Here are two cancer stories for today - one from Argentina and one from Scotland. I warn you now, this blog is not for those who are in need of cheering up.
I heard today that my sister's very good friend in Argentina, who has been living with cancer for ten years, has her kidney transplant donor (her brother) lined up in Scotland but the doctors are being slow but up to this point, her treatment has been wonderful. And I am sure that the transplant will happen. One of the many cheering points of this story is that she was only given months to live to begin with. Metastases all over the place. The Argentinean doctors have obviously been fantastic. It costs money in Argentina, of course, but she would have been written off in the UK.
Oh yes – and where are we? No PDT – my husband’s liver metastases are the problem. After all my hard work, chasing the best in the country down, and putting him in touch with someone in Glasgow and putting them in touch with the GP … he is not suitable. We had the news on Friday.
We have, at last, got an appointment with the oncologist because of my concerns about the problems my husband is having with eating. He is now less than eight stone - but still working. I have been on the phone again to the 'best' in the country for something else …something other than stents, something which will offer a better quality of life and survival rate.
And out of the blue, I have a phone call from the secretary of the ‘gastro’ man in our local 'big' hospital whom we have never met: my husband has an appointment to have a stent put in. No consultation. And this is not something like having a wisdom tooth taken out. My husband is not at all happy about this decision, which has been made with no discussion at all. No one has told him anything about the procedure.
So, of course, I am on the phone again.
And now I have printed out the alternatives – which are few – and have lined up the 'experts' – in order to be able to quote chapter and verse about the latest research on the best palliative care for people with advanced, inoperable, stage IV oesophageal cancer.
My husband who, I will remind you, is fifty-two, has been written off as far as the NHS is concerned.
Yeah - you are right, I really annoy the oncologist.
And no, this is not an attack on the NHS.
And no, there is no moral to this story.
