Susan Cornett

Most days, the cancer is buried somewhere in my thoughts, my work, my hobbies - not at the surface.  But there are days when it hits me right between the eyes.  Cancer.  How the hell did I get here? Is this really my life?  
Wondering if anyone else has experienced this.

I'm in the middle of my quarterly scan appointments.  While I was waiting for my blood draw yesterday, I noticed a couple that was apparently new to the oncology clinic.  The wife is the patient and, when she was called into the lab, her husband got up to walk with her and she told him she was fine, just going for a blood draw.  I looked at his face and saw fear and I just wanted to give him a hug.  This is the part I hate the most - when we look into our loved ones' eyes and see their fear.  I just want to fix everything and I can't; we have so little control over this part of our lives.  I have no idea why she was there or what her diagnosis is, but I definitely said a prayer for them last night.  
 

I was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer in September 2014. Like many people, my diagnosis came as a huge surprise to me and my family. A friend told us about the Breathe Deep Kansas City Walk that was happening in our area. We called our team The Village People because we like to say, “It takes a village” to fight this thing. The Breathe Deep walks provide an opportunity to raise awareness and money in your own community. It’s very powerful.
I attended my first National HOPE Summit in Washington, D.C. in 2015. Lung cancer is so isolating and overwhelming. Then you get there and meet other survivors and caregivers and experts. I feel like I always leave HOPE Summit with 150 new friends and then I don’t feel so lonely when I get home.
The next year my wife and I attended the 2016 Hope Summit together, she finally understood how these friends I had been talking about for the last year could be so intertwined with my health and healing.  We made even more friends and keep in touch all year long through social media and other events around the country.
Once you get to HOPE Summit, it’s so empowering that you want to get involved. I found out about the LifeLine Support Partner program at HOPE Summit. LifeLine is nice because you can work remotely and there’s an opportunity to give back. My mentor, Matt Ellefson, is one of those people who LF relies on to have multiple mentees and he was very inspirational for me because of our similarities and what we’ve been through. It was a very good fit.
LUNGevity tries to match people based on age, gender, diagnosis and geographic location. It’s always felt very comfortable. I’ve had mentees assigned to me and we usually have a really good talk and maybe hear from them once or twice and that’s all they need at that time. We talk on an as needed basis. Hopefully, I’m encouraging people depending on where they are. A lot of the time, the person is newly diagnosed and it’s very fresh with them. As a mentor, you have to put yourself back in that frame of mind. It’s important to remember that you’re not there to fix their situation. You’re there to listen to what they need and let the conversation evolve.
The most rewarding thing about being a volunteer is being able to help someone else by sharing my experiences and the ups and downs that I’ve had. If I give any advice it’s always to find a specialist who is an expert when it comes to your diagnosis type or mutation. It’s so important to be very confident in your medical team. Don’t be afraid to get a second opinion. If your doctor isn’t jiving with you, keep looking. It just feels good to help somebody through this because as we all say, it’s really hard for other people who haven’t gone through it to understand.
When I was diagnosed, I was given 9-18 months. I’m coming up on 3 years and 11 months and my wife and I are going out to Los Angeles next month for the Stand Up for Cancer telecast on my 4th Cancerversary. I hope that my efforts as a LifeLine volunteer will inspire the people I mentor to do the same for others. I’m a big believer in paying it forward. It’s a big world and there are a lot of people affected by this disease.
 

I've said it before and I'll say it again:  cancer can be as hard, if not harder, on the loved ones than the patients.  Our family is very close  - I don't have any siblings and my husband and I don't have children.  Our family unit is small.  After 2.5 years, my husband and I have a process.  He goes with me to all of my scan result appointments.  As soon as Super Doc gives us the results, Neal steps out and texts or calls my parents with the updates.  I always want to be with them if we have to give them bad news. My parents live 4 hours away; otherwise, I think they'd crowd into the exam room with us.
Although we had to give them bad news a couple of weeks ago, we actually had something in our favor.  A lifelong friend of mine was visiting with them on the way to take her daughter to tour a college.  She was able to keep my parents somewhat balanced this time.  I'd been preparing them for the results - figured this was coming.  But no one wants to have to call their parents and tell them the cancer is back.  Stupid cancer.

