#Ovarian Cancer Drugs

[facts4u2know]

New Ovarian Cancer Drug

4/16/24

Until now, ovarian cancer has been notoriously difficult to treat, with most cases diagnosed at an advanced stage with a 5-year survival rate of only about 50%. In a breakthrough, the FDA accelerated approval of mirvetuximab soravtansine, the first antibody drug conjugate (ADC) for platinum-resistant ovarian cancer.

ADCs offer targeted therapy, delivering chemotherapy directly to cancer cells, thereby minimizing damage to healthy tissue. This particular drug is an antibody that seeks out and binds to a tumor-specific protein, where it delivers the drug directly to the cancer cells. The results of the successful clinical trial were reported in the New England Journal of Medicine.

[harmeet-saggi]

Ovarian Cancer - Cause Symptoms Diagnosis & Treatment

Ovarian cancer is a type of cancer that begins in the ovaries. The ovaries are two small, almond-shaped organs located on each side of the uterus. They are responsible for producing the eggs necessary for reproduction and for secreting the female hormones estrogen and progesterone. Ovarian cancer is the fifth most common type of cancer in women and is most often diagnosed in women over the age of 60.

[shivt123]

The ovarian cancer drug market is expected to gain market growth in the forecast period of 2021 to 2028. Data Bridge Market Research analyses that the market is growing with the CAGR of 30.14% in the forecast period of 2021 to 2028. 

[home-of-renn]

Mike & Vanessa Peters

Mike is older than Vanessa by 1 year. 

Mike was 34 when Bloom was adopted, and Vanessa was 33

Mike comes from a large family, none of whom live close by. Vanessa on the other hand is an only child. 

The reason why Mike and Vanessa don’t have children of their own is because Vanessa had ovarian cancer at the age of 29, only five years after beating breast cancer. She had to have an ovary removed as well as a section of the attached fallopian tube removed as well. However, the chemo drugs she took after her surgery caused damage to the eggs in her remaining ovary. While she isn’t completely infertile, a series of painful miscarriages resulted in the couple giving up on their hopes of starting a family. 

The therapy and surgery that Vanessa underwent was pricey and Mike had to borrow money from family and friends in order to pay the medical bills. 

It was only a few months prior to Bloom’s 16th birthday that Mike was able to pay back all the money he had borrowed from his family but still had a bit more to go in repaying some friends. 

The couple had been looking into adoption and foster care when Mike had discovered Bloom in a burning building. 

Mike had called Vanessa at the station while still holding an exhausted Bloom. Vanessa had come as soon as she got the call and it was love at first sight as the two of them held Bloom in their arms. They inquired with the police officers on what would happen to the baby if a parent or guardian weren’t found. 

When nothing was found about Bloom’s background, and it was assumed that she had been abandoned, Mike and Vanessa were the first to jump at the chance to foster her.  

After a year and a half the couple were finally able to file for a proper adoption. 

Bloom grew up happy and healthy and never really questioned her parentage, until a very fateful day in the little city of Gardenia. 

[mindblowingscience]

A class of diabetes medications, which include the best-selling drug Ozempic, are associated with a reduced risk of certain obesity-related cancers, according to a study released Friday. Published in the journal JAMA, the study compared patients with Type 2 diabetes who were treated with insulin versus patients who were given a class of drug known as GLP-1 agonists, like Ozempic, between 2005 and 2018. The researchers found that the patients who received GLP-1 agonists had a significantly lower risk of developing 10 out of 13 cancers studied, including kidney, pancreatic, esophageal, ovarian, liver and colorectal cancer.

Continue Reading.

[cbirt]

Cancer, a simple name for a complicated group of diseases, has long perplexed scientists and healthcare professionals alike. Despite years of research and medical advances, individualized therapy remains elusive. However, a recent study using multi-omics data is bringing us closer to understanding cancer’s weaknesses and maybe opening up new therapeutic options. By integrating diverse datasets across 1,768 cancer cell lines representing a spectrum of tumor types, the researchers created a comprehensive map of dependency markers – a treasure trove of potential targets for therapy. This map isn’t a one-size-fits-all blueprint, though. The beauty lies in its ability to reveal pan-cancer markers, common weaknesses shared across different cancer types, as well as tissue-specific markers, and unique vulnerabilities specific to certain tumors.

Cancer, a disease as diverse yet so deadly, has long provided a tough challenge to scientists and clinicians. While therapeutic choices have progressed, the elusive ideal of genuinely customized therapy remains out of reach. But a recent study, armed with the powerful lens of multi-omics data, is getting us closer than ever to understanding cancer’s vulnerabilities and leveraging them for therapeutic advantage. This research dives deep into the domain of dependence markers, tiny molecular flags that identify genes critical for a cancer cell’s survival. Think of them as Achilles’ heels – hidden weak areas that, when targeted, could bring down the seemingly unbeatable cancer monster. The study carefully examines four main sources of information: mutation, gene expression, copy number, and pathway activities.

