Dying of shame
PAT BURNS' PUBLIC ADMISSION MIGHT SPARK OTHERS TO GET TESTED, DOCTORS HOPE
Burns vowing to beat cancer
NEW JERSEY Devils coach Pat Burns stood before the world yesterday and said he was in the fight of his life against colon cancer. Burns is used to the spotlight, even in his most private moments, but many other people are literally dying of embarrassment.
"People are dying needlessly from colon cancer because they're too shy to get tested," said Dr. Andy Smith, a colorectal cancer surgeon at Sunnybrook & Women's hospital. "The disease is 95 to 100% curable if it's caught in its early stages."
Colorectal cancer kills 8,300 Canadian women and men a year, making it the country's second biggest cancer killer, next to lung cancer.
"Too often it is not diagnosed until the symptoms appear and by then the chances of survival are much lower," Smith said.
'REGULAR TEST'
"The best way to spot it early is with a colonoscopy. It needs to be a regular test for people over 45 or so, just like mammograms are routine tests for women."
With the test -- using a flexible fibreoptic tube to look at the inside of the large intestine -- doctors can spot pre-cancerous polyps and surgically remove them before they turn into tumours.
"People who have never had the test worry," Smith said. "Sometimes you hear things like 'I don't want somebody sticking things up my butt.' "
But the test is done under a general anesthetic and only takes a few minutes.
"After it's over, people are surprised because they barely noticed it was happening," he said.
LOW-FIBRE DIET
Colorectal cancer is caused by a combination of a high fat, low-fibre diet, genetics, and exposure to myriad cancer-causing chemicals, Smith said.
The tumours form on the soft pink tissue that runs from the inside of the mouth to the rectum. If the disease progresses too far, some or all of the colon may have to be removed. Chemotherapy is also used to battle the cancer.
Relatively few people get tested, Smith said, although numbers went up by 20% after Today Show host Katie Couric had a colonoscopy on the air in 2000.
"A lot of people simply don't want to talk about it. Colons, rectums, bowels -- it's not exactly the stuff of cocktail party conversation," said Couric, whose husband Jay Monahan died of the disease nine months after he was diagnosed in 1997.
Former Maple Leafs captain Darryl Sittler has been crusading for colon cancer awareness since he lost his wife Wendy to the disease in 2001.
Monday, April 19, 2004
Sunday, April 18, 2004
"It puts everything into perspective."
EAST RUTHERFORD, NJ -- New Jersey Devils coach Pat Burns has announced he has colon cancer and will begin treatment immediately.
Burns, 52, said his status with the team will be determined in six to eight weeks, when the treatment ends. He will undergo treatment five days a week beginning this week
Burns had missed two practices last week for undisclosed personal reasons.
"The last month or so I have not been feeling well," he said. "There were signs that something was not right but I was reluctant to do anything because the playoffs were coming up."
But Burns, a former policeman from Hull, Quebec, with a sullen personality and a self-proclaimed inability to smile, meshed well with the Devils.
Defenceman Scott Stevens described the reaction of his fellow players to Burns' illness as "shock and depression."
Burns and the Devils are fresh off a series pasting by the Philadelphia Flyers, who defeated New Jersey four games to one in their Eastern Conference quarterfinal series.
Burns stated that even if New Jersey advanced in the post-season, he could not have been behind the bench in the second round or beyond. Burns will begin treatment and his status will be evaluated after the summer.
"All my time and energy must be focused on this," Burns said. "I need my energy."
Burns knew of his health prior to the opening round versus Philadelphia.
The Devils hired Burns in June 2002 and last season won their third Stanley Cup since 1995.
Burns is the only coach to win the Jack Adams Trophy three times. He won the award for the league's best coach with Montreal in 1998-89, Toronto in 1992-93 and Boston in 1997-98.
"I like his chances and we're all going to be behind him" Devils star defenseman Scott Stevens said. "It puts everything into perspective."