I've said it before and I'll say it again:  cancer can be as hard, if not harder, on the loved ones than the patients.  Our family is very close  - I don't have any siblings and my husband and I don't have children.  Our family unit is small.  After 2.5 years, my husband and I have a process.  He goes with me to all of my scan result appointments.  As soon as Super Doc gives us the results, Neal steps out and texts or calls my parents with the updates.  I always want to be with them if we have to give them bad news. My parents live 4 hours away; otherwise, I think they'd crowd into the exam room with us.
Although we had to give them bad news a couple of weeks ago, we actually had something in our favor.  A lifelong friend of mine was visiting with them on the way to take her daughter to tour a college.  She was able to keep my parents somewhat balanced this time.  I'd been preparing them for the results - figured this was coming.  But no one wants to have to call their parents and tell them the cancer is back.  Stupid cancer.

I've said it before and I'll say it again:  cancer can be as hard, if not harder, on the loved ones than the patients.  Our family is very close  - I don't have any siblings and my husband and I don't have children.  Our family unit is small.  After 2.5 years, my husband and I have a process.  He goes with me to all of my scan result appointments.  As soon as Super Doc gives us the results, Neal steps out and texts or calls my parents with the updates.  I always want to be with them if we have to give them bad news. My parents live 4 hours away; otherwise, I think they'd crowd into the exam room with us.
Although we had to give them bad news a couple of weeks ago, we actually had something in our favor.  A lifelong friend of mine was visiting with them on the way to take her daughter to tour a college.  She was able to keep my parents somewhat balanced this time.  I'd been preparing them for the results - figured this was coming.  But no one wants to have to call their parents and tell them the cancer is back.  Stupid cancer.

I've said it before and I'll say it again:  cancer can be as hard, if not harder, on the loved ones than the patients.  Our family is very close  - I don't have any siblings and my husband and I don't have children.  Our family unit is small.  After 2.5 years, my husband and I have a process.  He goes with me to all of my scan result appointments.  As soon as Super Doc gives us the results, Neal steps out and texts or calls my parents with the updates.  I always want to be with them if we have to give them bad news. My parents live 4 hours away; otherwise, I think they'd crowd into the exam room with us.
Although we had to give them bad news a couple of weeks ago, we actually had something in our favor.  A lifelong friend of mine was visiting with them on the way to take her daughter to tour a college.  She was able to keep my parents somewhat balanced this time.  I'd been preparing them for the results - figured this was coming.  But no one wants to have to call their parents and tell them the cancer is back.  Stupid cancer.