Continue Reading

[meandmybigmouth]

Thousands of Americans on Medicare have been paying more than $14,000 a year for blood cancer drugs, more than $10,000 a year for ovarian cancer drugs, and more than $9,000 a year for breast cancer drugs, for instance.

That all changed beginning in 2023, after the Biden administration capped out-of-pocket prescriptions at $3,500—no matter what drugs were needed. And this year, in 2024, the cap for all Medicare out-of-pocket prescriptions went down to a maximum of $2,000.

“The American people won, and Big Pharma lost,” said President Biden in September 2022, after the legislation passed. “It’s going to be a godsend to many families.”

ANOTHER "DAMN IT JOE" MOMENT IN REPUBLICAN, CITIZENS UNITED AMERICA!

[vague-humanoid]

@startorrent02

[ismelinor]

Tantalus

Read on AO3 | tagging @today-in-fic | word count: 3,413

Summary: Mulder kisses Scully while she has cancer - and naturally, they never talk about what it means. Scully overhears Mulder calling it a mistake, and her hurt and confusion colour her view of their tumultuous relationship during seasons 5 and 6. TW: vague reference to suicidal thoughts.

There was nothing extraordinary about the day he finally kissed her. In fact, looking back, she’d be hard pressed to say which day it was: they all blurred together, those interminable hours spent on hospital beds, waiting for another visitor to stop by with wide, sad eyes. It made her feel like she was already in a casket, her loved ones processing past the body to say their goodbyes.

~~~

In the early days of her cancer, she’d found herself strangely fixated on a memory from her time on the oncology wards as a medical student. Mrs Baddesley was the lady’s name. Scully always thought of her as Mrs Baddesley, even though you can call me Polly, dear was practically her catchphrase. She remembered presenting her to the consultant, in the days when presenting a patient was still something new and nerve-wracking: This is Mrs Baddesley, seventy-three years old, presenting with a lung tumour secondary to an ovarian tumour. Treatment is adjuvant chemotherapy. Cisplatin appears relatively well received, with some nausea and vomiting reported.

Scully (who was just Dana in those days) got through her presentation relatively unscathed. The consultant had grilled her on mechanisms of action and drug distributions, but she wasn’t top of her class for nothing. As the doctor swept out of the room, her classmates following in his wake, Mrs Baddesley had clasped Scully’s hand. She looked down in surprise, worried that she’d offended her, but she was smiling.

“You looked more nervous than I am, and I’m on my third round of chemotherapy,” she said. Scully ducked her head, embarrassed: she was still learning to don that mask of clinical detachment. Mrs Baddesley squeezed her hand. “It’s a good thing, dear. I’ve banished my poor husband from the hospital, and it’s nice to meet another human being round here.”

The remark had confused Scully at the time, but it wasn’t until a month or so later that she understood it. She’d come across Mrs Baddesley again, this time in the outpatient waiting room, and had sat down to talk to her. She was doing well, she said. The chemotherapy hadn’t worked, but she’d made the decision to stop treatment. She smiled as she spoke about how she wanted her last months to go: she didn’t mind where she was, as long as her husband was there.

After a lull in the conversation, Scully asked why she’d not let her husband come to the hospital. Mrs Baddesley nodded, like she approved of the question. That was how Scully learned something her textbooks hadn’t told her: that patients could develop aversions to certain smells and tastes if they were exposed to them during chemotherapy. Turkey had been Mrs Baddesley’s favourite food before her first experience with cancer – and then she’d been given a Thanksgiving dinner during the worst of her chemotherapy, and ever since, the very sight of turkey made her retch. This time around, she’d been so scared that she’d develop an aversion to her husband’s smell that she wouldn’t let him visit her at all on the chemo days.

Scully never found out what happened to Mrs Baddesley, but her story had stuck with her over the years, and came back with full force after her diagnosis. In those early days, when she’d still had hope that, with the right treatment, she might make it through, she’d been careful to eat only bland foods. She’d switched out her bath salts and body scrubs for cheap unscented body washes. She’d even asked her mother to stop wearing her signature perfume, the one that always reminded Scully of playing dress-up with Melissa in their mother’s blazers.

She couldn’t bring herself to ask anything of Mulder, though. The idea of being deprived of his scent in those days when he seemed to do nothing but wrap his arms around her – it was unthinkable.

And then, of course, it didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to make it out alive, so she didn’t need to worry about associations and aversions after all. That was what she was thinking on that totally un-extraordinary day in the hospital as Mulder sat on the edge of her bed, holding her hand. Odd as it sounded, she was glad she could smell him to her heart’s content.

She wondered what he was thinking, looking down at her with dark eyes and the hint of a smile. She didn’t have to wonder for long: he cupped her face, leaned down, and kissed her, just like that. For a moment, all Scully could think of was how chapped and dry her lips must be, but then he licked at them and all rational thoughts made a swift departure. All that remained was God, finally and yes, yes, yes and her hands were tangled in his hair, pulling him closer.

It took a long time for him to pull back – about two minutes too long for it to be quietly brushed off as a quick peck between friends. He had a dazed expression on his face, which Scully thoroughly enjoyed. She sat up to chase his lips, fingers still carding through his hair, but the movement proved too much for the precarious state of her stomach, and she leapt out of bed to the toilet – a move she’d had too much practice of lately. Her lunch was in the toilet bowl – the Jell-O Mulder had pressed on her quickly threatening to join it – and she felt him stroking her hair back.

They’d been through too much together for her to feel embarrassed by this little episode. Once she was done, Mulder kissed the crown of her head and left her to clean her teeth. He had to get back to work; he was going to find a cure, he told her – he’d told her that before, of course, but this time…well, this time, she had a really good reason to hope he was right. That kiss was a promise. If she got better – well, they wouldn’t be interrupted by any ill-timed vomiting. She’d make sure of it.