Burns, 52, said his status with the team will be determined in six to eight weeks, when the treatment ends. He will undergo treatment five days a week beginning this week
Burns had missed two practices last week for undisclosed personal reasons.
"The last month or so I have not been feeling well," he said. "There were signs that something was not right but I was reluctant to do anything because the playoffs were coming up."
But Burns, a former policeman from Hull, Quebec, with a sullen personality and a self-proclaimed inability to smile, meshed well with the Devils.
Defenceman Scott Stevens described the reaction of his fellow players to Burns' illness as "shock and depression."
Burns and the Devils are fresh off a series pasting by the Philadelphia Flyers, who defeated New Jersey four games to one in their Eastern Conference quarterfinal series.
Burns stated that even if New Jersey advanced in the post-season, he could not have been behind the bench in the second round or beyond. Burns will begin treatment and his status will be evaluated after the summer.
"All my time and energy must be focused on this," Burns said. "I need my energy."
Burns knew of his health prior to the opening round versus Philadelphia.
The Devils hired Burns in June 2002 and last season won their third Stanley Cup since 1995.
Burns is the only coach to win the Jack Adams Trophy three times. He won the award for the league's best coach with Montreal in 1998-89, Toronto in 1992-93 and Boston in 1997-98.
"I like his chances and we're all going to be behind him" Devils star defenseman Scott Stevens said. "It puts everything into perspective."
Monday, March 08, 2004
"You have choices. I can choose to be a victim or I can choose to be a survivor. I've always chosen to be a survivor,"
'You never think it will happen to you'
B.C. politician Sindi Hawkins is fighting a very public battle against leukemia
http://www.globeandmail.ca/servlet/story/RTGAM.20040308.wuhawkins08/BNStory/Front/
Vancouver — There have been many dark moments for B.C. cabinet minister Sindi Hawkins since that bleak, emotional afternoon six weeks ago when she sat in the doctor's office, alone, and heard the results of her blood test.
The results were bad. "I burst out crying because I knew right away," recalled Ms. Hawkins, who worked as a nurse for years before entering politics.
"There was just me and the nurse. And she said those two words [maybe leukemia]. Right way, I was air ambulanced to Vancouver. The whole thing was surreal, like I was watching a movie. You never think it will happen to you."
But for Ms. Hawkins, a healthy, vibrant 45-year-old when she was diagnosed with potentially fatal acute myeloid leukemia, the worst moment came later, when the powerful chemotherapy treatment she underwent finally claimed her hair.
Ms. Hawkins kept her hair for enough time that she began to believe the doctors were wrong when they told her she was going to lose it. "But it can happen overnight. One day you've got hair, the next day you're rinsing it out in the shower."
"And it's coming out in clumps and handfuls, and I'm sitting in there crying."
One of Ms. Hawkins's sisters found her sobbing in the shower, sitting there with handfuls of hair. She called in a hairdresser who clipped off what was left. Soon, Ms. Hawkins was bald.
There was no more denial. "I looked in the mirror and I saw a cancer patient."
Ms. Hawkins talked about her courageous, heart-rending battle during a brief spell of "freedom" from hospital care, as she prepares for the next major step -- a bone-marrow transplant from younger sister, Seema.
So far, the personable Okanagan politician has been fortunate. Her condition was discovered early, she is relatively young and fit, and Seema turned out to be "a perfect match" for the painful transplant that could save her life.
She has also been buoyed by an outpouring of love and encouragement from her close-knit Indo-Canadian family, friends, colleagues and members of the public who have bombarded her with supportive cards and e-mails.
Not to mention home cooking.
Chemotherapy often changes sensations of the mouth, prompting a dangerous loss of appetite and weight. Ms. Hawkins was no exception. "They would bring in a tray of food and I just couldn't look at it."
Enter the cabinet minister's mother. Twice a day, she prepared the kind of food Ms. Hawkins had as a child -- beans, lentils, chick peas, roti, chicken, rice. She loved it.