I've survived a lot of medical treatment. The most sophisticated and creative was while in the care of an extraordinarily gifted, courageous and talented surgeon. We invited him and his wife to dinner to renew our acquaintance and review the bidding.  The dinner was memorable.
I could launch into the details of my 8 surgical procedures performed by this brilliant man but that story is told elsewhere. Of more interest to this community is what are the indicators of brilliance in a surgeon?  Unlike general medicine or oncology, surgical encounter time is brief.  One can ask about reputation, but thoracic procedures are risky and outcomes are variable involving heart, lungs, vessels, transplants and a myriad of complex procedures to the engine compartment of the body.  Using my surgeon as a model, it might be useful to develop a means test of thoracic surgical competence that a survivor might use to evaluate suitability during the span of a short pre-surgical consultation.  Here is my list.
Is your surgeon friendly?  Is this man or women one you’d enjoy having a coffee or a beer with?  Does conversation flow easily?  Does the surgeon respond to your elements of conversation?  Does he or she listen?  Do other practitioners or office staff enjoy being around him?  A surgeon that is pleasant is likely to be a surgeon that is sympathetic, benevolent and a true believer of the tenants of the Hippocratic Oath. Is your surgeon inquisitive? Surgery is a melding of art and science. The art is “what” to do and the science is “how” to do it. Thoracic surgeons are a small tribe that practice in a complex environment. When something new is discovered, your surgeon should be very interested in investigating it for application. If your surgeon already thinks all the “what” questions are answered, find another. Is your surgeon respectful? In your pre-surgical consultation, you ought to feel like the important one. Your medical condition needs to be acknowledged as important and your feelings, fear, anxiety, and uncertainty should to be taken into account.  If your surgeon doesn’t use your name or look at you or attempt to help you relax during the consultation, find another.  If your surgeon makes a grand entrance, surrounded by a posse of assistants, and talks to them about your case, find another quickly! Is your surgeon decisive? At the pre-surgical consult, there is one key decision to be made: operate or do not operate.  This ought to be made then and there. If your surgeon feels the need to discuss your case with others, find another.  There is so much uncertainty in lung cancer surgery and each encounter will require a decision. Your surgeon needs to come equipped for making decisions, alone. Is your surgeon acutely intelligent? Compose a non-surgical question on the surgeon's interest or hobbies ahead of the consultation. Listen for passion and detail that indicates sincere interest and evidence of accomplishment. Intelligence starts with curiosity and leads to ability to assimilate knowledge and use it in cross functional ways.  A surgeon with a photography interest would know depth of field (the f-stop setting on a camera) is analogous to layers in skin, tissue structure, and visual focus precision.  Photography concepts relate to surgery yet it is a diverse field of intellectual pursuit. Avoid those who are interested only in surgery or who say they don’t have time for anything in their life but surgery.     We had a wonderful reunion made even more special by the attendance of my daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter.  My daughter met my surgeon 15 years ago while I was near death. She is also a beneficiary of his skills.  Ten years after my surgeries, I asked my surgeon to help find a skilled brain surgeon to remove my daughter’s complex meningioma. He moved heaven and earth to do so. Add compassion to my list.
Stay the course. 

"Count-off...One, Two...Count-off...Three, Four...Bring it on down now...One, Two, Three, Four, One-Two...Three-Four!" 
My life is filled with counting.  As a young soldier on the march, we counted cadence to stay in step.  The rhythm of the cadence was an elixir to the mile-upon-mile-upon-mile of forced march in full combat load.  They always scheduled the forced march on the hottest day, or the wettest day, or the coldest day of the year.  One memorable march was the day after a hurricane!  Weather or not, we marched and counted.
After diagnosis with lung cancer, my life embraced a different sort of cadence.  There was the countdown to scan day, then time stopped waiting for results.  One...what time is it...just ten in the morning...the clock battery is out...is it back...how bad...how many nodules...how big...ten-oh-two...mets in the bones...liver also...scan tech didn't smile...he saw something...ohGod....  Life just stopped waiting for results.  Time stopped!
Waiting for scan results is absolute misery coupled with measured doses of agony and anguish, torment, despondency and gloom thrown in for good measure!  Each day was a twenty-five-mile forced march that started but never ended.  Cancer sucks but waiting for scan results sucks squared! 
Stay the course.
 

Most days, the cancer is buried somewhere in my thoughts, my work, my hobbies - not at the surface.  But there are days when it hits me right between the eyes.  Cancer.  How the hell did I get here? Is this really my life?  
Wondering if anyone else has experienced this.

Most days, the cancer is buried somewhere in my thoughts, my work, my hobbies - not at the surface.  But there are days when it hits me right between the eyes.  Cancer.  How the hell did I get here? Is this really my life?  
Wondering if anyone else has experienced this.

Most days, the cancer is buried somewhere in my thoughts, my work, my hobbies - not at the surface.  But there are days when it hits me right between the eyes.  Cancer.  How the hell did I get here? Is this really my life?  
Wondering if anyone else has experienced this.