~~~

And then she had gotten better.

There was no kissing yet, but that was okay. She was still recovering, and she knew that he needed to recover too.

There was promise, though. Something was shifting and shimmering between them: she could see it in his eyes as much as she could feel it within herself. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t put it into words: Mulder was right – they had an unspoken communication between them.

Driving to a teamwork seminar, whispering in the back of the car, she thought this might be it. Time away from the x-files, no life-threatening danger, plenty of time to talk across towers of office furniture. She was a little disappointed and more than a little irritated when Mulder blew off the conference at the first opportunity. He seemed to be blowing her off too, which worried her; it was something he’d done all the time when they’d first met – running off after leads without so much as a by-your-leave, but he tended to be more thoughtful these days.

She wondered if he was waiting for her to say something. That was fair, she supposed: he’d been the one to kiss her in the first place; perhaps it was her turn to make a move. So, she walked into his motel room with a plate of minibar wine and cheese…and naturally, he was completely oblivious and hightailed it out of there like his ass was on fire.

Still, they end up practically cuddling on the forest floor – and, realistically, wasn’t risking death by exposure and huddling for warmth much more them than wine and cheese? She wasn’t going to let the opportunity slide, so she told him about her anger when she was diagnosed with cancer, talked about giving her struggle meaning, and looked down at him, hoping that their unspoken communication would bring him the words she couldn’t quite say: that he had given her life meaning. He had brought her hope when all hope was lost, had loaned her his faith when hers had run out.

She hoped he understood.

~~~

It was a few weeks later that everything went wrong.

She’d bought a new pair of heels – the last ones had snapped when she was chasing down a suspect – and they were hell on her arches. She’d taken them off in the bathroom on her way back from lunch and was padding down the hallway back to the office, wincing with every step, when she heard Mulder’s voice through the door. She caught her name and decided to do some eavesdropping (what was a little eavesdropping between friends?), keeping her steps as quiet as possible as she approached the door.

“-and I told you that in confidence, Byers.” That wasn’t very promising: he was on the phone to the lone gunmen, then.

“I know you think I should tell her. You’ve told me a thousand times. I can’t.” Huh. Scully strongly suspected that she was the only ‘her’ in Mulder’s life. She certainly hoped so, after the way he’d kissed her.

“It was a mistake. A moment of weakness. It’s never going to happen again, so I don’t see why we need to talk about it.” Scully had a nasty feeling in her stomach. She didn’t want to listen anymore, but she was frozen in place. “You didn’t see her in that hospital bed. She was dying and there was nothing I could say or do to make it better.” Oh God.

“I know that, Byers. It was the lowest moment of my life. You think I don’t feel guilty enough? All I think about is that goddamn kiss-”

Scully backed away from the door, vision whiting out for a moment. He wasn’t – surely, he didn’t mean-

She turned and walked back down the hall as quickly and quietly as she could. She didn’t stop until she was sitting in her car in the lot, hands on the wheel and tears streaming down her face.

How could he?

That was the only question in her mind for the entire drive back to her apartment.

How could he call their kiss the lowest moment of his life?

How could he gossip about it to his friends, like she was some one-night stand and not his partner of five years?

How could he have kissed her in the first place, if he knew he didn’t have feelings for her?

Ha. Well, that explained the severe lack of reciprocation since her recovery. He hadn’t wanted to kiss her in the first place. He’d seen how much she wanted it – had pitied her – and figured he’d never have to follow through, since she’d be fucking dead anyway.

That was when the rage hit her.

She’d always had something of a temper, though she’d learned to push it down, only let it out when lives were at stake. That annoyed her too. She hated being called fiery – hated the not-so-subtle references to her hair or her biology. The men she worked with never seemed to need explanations for their anger – nobody smirked and asked if it was their time of the month, sweetheart.

As she slammed the door to her apartment shut behind her, she gave full vent to her feelings. Mulder was a jerk. He was as bad as those immature, misogynistic G-men she had to deal with every day. No, no, he was worse. He’d played with her hopes when she was at her most vulnerable, and apparently had never even planned on telling her that he regretted it. What, he was just going to leave her waiting for another kiss for the rest of her life? Asshole. And she’d seen the look on his face after they kissed; that was not the look of a man at his lowest moment. Maybe he’d reflected later on and grown to regret it, but he was lying to his friends and to himself if he said he wasn’t on fire in that moment, just like she was.