"It's what I grew up on. When I moved out, I began more western-style eating. But when I got sick, I went back to mom's cooking."
Leukemia, a severe cancer of the blood, attacks a patient's healthy blood cells. Ms. Hawkins knew there was something wrong when an otherwise harmless scratch kept bleeding throughout the night, soaking her pillow and sheets.
When they heard the news, family members congregated here from across the country. Her father, a devout Sikh, prayed at her bedside.
Ms. Hawkins's sisters compiled a Top 10 list of reasons they love her. No. 3, which refers to the money raised for cancer treatment by an annual golf tournament Ms. Hawkins sponsored, is: "Only you would help raise $200,000 for cancer care and then spend it on yourself."
The impact on her family has been tough to watch, the Minister of State for Intergovernmental Relations admitted. "They're trying to help me, but I know they're hurting. Emotionally, that is very hard for me."
Ms. Hawkins has been talking candidly about her condition in hopes of focusing attention on the need for more Canadians, particularly British Columbians, to donate blood and to encourage Asian-Canadians to register as potential bone-marrow donors.
Only 15 per cent of Canadians on the bone-marrow list are non-Caucasian, she said. If one of her five siblings had not been a match (and it was far from a given), Ms. Hawkins might have been in trouble because of her Indian genes.
"They would have had to start looking around North America, Europe and then India. But we don't even know if they have a registry there. That scared me."
As for blood donations, Ms. Hawkins noted that per capita donations in B.C. lag far behind those in other provinces. And in the summertime, when the living is easy, 30 to 40 per cent of potential donors cancel their appointments.
"Yeah, it's an inconvenience, but surely, we can think of our fellow human beings and roll up our sleeves and save a life. . . . Every time I get blood hung on me, I look up and think somebody was so unselfish to take time out of their day to do that."
Ms. Hawkins is no stranger to adversity. Four years ago, she went through a painful divorce and last summer she was twice driven from her Kelowna home by the devastating forest fire that eventually claimed more than 200 residences in the city. "There were days when I thought my place was going to be gone and I would be left with nothing."
But her father, who, along with his pregnant wife and four children, came from India to a small Saskatchewan town 40 years ago, taught her the value of fighting life's challenges.
"You have choices. I can choose to be a victim or I can choose to be a survivor. I've always chosen to be a survivor," Ms. Hawkins said.
B.C. politician Sindi Hawkins is fighting a very public battle against leukemia
http://www.globeandmail.ca/servlet/story/RTGAM.20040308.wuhawkins08/BNStory/Front/
Vancouver — There have been many dark moments for B.C. cabinet minister Sindi Hawkins since that bleak, emotional afternoon six weeks ago when she sat in the doctor's office, alone, and heard the results of her blood test.
The results were bad. "I burst out crying because I knew right away," recalled Ms. Hawkins, who worked as a nurse for years before entering politics.
"There was just me and the nurse. And she said those two words [maybe leukemia]. Right way, I was air ambulanced to Vancouver. The whole thing was surreal, like I was watching a movie. You never think it will happen to you."
But for Ms. Hawkins, a healthy, vibrant 45-year-old when she was diagnosed with potentially fatal acute myeloid leukemia, the worst moment came later, when the powerful chemotherapy treatment she underwent finally claimed her hair.
Ms. Hawkins kept her hair for enough time that she began to believe the doctors were wrong when they told her she was going to lose it. "But it can happen overnight. One day you've got hair, the next day you're rinsing it out in the shower."
"And it's coming out in clumps and handfuls, and I'm sitting in there crying."
One of Ms. Hawkins's sisters found her sobbing in the shower, sitting there with handfuls of hair. She called in a hairdresser who clipped off what was left. Soon, Ms. Hawkins was bald.
There was no more denial. "I looked in the mirror and I saw a cancer patient."
Ms. Hawkins talked about her courageous, heart-rending battle during a brief spell of "freedom" from hospital care, as she prepares for the next major step -- a bone-marrow transplant from younger sister, Seema.