Most days, the cancer is buried somewhere in my thoughts, my work, my hobbies - not at the surface.  But there are days when it hits me right between the eyes.  Cancer.  How the hell did I get here? Is this really my life?  
Wondering if anyone else has experienced this.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart these are tumors in your lungs and a form of lung cancer”.
These were the words spoken to a vibrant, healthy 36-year-old female on October 19, 2017, by the thoracic surgeon. I knew that things were probably not good when he came in and asked if I was alone. Unfortunately, I was alone. Looking back, that day seems like a blur. I remember the ladies at the checkout desk asking how I was doing as they ask so many patients all day long. It’s mere customer service, right? I never made eye contact and mustered enough energy to say the word “fine”. I was far from fine, but I just wanted to get out of there.
I never cried in the doctor’s office that day, but walking down that winding hallway and through the parking lot felt like I was carrying cinder blocks for shoes around my feet. The minute I got in my car and closed the door was the moment that I completely lost myself. I have cancer. I am going to die. My parents are going to have to bury their only child. My world felt like it had crashed.
The days and weeks ahead were just amazing considering my new circumstances. People loved on me like I had never been loved on before. I received cards and texts and all sorts of support, but a part of me wanted to tell them that I was still the same person and I appreciated the cards of support, but that I wasn’t dead yet. Please hold the flowers too.
My lung cancer diagnosis was a complete shock as it is to so many. However, I was asymptomatic and cancer was the last thing on my brain. I was hospitalized for a Bartholin Cyst. I had my yearly exam already scheduled with my OB/GYN and this exam was far from routine. I explained to the nurse that I was in pain and was running temperatures between 101-103⁰. I visited the local emergency room twice to attempt to acquire some relief and was incorrectly diagnosed. My OB/GYN admitted me to get antibiotics started quickly and mentioned a minor surgery, but before I went to the hospital, he wanted me to have a CT of my abdomen to identify the cyst prior to any procedure.
Thankfully, the tech caught just the lower portion of my lungs on that scan and the radiologist noted lung nodules.  When I went back to my OB/GYN for my check up, he mentioned the lung nodules and ordered a full chest scan. He informed me that people had benign nodules and they could be there from my severe infection, but that he wanted to just make sure that it wasn’t anything.
The next day he called me to inform that the nodules were still there and he would like for me to see a Pulmonary Specialist.  I agreed and the Pulmonary Specialist was very concerned about the number of nodules in my lungs which were over 100 scattered across both lungs. He conducted a bronchoscope and a needle biopsy for which both were non-diagnostic and I was then punted to the Thoracic Surgeon. The Thoracic Surgeon removed three wedge sections and sent the pathology off to Mayo Clinic in Arizona.
After further molecular testing, my oncologist educated me on the different mutations and the path of treatment that would be taken for each of them. It was determined that I was Stage IV due to both lungs being involved and was positive for T790M. I began Tagrisso as a first line on November 11, 2017. After 6 months on this drug, my last scans read “barely perceptible”. I will keep taking Tagrisso until resistance occurs and hopefully there will be another inhibitor to take its place.
When I was first diagnosed, I would literally wake up in the night in a panic. I couldn’t sleep, eat or function normally. I started browsing the internet for support groups and pages as well as social media. I found the LUNGevity private patient groups on Facebook and asked to be added to every single one of them. I began telling my story and people started responding to me and sharing their stories. Strangers were sending me encouraging private messages. I saw people living and thriving with an incurable, life-shortening disease. I found hope. I started sleeping and not crying so much. Finding those support groups really made the initial journey a bit easier.  Although we were strangers, we were brought together by a common bond. I’ve since been able to meet some of those people in person through the HOPE Summit and my “family” has grown by leaps and bounds. I would have never met these incredible people without lung cancer.
Receiving a lung cancer diagnosis is not something any of us would have willingly signed up for, but I am thankful that I was able to find out before it spread all over my body and treatment options were expunged. I am also thankful for the perspective shift. I now know what it means to live each day with intent. The days of merely existing are over. It’s time to live and love life to the fullest because I now understand the value of each day that I am given.
 