~~~

After a while, the rage subsided, and she just felt sad. She loved her job, she really did. She loved working with Mulder – she loved Mulder – but the idea that she would never have more filled her with profound sadness and indescribable longing. She wanted a life outside their quest – something to come home to after the long stake-outs and the brushes with death and the flirting in cars. And she’d really thought that was within her reach.

She was Tantalus: she’d stolen the secrets of the gods, and her punishment was to see everything she ever wanted just out of reach. Her safety – her sister – her health – her child – and now Mulder, all slipping through her fingers.

She was sad for herself, but she was sad for Mulder too. As soon as she was calm enough to think it through, the situation started to make sense, because Mulder wasn’t a jerk. She knew the way he’d been treated after his sister disappeared – the way he was blamed and the way he blamed himself – how he had twisted himself up in knots to please parents who barely acknowledged his existence. And she’d had some insight into his former relationships, none of which sounded healthy; she was willing to bet that he’d changed himself for those women too – that he’d forced himself to do things he didn’t want to in order to please them, because he felt like he didn’t deserve better. So, of course, when he saw a dying woman’s dying wish in her eyes, he’d fulfilled it, without a thought to what he wanted.

It made her sick, and she was still angry that he’d talked to his friends about it instead of her, but she understood it. And so she wiped her tears away, stowed away her anger for the next time lives were at stake, and drove right on back to work. When Mulder asked where she’d been, she managed a tight smile and told him she got stuck in line at the bank. The pencil that fell from the ceiling and hit him on the nose told her he’d missed her, at least. The smile on his face when she told him that the dinosaur-human hybrid he’d been doodling was downright anti-Darwinian was something close to love, wasn’t it?

~~~

The thing was – the thing was, that really would have been enough for her, had she never met Diana Fowley. She could have very readily believed that Mulder loved her as much as he was capable of loving another person: he was entirely devoted to her, she knew – he’d coughed up a half-dozen heartfelt speeches and a round trip to Antarctica to prove it. And Scully could take all of that – all the not-quite-love-confessions and the hospital visits and the forehead kisses – and she could mould it into something that was Enough.

But, no. In Diana Fowley there was living proof that Mulder, like her, wanted it all – had had it, too: a partner in his life’s work and a lover all in one. And suddenly it wasn’t Enough anymore.

Maybe it was childish and selfish, but if all those things between them that gave her life meaning were, to him, a mere echo of a life he’d shared with someone else, they were worth less to her. She couldn’t tell him that, of course. He seemed a hair-trigger away from calling her jealous and delusional at the slightest mention of Fowley – never mind the fact that she’d come to him with very real grounds for distrust.

These days, she felt like she was out at sea – that she was on her little boat of science and reason, being tossed about in his cosmic storm. She drove to work each morning wondering whether he’d be sweet or dismissive; whether he’d argue every little point with her or belly laugh at her wry jokes. It was maddening. He tried to kiss her a second time – he abandoned her to run off with Diana – he told her he loved her – he told her she was making it personal – he played doting husband – he played baseball with his arms around her – he called the debates that were the core of their partnership a perfunctory dance – he called her his constant, his touchstone.

What the hell was she supposed to make of it all?

~~~

It was after the world didn’t end in a hospital corridor that she finally just asked the question that had been on her mind for two and a half years.

“Mulder, why did you kiss me when I had cancer?”

He stared at her, opening and closing his mouth before finding the words. “I couldn’t help myself. I thought we might not get another chance. Same reason I kissed you in 1939.”

“You what?”

“Never mind that, Scully, why-”

“Yes, never mind that. The real question is how can you stand there and lie to me after everything we’ve been through together?”

“Lie to you? I’m not lying, Scully.”

“You are!” They could both hear the sob in her voice, and Mulder reached out to touch her arm but she flinched away. “I heard you on the phone to Byers. You called it the lowest moment of your life.”

“What? Scully, I never said that, I swear. I would never – all these years – every day, all I think about is that goddamn kiss.”

“You said that, too. I heard you, Mulder. You said it was a moment of weakness, and it would never happen again. You were pretty adamant on that point, actually. But it hasn’t stopped you trying, has it? Twice, now.”