So far, the personable Okanagan politician has been fortunate. Her condition was discovered early, she is relatively young and fit, and Seema turned out to be "a perfect match" for the painful transplant that could save her life.
She has also been buoyed by an outpouring of love and encouragement from her close-knit Indo-Canadian family, friends, colleagues and members of the public who have bombarded her with supportive cards and e-mails.
Not to mention home cooking.
Chemotherapy often changes sensations of the mouth, prompting a dangerous loss of appetite and weight. Ms. Hawkins was no exception. "They would bring in a tray of food and I just couldn't look at it."
Enter the cabinet minister's mother. Twice a day, she prepared the kind of food Ms. Hawkins had as a child -- beans, lentils, chick peas, roti, chicken, rice. She loved it.
"It's what I grew up on. When I moved out, I began more western-style eating. But when I got sick, I went back to mom's cooking."
Leukemia, a severe cancer of the blood, attacks a patient's healthy blood cells. Ms. Hawkins knew there was something wrong when an otherwise harmless scratch kept bleeding throughout the night, soaking her pillow and sheets.
When they heard the news, family members congregated here from across the country. Her father, a devout Sikh, prayed at her bedside.
Ms. Hawkins's sisters compiled a Top 10 list of reasons they love her. No. 3, which refers to the money raised for cancer treatment by an annual golf tournament Ms. Hawkins sponsored, is: "Only you would help raise $200,000 for cancer care and then spend it on yourself."
The impact on her family has been tough to watch, the Minister of State for Intergovernmental Relations admitted. "They're trying to help me, but I know they're hurting. Emotionally, that is very hard for me."
Ms. Hawkins has been talking candidly about her condition in hopes of focusing attention on the need for more Canadians, particularly British Columbians, to donate blood and to encourage Asian-Canadians to register as potential bone-marrow donors.
Only 15 per cent of Canadians on the bone-marrow list are non-Caucasian, she said. If one of her five siblings had not been a match (and it was far from a given), Ms. Hawkins might have been in trouble because of her Indian genes.
"They would have had to start looking around North America, Europe and then India. But we don't even know if they have a registry there. That scared me."
As for blood donations, Ms. Hawkins noted that per capita donations in B.C. lag far behind those in other provinces. And in the summertime, when the living is easy, 30 to 40 per cent of potential donors cancel their appointments.
"Yeah, it's an inconvenience, but surely, we can think of our fellow human beings and roll up our sleeves and save a life. . . . Every time I get blood hung on me, I look up and think somebody was so unselfish to take time out of their day to do that."
Ms. Hawkins is no stranger to adversity. Four years ago, she went through a painful divorce and last summer she was twice driven from her Kelowna home by the devastating forest fire that eventually claimed more than 200 residences in the city. "There were days when I thought my place was going to be gone and I would be left with nothing."
But her father, who, along with his pregnant wife and four children, came from India to a small Saskatchewan town 40 years ago, taught her the value of fighting life's challenges.
"You have choices. I can choose to be a victim or I can choose to be a survivor. I've always chosen to be a survivor," Ms. Hawkins said.
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Top cancer expert, 91: 'I'll go to jail for science' [
if you have battled cancer ,then you see the cruel sadistic absurdity of big brother socialism in UK and canada that prevents saving your life.
Bet the beaurocrats creating these stalinist restrictions take of themselves,they will go to US or wherever they can get treated.
Top cancer expert, 91: 'I'll go to jail for science' [The Times Higher Education Supplement ^ | 27 February
One of the world's leading cancer researchers, 91-year-old Sir Richard Doll, has said he would be willing to go to prison for breaking one of the many new laws that academics believe are stifling clinical medical research.
Sir Richard, who was the first scientist to show a link between lung cancer and smoking, told a crisis meeting of clinical academics at Oxford University last Friday that something dramatic had to be done to alert the public to the serious constraints being placed on researchers working with patients.