 
 

I'm in the middle of my quarterly scan appointments.  While I was waiting for my blood draw yesterday, I noticed a couple that was apparently new to the oncology clinic.  The wife is the patient and, when she was called into the lab, her husband got up to walk with her and she told him she was fine, just going for a blood draw.  I looked at his face and saw fear and I just wanted to give him a hug.  This is the part I hate the most - when we look into our loved ones' eyes and see their fear.  I just want to fix everything and I can't; we have so little control over this part of our lives.  I have no idea why she was there or what her diagnosis is, but I definitely said a prayer for them last night.  
 

I'm in the middle of my quarterly scan appointments.  While I was waiting for my blood draw yesterday, I noticed a couple that was apparently new to the oncology clinic.  The wife is the patient and, when she was called into the lab, her husband got up to walk with her and she told him she was fine, just going for a blood draw.  I looked at his face and saw fear and I just wanted to give him a hug.  This is the part I hate the most - when we look into our loved ones' eyes and see their fear.  I just want to fix everything and I can't; we have so little control over this part of our lives.  I have no idea why she was there or what her diagnosis is, but I definitely said a prayer for them last night.  
 

I'm in the middle of my quarterly scan appointments.  While I was waiting for my blood draw yesterday, I noticed a couple that was apparently new to the oncology clinic.  The wife is the patient and, when she was called into the lab, her husband got up to walk with her and she told him she was fine, just going for a blood draw.  I looked at his face and saw fear and I just wanted to give him a hug.  This is the part I hate the most - when we look into our loved ones' eyes and see their fear.  I just want to fix everything and I can't; we have so little control over this part of our lives.  I have no idea why she was there or what her diagnosis is, but I definitely said a prayer for them last night.  
 

I'm in the middle of my quarterly scan appointments.  While I was waiting for my blood draw yesterday, I noticed a couple that was apparently new to the oncology clinic.  The wife is the patient and, when she was called into the lab, her husband got up to walk with her and she told him she was fine, just going for a blood draw.  I looked at his face and saw fear and I just wanted to give him a hug.  This is the part I hate the most - when we look into our loved ones' eyes and see their fear.  I just want to fix everything and I can't; we have so little control over this part of our lives.  I have no idea why she was there or what her diagnosis is, but I definitely said a prayer for them last night.  
 

I'm in the middle of my quarterly scan appointments.  While I was waiting for my blood draw yesterday, I noticed a couple that was apparently new to the oncology clinic.  The wife is the patient and, when she was called into the lab, her husband got up to walk with her and she told him she was fine, just going for a blood draw.  I looked at his face and saw fear and I just wanted to give him a hug.  This is the part I hate the most - when we look into our loved ones' eyes and see their fear.  I just want to fix everything and I can't; we have so little control over this part of our lives.  I have no idea why she was there or what her diagnosis is, but I definitely said a prayer for them last night.  
 

Today, I happily paint two of my toes red, to celebrate two years of being a survivor.  Some days I ask myself it has really only been 2 years because it feels like I got the diagnosis so long ago.  Lots of scans and needles and chemo and radiation and....I'm still here!  
I woke up this morning, very cheerful, almost like I was celebrating a birthday.  I realize that EVERY SINGLE DAY is a gift, whether we have lung cancer or not, but that cancer seems to make each day that much more important.  While I was thinking about everything today, I was overcome with emotion.  I know that I am blessed to have as much time as I've had.  I think about the friends I've made in this "club" that are no longer here.  For those friends, and for the rest of us, we continue to choose life.  