Mulder stepped away, pale as she’d ever seen him. He remembered it, then. She wiped away a traitorous tear.

“I know what you mean, Scully. Or…I don’t remember the exact conversation, because I had a lot of phone calls with Byers that went something like that. But we weren’t talking about the kiss.”

Scully turned to leave – she wasn’t going to stand here listening to his bullshit excuses – but Mulder walked over and took her by the shoulders.

“Please listen to me, Scully. Please, please, hear me out. I can’t let this come between us any more than it already has.” It was the same tone of voice he’d used on her in a different corridor, but it was the feeling of his hands shaking on her shoulders that stopped her. She nodded at him.

“When you were sick – when it looked really bad, and I knew it was my fault that you were dying – no, don’t, it was – I did have a moment of weakness. I went back to my place and I drank too much. Nothing happened, I swear, I just thought about it. I got out my gun and I thought…but then I thought about you, and about our kiss, and what that meant, and I knew I couldn’t do it. It was just one moment, honestly. I called Byers and told him everything while I was still drunk and he talked me down from it. Once you got better, he wanted me to tell you, but you were still recovering and I didn’t want you to feel like you had to take care of me, and –”

Scully pulled him into her arms. She didn’t care about the kiss in that moment; all she could think of was how close she’d come to losing him, and she’d never even known it. God, what the hell would she have done?

He was still mouthing apologies into her neck so she pulled back and cupped his face in her hands.

“You didn’t regret it?” she asked.

“Not for a second.”

“You never brought it up again.” Illogical as it was, she found it hard to let go of the hurt she’d been carrying around for so long.

“Neither did you. And then, with Emily…I figured you needed space. I thought you’d say something when you were ready – and when you didn’t, I figured you regretted it.”

Scully laughed, though there were tears running down her face. They could figure out a global conspiracy but one little kiss had thrown them through a loop it took them two years to get out of.

She stroked his cheekbones with her thumbs: my constant. She stroked his lips: my touchstone. And then she kissed him, an answer to the promise he’d made her on her deathbed.

[thepastisalreadywritten]

A bronze statue of a laboratory mouse knitting a double helix of DNA in order to honor all the mice that were sacrificed for genetic research to develop new drugs to fight diseases.

It was designed by Andrew Kharkevich and is located in Siberia, Russia.

The monument was completed on 1 July 2013, coinciding with the 120th anniversary of the founding of the city.

The monument commemorates the sacrifice of the mice in genetic research used to understand biological and physiological mechanisms for developing new drugs and curing diseases.

Sculptor Alexei Agrikolyansky, who created the statue, confessed that it was challenging to capture this moment, as the mouse was obviously not human.

Nevertheless, he had to produce a character with believable emotions while maintaining anatomical proportions, avoiding it looking like a cartoon character or a real mouse.

The DNA spiral emerging from the knitting needles winds to the left, symbolizing the still poorly understood Z-DNA - representing the scientific research that is yet to be done.

In contrast, the more common B-DNA winds to the right.

The very first photograph of DNA was captured by a woman named Rosalind Franklin (25 July 1920 – 16 April 1958) using X-ray technology, allowing James Dewey Watson (born April 6, 1928) and Francis Harry Compton Crick OM FRS (8 June 1916 – 28 July 2004) to accurately characterize the double helix.

While they went on to win the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 1962, Franklin was not credited.

Sadly, she had passed away in 1958 from ovarian cancer, most likely caused by the high radiation exposure she endured while working with X-rays to capture the image of the double helix.

🤎🤍🤎

[scrubs-gloves]

Hannah's Treatment

(Continued from Hannah's Surgery Series)

Following her Ovarian Cancer diagnosis, Hannah was immediately admitted to the hospital's Oncology Center as a long-term inpatient case. A few days after her surgery, where she underwent a radical hysterectomy without consent, she met with her surgeon and a gynecological oncologist to discuss her treatment options. She was prescribed an intensive chemotherapy and radiotherapy treatment regimen, with chemo four days a week and lengthy radiation treatments on the three days in between. She was also informed about the painful side affects of chemotherapy and radiation therapy that we she would experience. Another side affect would be losing her hair and going bald. Despite being scared and overwhelmed, Hannah signed the consent forms in order to undergo the treatment plan.

The first step in her treatment plan involved undergoing a radiation 'simulation' in order to find and mark the correct positioning for her body to undergo pelvic and chest radiation. She was placed on the table, moved in position, and her abdomen and pelvic area were marked with small tattoos to indicate where the radiation beams would be.

The next phase of her pre-treatment process would be to undergo a brief surgery to have a chemo port placed inside her chest in order for chemotherapy to be administered directly into her chest and bloodstream. When the surgery was finished, Hannah felt a small lump in her chest where the port was placed. It was still very sensitive to the touch. Hannah was forced again to reckon with the reality of her situation although it was necessary in order to save her life.