He told The Times Higher: "I would without doubt be willing to break the law. People need to see how absurd these regulations are in preventing important clinical research."
At the meeting, researchers agreed that new layers of bureaucracy, such as the European Union clinical trials directive and the Data Protection Act, were seriously impeding research involving trials of new medical treatments.
Sir Richard said he could not have done some of his most important work if the Data Protection Act, which prohibits scientists checking patient records without prior consent, had been in place.
He said: "I couldn't have got hold of the thousands of records that I needed. (The act) is utterly destructive."
Charles Warlow, a clinical neuroscientist from Edinburgh University who delivered the main lecture at the meeting, warned that the "hyper-regulation" of clinical research would drive researchers out of the UK.
Professor Warlow said that researchers are very agitated.
Cancer Research UK confirmed this week that 44 new regulations governing clinical research had been introduced since 1995, many of them driven by EU policy.
Researchers are now keen to fight the new Human Tissues Bill, which has reached committee stage in Parliament. It states that researchers cannot use human tissue samples, including blood and urine samples, without prior consent.
http://www.thes.co.uk/current_edition/story.aspx?story_id=2010956
Bet the beaurocrats creating these stalinist restrictions take of themselves,they will go to US or wherever they can get treated.
Top cancer expert, 91: 'I'll go to jail for science' [The Times Higher Education Supplement ^ | 27 February
One of the world's leading cancer researchers, 91-year-old Sir Richard Doll, has said he would be willing to go to prison for breaking one of the many new laws that academics believe are stifling clinical medical research.
Sir Richard, who was the first scientist to show a link between lung cancer and smoking, told a crisis meeting of clinical academics at Oxford University last Friday that something dramatic had to be done to alert the public to the serious constraints being placed on researchers working with patients.
He told The Times Higher: "I would without doubt be willing to break the law. People need to see how absurd these regulations are in preventing important clinical research."
At the meeting, researchers agreed that new layers of bureaucracy, such as the European Union clinical trials directive and the Data Protection Act, were seriously impeding research involving trials of new medical treatments.
Sir Richard said he could not have done some of his most important work if the Data Protection Act, which prohibits scientists checking patient records without prior consent, had been in place.
He said: "I couldn't have got hold of the thousands of records that I needed. (The act) is utterly destructive."
Charles Warlow, a clinical neuroscientist from Edinburgh University who delivered the main lecture at the meeting, warned that the "hyper-regulation" of clinical research would drive researchers out of the UK.
Professor Warlow said that researchers are very agitated.
Cancer Research UK confirmed this week that 44 new regulations governing clinical research had been introduced since 1995, many of them driven by EU policy.
Researchers are now keen to fight the new Human Tissues Bill, which has reached committee stage in Parliament. It states that researchers cannot use human tissue samples, including blood and urine samples, without prior consent.
http://www.thes.co.uk/current_edition/story.aspx?story_id=2010956
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
A Poker Player's Guide to Beating Cancer
Poker Player's Guide to Beating Cancer
http://msnbc.msn.com/id/3919592/
My Turn: A Poker Player's Guide To Beating Cancer
When I got sick, it was what I learned from the game that sustained me: it takes faith to trust the odds
Some people find God when faced with serious illness. Nick Kurzon found poker
Jan. 19 issue - As a poker player, I've gotten familiar with the fluctuations of luck and the endurance of probability. That's why I like the game. I'm trying to make sense of those rival twins—luck and probability—because they are why I'm still alive, and they are why I nearly died. I got into poker after I got cancer.
advertisement
I've heard that some people who get cancer find religion. As much as I would have liked it if that had happened to me, I never found religion when I got sick with lymphoma two years ago. That's not to say I didn't pray. When I had to get a diagnostic gallium scan of my body, lying perfectly still in a tube for three hours, not knowing what future the results would bring for me and my family, I discovered that I knew the Lord's Prayer. I repeated it over and over again, like a mantra, and it helped keep me from panicking. I prayed and I meditated and I offered a lot of deals to God if he'd get me through the woods. I found some comfort in God, but I didn't find religion.