Today, I happily paint two of my toes red, to celebrate two years of being a survivor.  Some days I ask myself it has really only been 2 years because it feels like I got the diagnosis so long ago.  Lots of scans and needles and chemo and radiation and....I'm still here!  
I woke up this morning, very cheerful, almost like I was celebrating a birthday.  I realize that EVERY SINGLE DAY is a gift, whether we have lung cancer or not, but that cancer seems to make each day that much more important.  While I was thinking about everything today, I was overcome with emotion.  I know that I am blessed to have as much time as I've had.  I think about the friends I've made in this "club" that are no longer here.  For those friends, and for the rest of us, we continue to choose life.  

Today, I happily paint two of my toes red, to celebrate two years of being a survivor.  Some days I ask myself it has really only been 2 years because it feels like I got the diagnosis so long ago.  Lots of scans and needles and chemo and radiation and....I'm still here!  
I woke up this morning, very cheerful, almost like I was celebrating a birthday.  I realize that EVERY SINGLE DAY is a gift, whether we have lung cancer or not, but that cancer seems to make each day that much more important.  While I was thinking about everything today, I was overcome with emotion.  I know that I am blessed to have as much time as I've had.  I think about the friends I've made in this "club" that are no longer here.  For those friends, and for the rest of us, we continue to choose life.  

Today, I happily paint two of my toes red, to celebrate two years of being a survivor.  Some days I ask myself it has really only been 2 years because it feels like I got the diagnosis so long ago.  Lots of scans and needles and chemo and radiation and....I'm still here!  
I woke up this morning, very cheerful, almost like I was celebrating a birthday.  I realize that EVERY SINGLE DAY is a gift, whether we have lung cancer or not, but that cancer seems to make each day that much more important.  While I was thinking about everything today, I was overcome with emotion.  I know that I am blessed to have as much time as I've had.  I think about the friends I've made in this "club" that are no longer here.  For those friends, and for the rest of us, we continue to choose life.  

Today, I happily paint two of my toes red, to celebrate two years of being a survivor.  Some days I ask myself it has really only been 2 years because it feels like I got the diagnosis so long ago.  Lots of scans and needles and chemo and radiation and....I'm still here!  
I woke up this morning, very cheerful, almost like I was celebrating a birthday.  I realize that EVERY SINGLE DAY is a gift, whether we have lung cancer or not, but that cancer seems to make each day that much more important.  While I was thinking about everything today, I was overcome with emotion.  I know that I am blessed to have as much time as I've had.  I think about the friends I've made in this "club" that are no longer here.  For those friends, and for the rest of us, we continue to choose life.  