A week after her initial surgery and diagnosis, Hannah's Ovarian Cancer Treatment was set to begin. Shortly after woke up in the morning, an oncology nurse, wearing a surgical gown, gloves, and a surgical scrub cap entered the room.

The nurse proceeded to clean and prep the port area, hang the chemotherapy IV bag, and then connect it to the port in her chest. Hannah winced in pain briefly as the IV was attached to the port. Once this was complete, the nurse began the IV drip and the very first drops of chemo drugs entered her body. She gulped slowly as the IV began to flow. Hannah realized once again that her life would never be the same. The oncology nurse reassured her that everything would be okay, that it was a necessary treatment, and that it was all for the best.

The next day, after her first chemo session, Hannah would undergo her first of many radiation therapy treatments. She was taken to the radiology center, lied down on the table, and was strapped in place. The fear once more set in as she found herself immobilized on the table. The table was then moved into position and the radiation beams were activated. She stayed perfectly still, knowing that the slightest movement would result in unnecessary radiation exposure. As the treatment continued, Hannah finally came to terms with her new reality. From this point on, chemo and radiation therapy treatments each day would define her existence going forward.

As the treatments continued for days and weeks, Hannah quickly began to lose her hair and feel the side affects of the treatment. While extremely upsetting, she was always reassured by the oncology team that was for her own good. This new and painful reality was now her life.

#surgery #surgical #surgicalgloves #surgicalcap #surgicalprocedure #surgicalscrubs #medicalgloves #scrubs #hijab #medicalhijab #muslimdoctor #medicalprocedure #hospitalpatient #cancertreatment #bouffantcap #medicalfetish #surgeryfetish #surgicalfetish #anesthesiafetish #anesthesia #medical

[nothing0fnothing]

Around age twelve my behaviour started to reflect the environment I was living in. I was angry, I'd lose control of my temper, I'd break my own belongings in a rage, I'd cry uncontrollably, I'd have meltdowns in public. If my parents hit me, I'd hit back. If kids hit me, I wouldn't stop hitting back till someone bigger than me forced me to. Yanno, all pretty indicative behaviour changes of an aggressive, volatile, abuse home life.

My parents didn't think so though. Initially they feigned concern, telling me that at long last they'd finally recognised my long declining mental health, and wanted to get me help. I sobbed in my mother's arms when she told me that she knew I didn't like being like this, and finally she would allow me to speak to a therapist, we just had to go to the doctor first.

Only, when we got there it wasn't discussions that lead to being put into youth therapy or counselling. It was blood tests and urinalysis. I was talked over and portrayed as mentally incapable, using words like "delayed" and "behind" to describe how I interacted with my peers. The conversation moved into being about testoseterone levels and about putting me onto sedative drugs if my blood work came back normal. I remember sitting there, listening to her lie, refusing to step out when the doctor asked for a moment alone with me, and feeling a rock sink into the pit of my stomach, realising I'd made a mistake to trust her with this.

This wasn't about getting me the help I needed and deserved, this was about weaponising the UKs free healthcare system against me as punishment for stepping out of line, for making her look bad, and for making the mistake of asking for her help.

When I asked for an explaination of what exactly the fuck that was all about, my mum explained that actually she thinks I "might have" PCOS, a metabolic disorder that causes irregular periods, and this would explain the rage and the self harm and suicidality. I said I thought I was going to get therapy, she said we needed to "rule out" hormonal imbalance before she'd look into it. I said I didn't want her help any more, she put her foot down and insisted I have my blood tested if I wanted to live "under her roof."

In the days leading up to the blood exam, my mum had lots of calm, quiet sit down talks with me about PCOS, some of it was half true and the rest of it was bullshit designed to scare me into doing the test. She said if if went untreated I'd never have children, that I'd be fat and ugly, with greasy skin and upper lip hair after puberty, that I'd get ovarian cancer and die at 25.

I let her take me to the appointment and I simply refused consent for the blood draw. There's nothing she could do, in the UK minors have to give medical consent to treatment, there was no way the doctor was going to draw blood from an unconsenting patient.

My mum made a big show of power, and marched me right back to the front desk for another blood test appointment. The days went by, everyone treating me like shit as normal, till the day of my redo appointment drew in. It was at 1.45pm but she kept me off school anyway, probably worried I would simply refuse to leave class when I was called out to attend. She marched me down to the GP. This time bringing her bully of a husband with her to my appointment.

I waited quietly in the waiting room and went inside when called to, my mums husband making a big show of grabbing my arm, as if I was under the delusion that I needed to run away to get the outcome that benefitted me here. The doctor sat and spoke down to me like I was a small child, explaining that she needed to draw blood to make me feel better, and that though it might be a "bit of an ouchie" I'd feel good in the long term.