Instead, I found poker.
The beautiful thing about poker is that one's fate is quantifiable. You can always measure your place in the universe by calculating the odds of any given hand. When you have a horrible run of luck, it is easy to measure just how horrible it is. The other day, in a big-pot-limit game, I lost a pile of chips when my full house got beaten by a Wall Street cowboy who drew to a bigger full house. It turns out there were four cards out of 44 remaining in the deck that could've helped my opponent. That's how bad my luck was: 10 to 1. I was better than a 90 percent favorite to win the hand.
Those odds tell me that I did the right thing to make a huge bet, and my opponent made a mistake to call it. The fact that he took my chips is beside the point. Poker, as they say, is played by the year, not the day. The aberrations will even out over time, and the odds will not forsake you.
As it happens, when I was diagnosed, the doctors said my odds of surviving for the next five years were also just over 90 percent. That's a bit scarier than sitting pretty with a second-nut full house. With the stakes this high, even 10 to 1 is unsettling. Either I will survive or I won't. I won't be "91 percent alive" in five years: it's all or nothing. For me, the word is "destiny," not "odds."
But that's not how oncology works. Science doesn't accept "destiny" as anything more than a metaphor, and it treats the fate of one patient as part of a pattern that can be observed and controlled in the aggregate. A doctor has to believe in the odds. And a patient has to believe in his doctor. That's not always easy to do. Oncologists, by design, are almost impossible to read.
They have to be. At the card table it's called a "poker face," but for an oncologist, keeping emotion out of the equation is a matter of life and death. At first it drove me crazy. I couldn't figure out where my doctor was coming from. He told me what I had to do to survive and he told me that I should fare well, but he didn't show any trace of emotion. Fighting cancer was the most emotional experience of my life, but he was all business. Now I know why.
Poker players use the term "going on tilt" to describe the irrational play that usually follows an improbable loss. A "bad beat"—being victimized by standard deviation—can lead even the coolest shark to start playing wildly. When I lost all my chips on that 10-to-1 shot, I felt the blood rush to my head, so I got up and left the table. But an oncologist can't leave, and he certainly can't allow himself to go on tilt. He has to treat each patient by the book, even if that sometimes leads to tragic results.
And after one of those tragedies, he has to get right back to work, without showing any signs of frustration or apprehension—what poker players would call his "tells." It is crucial that his next patient have absolute confidence in his advice.
Nowadays, I am grateful when I see my doctor putting on his poker face to tell me that the latest gallium-scan results look good. Even though I want him to celebrate with me, I know that that's not what makes for long-term success. After my one-year checkup, almost giddy with joy, I said to my doctor, "So you mean the cancer's gone?" He nonchalantly replied, "Well, what did you expect?" What matters most for my doctor is not what he wants to happen, but what he expects will happen over the long term and how he takes advantage of that to get what he wants.
Because most of all, working with the odds requires a lot of faith. Enough faith to know that even if your full house gets beaten by a long shot, it's right to play the hand the same way next time. And nine times out of 10, things will work out great. As I get better at poker, I am discovering such faith, and it reassures me and offers a sense of control over a sometimes capricious universe. Poker helps me realize how predictable it is to be as lucky as I am.
Kurzon is a documentary filmmaker.
http://msnbc.msn.com/id/3919592/
My Turn: A Poker Player's Guide To Beating Cancer
When I got sick, it was what I learned from the game that sustained me: it takes faith to trust the odds
Some people find God when faced with serious illness. Nick Kurzon found poker
Jan. 19 issue - As a poker player, I've gotten familiar with the fluctuations of luck and the endurance of probability. That's why I like the game. I'm trying to make sense of those rival twins—luck and probability—because they are why I'm still alive, and they are why I nearly died. I got into poker after I got cancer.
advertisement
I've heard that some people who get cancer find religion. As much as I would have liked it if that had happened to me, I never found religion when I got sick with lymphoma two years ago. That's not to say I didn't pray. When I had to get a diagnostic gallium scan of my body, lying perfectly still in a tube for three hours, not knowing what future the results would bring for me and my family, I discovered that I knew the Lord's Prayer. I repeated it over and over again, like a mantra, and it helped keep me from panicking. I prayed and I meditated and I offered a lot of deals to God if he'd get me through the woods. I found some comfort in God, but I didn't find religion.