The modern world is full of scams, lies, untruths, and junk science.  Indeed, for a lung cancer survivor or caregiver, finding truth about lung cancer in our Internet world of mis-information is extremely difficult.  How do we know what to believe?  Perhaps you've heard of Belle Gibson, the health food purveyor and wellness guru, who spent years convincing us she had a cure for cancer.  Don't know the story?  Read it here.  How did we buy into Gibson's claims?  How do we avoid another scam trap? Here is my list for sniffing out a phony lung cancer cure scam.
1. Ignore anyone who broadcast-messages a cure for cancer.  No one discovering a cure to cancer will announce it on a daytime TV show, or a TV infomercial.  The person discussing the "cure" will more likely act and talk like a nerdy scientist rather than a TV or movie personality.  The announcement language will be hyper-technical, interspersed with statistical terms comparing this to that under a given circumstance. The announcement could be televised but the audience will be filled with scientists and physicians.  But before the telecast, there will be a series of journal articles discussing and critiquing the findings.  The announcement will likely follow the form and tenor of the CERN Higgs Boson "god particle" discovery.  Watch that coverage and mentally compare it to an episode of The Chew.  If you don't hear words like "the combined difference of five standard deviations", you are listening to a hoax.
2. The cure announcement won't be a sales pitch.  Think of the biggest news event you've ever seen, say the announcement of 9-11.  Discovery of a cure to cancer will be bigger -- much, much bigger!  It will be a world-wide-headline-news story and will be announced by a government.  Following the announcement, there won't be a 1-800 number or world wide web address to buy the cure!  It won't be a pharmaceutical company announcement.  Yes, new drugs showing progression free survival improvement are announced in pharmaceutical company news releases, but these are clinical trial results for a new therapy, not a "cure" announcement. And recall what a new lung cancer treatment drug commercial looks and sounds like.  There are all these legal disclaimers, side-effect disclosures, and restrictions on taking the drug.  A lung cancer or any cancer cure won't be a commercial advertisement of a drug or treatment. It will be a celebration and the biggest news event of your lifetime!
3. Be very wary of a dietary supplement touted as a cure.  Cancer is a disease of the human genome.  Each of us has the genetic predisposition to have every kind and type of cancer ever discovered. Science understands the genetic nature of the disease and a changes in diet or taking a dietary supplement does not change or effect our genetic make-up.  A change in diet to lose weight, avoid diabetes, or improve cardiovascular health is a good thing, but no one claims taking a dietary supplement or a change in diet cures diabetes, heart disease or cancer, except scam artists.  A healthy diet has many benefits; curing cancer is not one of them.
4. Self-promoters touting heroic cancer survival stories are scammers.  If you want to read and believe heroic survival stories, they are in forums such as this one.  Our survival stories sell hope; they don't sell product.  No one here is seeking fame for surviving lung cancer.  Certainly, no one here is getting rich surviving this awful disease.  Real lung cancer patients know that cancer sucks, treatment sucks, scans suck, the whole process sucks.  No one here sits for a TV interview claiming to beat lung cancer by taking this, that or the other thing.  While the first rule to being successful in sales is to sell yourself,  we are not selling anything.  
5. Social media promotion is a scam in the making.  Who is going to offer a product or treatment that cures cancer on social media -- a scam artist!  Social media likes and shares are not scientific peer reviews.  The Super Bowl Justin Timberlake selfie boy achieved overnight fame, but for what? Perhaps he could use that fame to sell tee shirts, but a lung cancer cure?  Seriously?  And be wary of news outlets who publicize these miracle cure announcements.  TV and newspapers sell scam promoters also.  They publicize sensationalism so a 30 second report on your 5 o'clock news of a wellness guru who discovered a cancer cure is what -- a scam!  Do you know of TV reporters with a PhDs in Microbiology or Pharmacology?  Where do they get the competency to evaluate scientific claims?  Here's the point; they don't care about scientific authenticity; they want to generate sensationalism.  Media sensationalism sells media, not cancer cures.  Social media clicks sell social media, not cancer treatments.  
Lung cancer is a horrible disease.  Sadly, there are horrible people in this world who take advantage of our misfortune to rob us of time and money.  Only our vigilance and common sense can protect us.  Remember, there is no such thing as a cancer cure, yet!  When one is announced, the world will know and celebrate.
Stay the course.
 

Today we pause to celebrate new life, life continued, and hope renewed.  For me this is a holy season but it has a much broader meaning, especially for those struggling with lung cancer. Christmas Day is a celebration of new life and a continuation of life. The new life is Christ while continuation is everyone alive.  Including especially, those who live with lung cancer. We have at first glance an insurmountable challenge: to live with a disease that consumes our body with cells made of our body.  Indeed, our disease is a paradoxical phenomena.  Yet, we live. We rise above the biological paradox, thus our celebration of life continued.
The hope of the season is reflected in many ways. On earth's scale, each day length changes as we orbit towards spring. Thus hope is realized as we progress in day length and temperature change. On the lung cancer scale, we hope for good treatment outcomes and new treatment methods. Fortunately, outcomes are improving, sometimes dramatically as are methods. But the progression of seasonal change is neither smooth nor completely predictable. There will be uncertain days ahead.  Similarly, as lung cancer survivors we will face disappointment and perhaps reversals.  But like the season, treatment is a progression: a change over time.  And the renewal of hope for survivors is the belief that progression toward success will continue.
My wish for all lung cancer survivors is the gift of life continued.
Stay the course.
 
 

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.