to escort me to a room I would become all too familiar with in the near future. While they did whatever they did to prepare me for what came next, I stood by observing the large area with cupboards and an enclosed “office” with large windows. In that area were computers under very low light. They prepared the scanner, which didn’t appear to be very scary at all, and collected the supplies needed for the next steps. Using a step stool and some helpful hands, I laid down on the scanner bed — a metal or hard plastic mattress covered with a clean sheet. We worked together to make it comfortable and made sure my body was positioned correctly. And, yes, when offered, I would love a warm blanket. I’m always cold. Then came building the mask. The mask was not a mask at all like I envisioned. I watched from my prone position as one of the two techs unwrapped a large piece of plastic with blue trim about an inch wide. This perforated white sheet reminded me of that new packing paper that folds like little accordions to protect things made of glass. I missed seeing the snaps around the outer edge. This sheet was warmed somehow somewhere beyond my field of vision until it became pliable. With a person on either side of me, they laid the sheet like a shroud over my face. It felt great, like being in a spa for a kinky facial. While it was still warm, they used their fingers to shape the plastic around my facial features, opening a small area around my nose. The girls took their time and carefully smoothed the plastic from the top of my head, over my face, around my neck to my breast. Their touch was light and soothing and it was a pleasant experience. Then they let it cool. The next step was tattoos. These tiny marks would be used to position my torso so the radiation would accurately enter my body where it was most needed. This would require the use of the computers originating from behind the glass-enclosed area. When all the instruments were adjusted, they were ready for the test scan, they brought it back. The mask. My plastic likeness was snapped down on the scanner bed pressing my head and neck in place with a rather loud sound. I panicked. I felt like I was choking. I waved my arms and the mask was quickly removed. Twice. I couldn’t do it. It had to be done and I knew it. But the thought terrified me. “Would you like something to hold in your hands?” “Yes, I think that would help.” I could not have been the first person to freak out in this situation because they knew how to talk me through the next steps. The girl to the right of the platform (it didn’t deserve to be called a bed) allowed me to hold her hand for a short time. It probably didn’t make her job any easier to work with only one hand. She had to leave, so her hand was replaced with a rubber ring. However, I was not allowed to hold it across my body like I wanted with both hands because that would interfere with whatever tattoos they were planning. My arms had to be by my side. “I can hold onto the bed,” I said white-knuckling the edges of the platform. That wasn’t a good idea. “We don’t want to pinch your fingers.” So they added handles like joysticks on either side like grips you would use when taking off in your rocket ship as the G-force presses down on your body. “I can do this. I’m ready.” I allowed them to snap the mask in place gripping the handles and slowing my breath so I wouldn’t cough. Somehow, I vaguely remember how I made it through the third time they snapped that mask into place. As unpleasant as the moment was, I concentrated on the praise music playing in the background. The thing about most songs is the length is approximately three minutes. They said my time under the mask would be about five minutes so I counted songs and envisioned Jesus right there in the room with me. It took what felt like an eternity as I counted the seconds of each tune until they came back and quickly released me from my prison. I made it. After the scan, which I am assuming required computer-generated positioning to match the areas in the PET scan that lit up bright pink in the middle of my torso. (Yes, I accidentally saw the scan at this appointment on Dr. Reynold’s computer.) As he turned the computer screen towards me, his exact words were, “You are really lit up.” “Thanks.” I was okay with glowing in the dark on the outside, but did not feel very comfortable about the fluorescent pink area glowing in the middle of my chest. To assist with positioning the “beam,” directly at those pink areas, those two kind and patient technicians dropped some ink in three places across my torso and poked it in place with a needle. The first drop and poke didn’t hurt, but a large black and blue mark appeared around the area. The second drop was lost in my belly fat, but the third must have hit a nerve because that poke hurt. Once home, when I looked for those tats, the marks were so small I could barely find them after scrubbing the Sharpie’s dots away in the shower. “For that kinda money, I would have expected larger tattoos,” I said to no one within earshot.