Instead, I found poker.
The beautiful thing about poker is that one's fate is quantifiable. You can always measure your place in the universe by calculating the odds of any given hand. When you have a horrible run of luck, it is easy to measure just how horrible it is. The other day, in a big-pot-limit game, I lost a pile of chips when my full house got beaten by a Wall Street cowboy who drew to a bigger full house. It turns out there were four cards out of 44 remaining in the deck that could've helped my opponent. That's how bad my luck was: 10 to 1. I was better than a 90 percent favorite to win the hand.
Those odds tell me that I did the right thing to make a huge bet, and my opponent made a mistake to call it. The fact that he took my chips is beside the point. Poker, as they say, is played by the year, not the day. The aberrations will even out over time, and the odds will not forsake you.
As it happens, when I was diagnosed, the doctors said my odds of surviving for the next five years were also just over 90 percent. That's a bit scarier than sitting pretty with a second-nut full house. With the stakes this high, even 10 to 1 is unsettling. Either I will survive or I won't. I won't be "91 percent alive" in five years: it's all or nothing. For me, the word is "destiny," not "odds."
But that's not how oncology works. Science doesn't accept "destiny" as anything more than a metaphor, and it treats the fate of one patient as part of a pattern that can be observed and controlled in the aggregate. A doctor has to believe in the odds. And a patient has to believe in his doctor. That's not always easy to do. Oncologists, by design, are almost impossible to read.
They have to be. At the card table it's called a "poker face," but for an oncologist, keeping emotion out of the equation is a matter of life and death. At first it drove me crazy. I couldn't figure out where my doctor was coming from. He told me what I had to do to survive and he told me that I should fare well, but he didn't show any trace of emotion. Fighting cancer was the most emotional experience of my life, but he was all business. Now I know why.
Poker players use the term "going on tilt" to describe the irrational play that usually follows an improbable loss. A "bad beat"—being victimized by standard deviation—can lead even the coolest shark to start playing wildly. When I lost all my chips on that 10-to-1 shot, I felt the blood rush to my head, so I got up and left the table. But an oncologist can't leave, and he certainly can't allow himself to go on tilt. He has to treat each patient by the book, even if that sometimes leads to tragic results.
And after one of those tragedies, he has to get right back to work, without showing any signs of frustration or apprehension—what poker players would call his "tells." It is crucial that his next patient have absolute confidence in his advice.
Nowadays, I am grateful when I see my doctor putting on his poker face to tell me that the latest gallium-scan results look good. Even though I want him to celebrate with me, I know that that's not what makes for long-term success. After my one-year checkup, almost giddy with joy, I said to my doctor, "So you mean the cancer's gone?" He nonchalantly replied, "Well, what did you expect?" What matters most for my doctor is not what he wants to happen, but what he expects will happen over the long term and how he takes advantage of that to get what he wants.
Because most of all, working with the odds requires a lot of faith. Enough faith to know that even if your full house gets beaten by a long shot, it's right to play the hand the same way next time. And nine times out of 10, things will work out great. As I get better at poker, I am discovering such faith, and it reassures me and offers a sense of control over a sometimes capricious universe. Poker helps me realize how predictable it is to be as lucky as I am.
Kurzon is a documentary filmmaker.
Monday, January 26, 2004
risk is actually greater than family history for smokers for both polyps and cancer
An article in the December issue of The American Journal of Gastroenterology describes research done during screening colonoscopy to identify increased risk for smokers for both polyps and cancer. The risk is actually greater than family history.