I thanked her for her explanation and told her I was unwilling to do a blood draw today. At that, my parents, who were stood behind me as we had this conversation, jumped onto me. My mother knelt onto my feet, pinning me to the floor, and grabbed my face, forcing me to look at her. Her husband wrestled my arm down onto the doctors desk and held it down at my wrist and forearm.

Obviously the atmosphere in the room changed immediately. I was shrill, screaming and hysterical fighting to get them off of me but they were two grown, violent adults, and I was a thirteen year old girl. I was pinned and wasn't getting away, terrified. My step dad was coming in with measured rage, intentionally jabbing his fingers into the pressure points in my hand and wrist and slamming my arm down as pulled away, leaving bruises. My mum took on her "pity me" persona, pleading with the horrified phlebotomist to jab me now, while I was struggling and screaming, as if she was was doing her a favour by holding me still for her. I was screaming over her that I didn't consent, that I didn't want it. In the moment I felt violated, and was terrified that the doctor would draw my blood without my consent while I was restrained, but obviously the doctor didn't do it bc why the fuck would she?

Now I'm an adult I'm genuinely baffled they thought that shit would work. Like they planned ahead and really thought they'd got me, that the rules about patient consent they learnt about last time would just fly out the window because what? They managed the difficult feat of physically overpowering a tween?

[iremember]

an update

it's been a long time. i won't ever delete this blog, because it serves as a record and because i may need to use it to process things as my life continues.

i finished my undergraduate degree, finally, and decided to go on to graduate school. i had ECT in 2018 and it transformed me. i still have nightmares on most nights and wake up screaming, but this is normal for me. 24 years on from the trauma, and i still map out exits, lock bathroom doors, and need benzodiazepines for any doctor's office trip. in september of 2022, one of the worst things imaginable happened--i had ovarian torsion, and because of ptsd that reacts violently to being put in medical settings i chalked the horrific pain up to ovulation, and avoided the emergency room for 3 days until i was bleeding into my abdomen and had a fever. once there, i was inconsolable. i was asked to do a swab for syphilis because they suspected pelvic inflammatory disease. at the age of 26, my mom had to hold me and explain to the ER physician everything. then after ct scans and ultrasounds, i was told they needed to do emergency surgery. the first thing i asked was if i needed a c*theter and when they said yes under anesthesia during surgery i blacked out and when i woke up the surgery was over and the first thing i asked all drugged up was if they removed it, before i gained any real consciousness. my right ovary and fallopian tube had both died and needed to be removed. i had 2 cysts on either ovary that were removed. in the weeks and months that followed, i developed an onset of OCD that crossed the line between obsession and delusion. i obsessed over getting cancer and being in a medical setting long term. i ingested nothing that i perceived to be carcinogenic. i woke my parents up at 3am sobbing. then in december '22, i had to taper off lithium because my kidney function was declining. panic ensued, my boyfriend almost broke up with me because i was in a state of near delusion almost every waking moment. i developed confession OCD, real-event OCD, and had to see a specialist. i became agitated. i felt like i was dying. i harmed myself (once, in a panic) for the first time in several years. i reminded the people around me, without trying, what ptsd looks like.

i bought a plane ticket with saved-up money to visit my boyfriend in his hometown of auckland, new zealand, so that i had something to look forward to and something to focus on. i poured everything into applying for graduate school. at the moment, july of 2023, i have fifteen acceptances.

in general, now, i feel like i'm the most intellectually and emotionally sound i've ever been in my life. i no longer experience that ptsd rage that i so deeply exhibited on this blog from time to time. i'll continue this blog, updating it to reflect where i am now in this lifelong process.

be well.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Sorry for radio silence, July was one hell of a fucking month.

Dad's new medication caused dizzy spells and resulted in him fainting, we had to take him to the ER to rule out other causes

Ma had a poorly timed knee spasm and fell in a tight spot, she didn't break anything but was in pain for a few days. We're going to the doctor about her mobility issues. Our house is not a good design for someone with mobility issues, so we're also in contact with a local social service to see what we can do to make the house more disability friendly.

Bella (our dog) was limping, so we took her to the vet. She's had some minor breed-related problems before involving her hips, but this seemed worse. Turns out she has canine arthritis. So she's on a pain med now, and we're waiting for her usual vet to get back from vacation to tell us what else we can do. We already have ramps and stairs for her to get to her favorite napping spots.

BROTHER'S GIRLFRIEND'S CAR WAS FUCKING STOLEN. they had a tracker in it, so they were able to find it the same day, but almost everything inside was stolen, including stuff for their 6 week old son, reusable Trader Joe bags (why??), and a stuffed animal with emotional significance (WHY??). Also apparently it smelled like drugs, so...

We're now having a guest stay for a few days (one of my ma's old friends from the Midwest), and then I have a doctor's appointment on Monday. So... tune in next week when I get diagnosed with ovarian cancer or some fucking shit

[contentment-of-cats]

Text from the WP: The Ambiguity of Remission

There is an art to living in a constant state of health ambiguity — something 18 million cancer survivors in the United States well know.

