My 77-year-old paternal grandmother, AKA Grammy, was diagnosed with stage three lung cancer just over a month ago. This information dropped like she did hitting her and my grandfather's hard living-room tile floor, snapping bones in her wrist and breaking a few ribs after her foot caught on our 120-pound German Shepherd-Siberian Husky-Labrador Retriever-Great Pyrenees-Akita-"Supermutt" (yes, and in that order according to Embark DNA testing). Grammy tripped over our giant blond Gambit dog and ended up in the ER on an otherwise quiet Sunday where she received a chest x-ray that revealed a five-centimeter mass in her left lung. 🫁 (A CT scan, PET scan, and biopsy [THREE tests] confirmed malignancy. An MRI confirmed [FOUR tests at this point] final details on size and location. Thankfully, the cancer had not metastasized from her lung, though the cancer had spread between both the upper and lower lobes.)
Chance? Happenstance? Crazy circumstance? 🤔
God? 🙏
How we started on this path was not at all expected, and it's made us all—her husband (my grandfather), her son (my father), my husband, and myself—wonder: What if this information wasn't found until later, stage four or more? At this point, as terrible as it may read, we're glad Gambit was the immovable massive furry object he often is. 🐕
(That's our Gambit boy, pictured above in all his inside-sun-basking glory. Oftentimes we refer to this as "Dead Roach Baby." He also reminds me of a psych client ready to respond to the latest psychoanalysis query.🐾)
This shift in reality hit our family so suddenly, so hard, it hasn't manifested yet in our conscious reality; it still doesn't feel real. Grams is the epitome of conscientiousness. She visits her primary care doctor, her dermatologist, her dentist, every six months to a year to assess her vitality. All her visits, all her blood tests have been stellar, in fact, the blood test her primary care doctor ordered directly after the first scans signaled a tumor, the assessment her doctor shed a tear over ordering because she is so fond of my Grammy, showed no signs of cancer. Her doctor even told her during her results visit, "I don't think you have cancer." 🩺
So her primary care doctor, a brilliant D.O. who has treated my grandmother and many of our family members for almost 20 years, went from panic to calm between reading the chest x-ray and CT scan (💥) and the blood test (🕊️).
HOW. DOES. THIS. HAPPEN? 🤔
Seriously! I love and respect this healthcare provider, also my primary care doctor, but how do we go from a freakout to calm waters back to freakout after the cancer is confirmed? My medical knowledge is about as basic as bleach—I'm not sure that simile makes sense, but we're going with it—but does this confusion seem rational? Of course, I immediately researched and probed medical professional friends for answers. As far as I understand, every cancer leaves a byproduct like a mucus secretion (or is it excretion or neither?) and every cancer leaves a distinct goo (doing my best here). Tests are designed to look for these unique byproducts, whereby specific cancers are identified. While our doctor said an extensive screening was conducted, one that would "tell us if you have cancer," those tests did not reveal any sign of cancer. 🧪
Was the test looking for the wrong markers? 🤔
I don't understand and I am frustrated (I am still frustrated), but let's move forward. So Grammy's cancer has been identified and a treatment regimen is prescribed, which includes immunotherapy ("new" they say), chemotherapy, and radiation. The frequency of delivery to her system via surgically installed chest port will be every three weeks for four months. The oncologist is "confident" in this treatment plan's effectiveness / beating the cancer.
Okay, GREAT! 🙌
(Here's where the title of this blog post will make sense. Yes, we finally made it. I'm long-winded, woo—or would you call this long-keyed or enthusiastically tactile or... I'll stop now. 🫠)
A nurse walks us into the chemo room, or rather the area with 50 or so chairs that remind me of the big leather ones you see at nail salons minus the massage features and foot baths where patients receive varied intravenous care (the majority of people I observed were receiving iron infusions [interesting?]). As she informs us of the plan for the day—multiple IV bags over the course of about seven hours, each delivering its own drug cocktail including saline, something like Benadryl, the immunotherapy, and chemo—we ask a few questions and before she left us to get the first bag, she asks, "Would you like a snack and a drink?" My grandmother responds, "Sure. What do you have?"
This is the best part! 🤢
"We have Oreo cookies, crackers, chips, and soda."
(My reaction to the nurse's response, verbatim [hyperbole here, obvs]. 😳)
My grandmother is clearly scheduled for chemotherapy; she has CANCER. Remember my medical knowledge level, essentially the equivalent of BLEACH? Even I know processed sugar is bad news. (Doesn't sugar FEED cancer?) Allow me to repeat:
HOW. DOES. THIS. HAPPEN? 🤔
Thankfully, I had the foresight to bring healthy food for Grams during the almost NINE hours we spent there that day. (Zero prep for this experience from the doctor or scheduling nurse, by the way, and this place had no cafeteria or other food option.)
Keep in mind, the cost of my grandmother's treatment experience for this single day was $20,000. (Insurance covered most of this cost, BUT the treatment cost was actually $20k.) One might think, as I did, that a facility offering such care could spare budget for healthy food options, especially for patients undergoing such serious—chemo is POISON—drug therapy. ☠️
I know many people who work in healthcare, and all of the people I know love people and want to help people. I realize my experience is a single anecdotal encapsulation, but... WOW. I understand that ultimately healthcare is a business, but have profits overtaken care? 😥
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