UPDATE 11/1/22: I got my results yesterday, still NED as I expected. I have now graduated to 4-month scans (previously every 3 months)! I've gotten to the point where I can tell which radiologist read my scans. Each one has a different writing style. For the first time, "a few" apical nodules in my right lung were called out, the largest being 6 mm. I was only aware of the large one, but these nodules are all stable and are not worrisome. ORIGINAL POST: Three years ago today my primary doctor told me that an Xray showed a 6 cm mass in my lower left lung. Lung cancer. You hear those words and your head starts spinning. But, she said, it's not a death sentence anymore. I knew nothing about lung cancer and really didn't believe her. I was referred to a pulmonologist, medical oncologist and radiation oncologist in quick succession. On Halloween 2019, my pulmonologist performed a rigid bronchoscopy to take tissue for biopsy and biomarker testing. The results were Stage IIIB NSC adenocarcinoma. It took time for the biomarker tests to come back in mid-November, and they showed an EGFR driver mutation. I still didn't know what that meant. November 2019 was a flurry of activity, seeing both oncologists, getting a port placed, getting dental work done and getting a bulk Teflon injection into my left vocal cord, which was paralyzed by the tumor. On December 3, 2019 I started the first of 6 weekly infusions of chemo (carboplatin and taxol) and 30 sessions of chest radiation. These treatments were not without side effects, and if I were to do it all again, I'd get a palliative care specialist on my team at the beginning. In March 2020 I started on Tagrisso for the EGFR mutation and have taken it daily since. My side effects are common and manageable. I never thought I'd make it this far but here I am 3 years later and NED. I found LUNGevity months after treatments ended, while I was still recovering. I wish I had found this wonderful community sooner, but better late than never. Coincidentally, I had my regular 3-month PET/CT scan this morning and will get results on Halloween. I don't expect there to be any changes. For anyone just diagnosed, I hope you'll learn as much as possible about this disease and all the modern treatments that are available. My doctor was right after all. I consider myself very fortunate that I have a great medical oncologist (even if he is a fan of the Phillies and Eagles) and the support of my husband, family and friends. I could not have made it this far without all of them and you!

I am NSCLC stage IV and will be having a tumor removed from iliac very soon. I am considering ablation; 10 treatments of conventional radiation; high dose focused radiation over 2-3 days; and, low on my list, chemo again. I am just becoming familiar with these options -- most of which I learned from Lungevity (!) and its bloggers, and need some input, comments, knowledge -- anything that anyone's got. Also, I've heard of "CyberKnife" and am wondering if that is just a form of high-dose that can be done by other brands. I am very grateful for all I learn on these blogs. Thanks for being here!!

I'm writing this from a Florida Hospital radiation clinic waiting room. My daughter is having intensity modulated radiation therapy (IMRT) to treat her meningioma residual left over from surgery 3 months ago. This was her second brain surgery and in between was the birth of my granddaughter. Ironically, our greatest joy was sandwiched between our greatest fear. She'll have at least 30 fractional sessions. I'm here doing grandfather and father stuff, the former fun, the latter hard as nails. There are substantial risks. The tumor residual is lodged around her eye socket and the impact to her vision is of vast concern. We've talked about it. Mostly we try and forget. Daughter feeds back my mantra of only worrying about things that can be controlled but it doesn't ease my concern. Too much experience in this radiation domain to not worry. I find myself undone by uncertainty, again! Yesterday's clinical visit experience was my first in a long time. Things haven't changed. Quiet people waiting for their time with "the beast", families talking in hushed tones, most have lost hair indicating combination therapy. One change: the radio oncologist came out to greet my daughter. He supervised the fitting of the facial fixture and stayed through the entire dose application. That was unique in my experience and immensely comforting. Maybe the cancer community is learning to treat people not patients. Passing on parental knowledge and experience is expected but not on this subject matter. We need to fry this tumor, but the potential vision side-effects are disconcerting. We've got one chance, twenty-nine radiation bullets left, and then scanziety and hope. Tumor is a word I need to discard from my vocabulary. We will stay the course.

Just a post to vent......I'm mentally and physically exhausted. I have finally hit the wall with this round of treatment. I endured chemo (cisplatin/pemetrexed) last year, but that cycle was a little more forgiving; one long day every three weeks. This round, I've had daily radiation for almost 6 weeks and weekly chemo (carboplatin/taxol). The chemo side effects aren't as bad, but I guess the daily grind of radiation, with the weekly chemo, and the fatigue have finally knocked me down. I'm also starting to lose my hair and Super Doc told me I'll have two more rounds of chemo in June and those two treatments WILL take the rest of my hair. I thought I was mentally prepared to lose my hair, but I wasn't. It's starting slow but at some point, I'll take matters into my own hands and just shave my head. But then I remind myself that I told Super Doc I'll do whatever it takes to beat this, and losing hair is just a casualty of this war. Thanks for letting me vent. Sometimes just putting it in writing helps me, especially because I know you've all endured this and so much more.

I think we can all agree that chemo stinks. I had four rounds of cisplatin/pemexetred last year and I'm 3 weeks into 6 weeks of carboplatin/taxol for a recurrence. Last year, my girlfriends and I decided to have themes for chemo. One session was 80s and the last session was Mardi Gras. We had beads and boas for everyone. We're doing the same thing again this year. We had spring fling, beach fun, and today's pajama party. For some reason, my husband wants no part of the costume concept! I'm sharing this in the hopes that it will inspire you to find a way to get through chemo with a smile. If we don't laugh, we cry.

Hi, Just a quick introduction of a now 64 year old man with stage 4 lung non small cell lung cancer. I have been arguing with this disease for 4 years now and as I listed the various forms of treatments that I have undergone. I won't bore anyone with the details but would be more then happy to answer anyone's questions about any of the treatments that I have had. There seem to be numerous questions about immunology drugs such as Optivo. If I can help just shout at me (or a soft whisper would do fine).