When award-winning feminist literary scholar Susan Gubar was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in 2008, she assumed it was a death sentence. Fifteen years later, thanks to experimental drugs, she’s still in remission. Gubar’s brutally honest book “Memoir of a Debulked Woman” gave voice to the complexities of living meaningfully despite the specter of mortality.

I recently interviewed Gubar, 78, via email about living with cancer. As a 57-year-old blood cancer patient myself whose mother and maternal grandfather died at 60 of blood cancer, the topic is personal.

The following was edited for length and clarity.

“The question mark of remission can feel like a sword of Damocles. When will the cancer return? How long have I got?” Gubar says.

Q: You write: “Remission, I could tell you, would always have an invisible question mark after it. … Remission brings a heightened sense of contingency, of being healthy-but-only-for-a-while, and therefore the anticipation of waiting for the other shoe to drop.” How do you live with that “question mark”? How do you find joy when wellness is precarious?

A: The question mark of remission can feel like a sword of Damocles. When will the cancer return? How long have I got? And those fearful imponderables spawn others. Will there be an available treatment that I can endure? Can I bear to go through the life-in-death of being a patient again?

But if the remission lengthens, the question mark generates an exclamation mark. I have survived 15 years after a diagnosis that gave me three to five years! I received an experimental drug in a Phase I clinical study that many could not tolerate, and it worked for nine of those years! For the last two years, I have been on a drug holiday — because long-term use of the medication can cause leukemia — and I’m still here!

When the question mark of remission produces an exclamation mark, the exultation has everything to do with astonished gratitude for the bonus of unanticipated time … in which I have seen my children marry, welcomed grandchildren into the world and fussed over my beloved husband.

What more can one ask for?! There’s still a question mark, but there’s also a thrilling exclamation. With the passage of years, terror shrinks while thankfulness swells.

Q: “Watch and wait” is the medical stage when cancer is being observed but not treated. Seasoned patients know it as “watch and worry.” How do you live fully despite anxiety?

A: No one wants to be counted among “the worried well.” Yet it is impossible not to fret at aches and pains that might portend a recurrence. It is also impossible not to suffer from “scanxiety” as scans, tests or biopsies loom. I search for distractions: trying out a new recipe, watching a movie. A good book can provide a voyage away from myself into another realm.

Unfortunately, it fails to transport me on the day one of my daughters, who inherited the BRCA mutation [which heightens the risk for several cancers, particularly breast and ovarian cancers], goes into the hospital for a scan. She is among the previvors: survivors of a predisposition to cancer. I have resigned myself to the fact that the day of her testing will be given over to fright.

Q: Most people run from conversations about death. In what ways has facing death brought you clarity or comfort?

A: Like Buddhists and hospice workers and activists for medical aid in dying care, I believe that anticipating and preparing for one’s own death paradoxically leavens morbid perseverating, especially when it puts us in touch with networks of people also contemplating their proximity to the cusp of existence. Which is why I continue to attend twice-monthly meetings of my cancer support group. I have had to say goodbye to a succession of friends in the group. Our conversations help me find the praise songs, eulogies and elegies that many of us will want to accompany our dying.

With the time remaining to me — and neither the well nor the ill know how much time they will get — I do not fret about things I have left undone.

Like [Washington Post contributor] Steven Petrow, I seek joy. But, as many philosophers have pointed out, joy can be elusive. It is often a byproduct of activities related to some other goal: baking bread, making a quilt, writing a book. So, despite my physical impairments, I keep busy.

Q: Many patients find it difficult entering through hospital doors — over and over — for ongoing treatment and care. Your description in “Memoir of a Debulked Woman” hit home: “Upon arrival, the Shakespearean stage direction: ‘Enter, fleeing’ echoed like a refrain in my head.” What hacks do you use to endure hospital visits?

A: I hate entering the hospital in which I underwent so many ghastly operations, infusions, radiological interventions, CT scans and blood draws. I bring toys: an iPad (with podcasts and games on it), knitting (socks are especially portable).

Since all of my cancer history occurred in one place, I was lucky to make friends with some of the staff. Until recently, the pleasure of a gabfest with Alesha Arnold, my research nurse, offset the horror of the place; but Alesha died of lung cancer this year.

At my next visit, I will look for the plaque explaining that a fund has been established to honor her: It will sponsor an annual award for nurses who manifest her loving and meticulous caregiving. Then I will sit in the waiting room and remember how Alesha protected me from unnerving responses to my liminal situation.

Patients like me need from our companions what Alesha had: the courage not to sugarcoat our precarious conditions.

I learned from her how to pace myself to the syncopation of fear and hope that accompanies my passage in the perplexing terrain of remission, a borderland between wellness and sickness.