Not "to the east side" and not "to a deluxe apartment in the sky," but if fictional New York City cleaning business icon George Jefferson had been diagnosed with lung cancer as I was, I would bet he'd be happy making progress: the feeling of moving forward. And that's exactly what I feel now. With the "news" of last week's column, progress/movement is at hand.
Stay the course. Meaning, to write short a long story: same three week chemotherapy interval, same medicine/dosage, same quarterly scan to be followed up by usual and customary same post-scan appointment nine days later with my same diagnosis-to-date oncologist.
By Mary Ann Laverty, Survivor , September 26, 2018
Like so many others, my lung cancer diagnosis came as a huge shock for me and my family. In December of 2016, I was a healthy, active flight attendant who loved to travel. I had recently won third place in the Masters National Bodybuilding Championships in the over 45 bikini category, and I was excited to rev up my training after the holidays. Then, in March, an incident on a flight to New York changed my life. A passenger’s suitcase hit me on the head when he was trying to retrieve it from the overhead compartment. It knocked me out, and I was taken to the E.R.
Now that I've spent the last two publishing weeks moaning and groaning about my potentially life-changing CT scan results from my upcoming September 26 scan, I think it's time to buck up, don't you? I mean, how long can I continue to drone on before I bore even myself? Talk about putting the cart before the horse, I'm putting myself before the cart.
By Kyle McCarthy, Team LUNGevity Runner, August 31, 2018
I always thought of my dad as my Ironman when I was growing up. He was a marathon runner and always gave it everything he had. When I was 18, he passed away from lung cancer. I admired how he never gave up and gave that everything he had too. Even though we never had a chance to run a race together, he inspired me to run my first marathon in 2016 with Team LUNGevity. After finishing that race, I decided to set my sights on an even bigger challenge: completing an Ironman in memory of my dad.
It’s 6 a.m. and my wife, Amanda, and I are on a plane traveling to MD Anderson in Houston, TX, for her 90-day appointment. We have been on this journey for the past two years, since Amanda was diagnosed with Stage IV Lung Cancer at the age of 38.
OKAY. It's not exactly what I wanted to read in the email from my oncologist interpreting the results of my July 25th CT Scan. Since August of 2013 when I was hospitalized for a week with fluid in my lungs, "CT stable" has been the recurring message. Now the message is different. My question, which will be addressed Monday afternoon: can I live with 'slow progression?' I would imagine that there are more aggressive characterizations of 'progression.' Nevertheless, I have to wait three more days to find out.
You may have heard of the term “chemo brain” or chemo “fog”. It’s a term some patients use to describe the cognitive issues and side effects resulting from chemotherapy, radiation, clinical trials and other drugs associated with cancer treatment.
Did you know that cancer caregivers can have cognitive dysfunction too? Sudden life changes, emotional distress, work and financial stresses, insomnia and medications such as anti-anxiety and anti-depressants can cause memory impairment.
My lung cancer was discovered by accident. In April 2016, I was in a car accident which landed me in the emergency room. I had scans to check for internal injuries. They didn’t find any broken bones but they did discover a mass in my lung. The E.R. doctor advised me to see my primary care provider for a follow up. My PCP referred me to a pulmonologist but since the mass was located behind my heart, there was nothing she could do. The pulmonologist requested a PET scan and referred me to a thoracic surgeon.