You can find a link to the abstract on http://cnews.blogspot.com/ American College of Gastroenterology -- December, 2003
A study of nearly 2000 patients undergoing screening colonoscopy has identified smoking as a signficant risk for colorectal cancer and polyps. The risk for current smokers -- those who are still smoking or who have quit within the past ten years -- is greater than the risk of having a family history of the disease.
Researchers found a higher incidences of all types of adenomas as well as cancers. The cancers were primarily on the left side of the colon.
Joseph Anderson MD and his colleagues at Stony Brook University, New York, published the results of their study in The American Journal of Gastroenterology Volume 98, Issue 12 , December 2003, Pages 2777-2783
You can find a link to the abstract on http://cnews.blogspot.com/ American College of Gastroenterology -- December, 2003
A study of nearly 2000 patients undergoing screening colonoscopy has identified smoking as a signficant risk for colorectal cancer and polyps. The risk for current smokers -- those who are still smoking or who have quit within the past ten years -- is greater than the risk of having a family history of the disease.
Researchers found a higher incidences of all types of adenomas as well as cancers. The cancers were primarily on the left side of the colon.
Joseph Anderson MD and his colleagues at Stony Brook University, New York, published the results of their study in The American Journal of Gastroenterology Volume 98, Issue 12 , December 2003, Pages 2777-2783
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
former hocky star Cam Neely is a real cancer hero!!!
WHO NEEDS HOCKEY TO BE A HERO?
Forced to retire in his prime because his body could take no more, scoring ace Cam Neely turned his back on hockey. He had an even more important mission -- to save lives -- and his fans,
SHAWN McCARTHY reports from Boston, were only too eager to help
Steven and Erin McDonnell were leaving the country. He had quit his job and they had sold their home near Boston to head north to Nova Scotia. The plan was to go into the seafood business.
Then came the dreadful news: Isabel, their 11-month-old daughter, had leukemia.
The couple feared for their baby's life. "We thought that was the end of the story," Mr. McDonnell recalls.
It wasn't. Within weeks, Isabel's leukemia began to move into remission. But she would require a year of chemotherapy, spending up to six months of it in hospital. Meanwhile, her parents faced uncertain medical bills and had nowhere to stay.
They thought about renting an apartment, but in the overheated Boston market, landlords were demanding first and last months' rent and security deposits; on top of that, you needed to pay a broker just to find a suitable place.
Then came something Mr. McDonnell describes as a godsend: admission to the Neely House, where, for just $10 a night, they had a room in a renovated wing of the Tufts-New England Medical Center while their daughter underwent treatment at the adjacent Floating Hospital for Children.
Today, blond-haired, blue-eyed Isabel is 5, and quite literally a poster child for the residence, which has offered shelter to more than 2,000 cancer patients and their families since it opened in 1997. It was home to the McDonnells for 11 months as Isabel underwent the treatment that drove her illness into total remission. If she remains cancer-free until next September, doctors will consider her "cured."
While Isabel was in hospital, one parent would stay in the room with her and the other would sleep at the Neely House. Later, when she was being treated as an outpatient, the whole family lived in the self-contained, bed-and-breakfast-type unit, one of 16 with access to a common living room and kitchen.
"You don't realize how amazing the place is until you have experienced it," Mr. McDonnell says. "You can't even imagine how appreciative you are to have just the little things there for you, like laundry and not having to commute when you are going through something like that.''
The man responsible for all this knows just how Isabel's father feels. In fact, Cam Neely has been through "something like that" twice. He has lost both of his parents to cancer.
On Monday night, before an expected crowd of 17,000 adoring fans at the FleetCenter, the Boston Bruins will honour their former scoring ace by retiring his number.
A four-time all-star who epitomized the term "power forward," Mr. Neely was a forceful checker who also led his team in goals for seven seasons and remains its all-time leading goal scorer in the playoffs. Seven years after a degenerative hip injury ended his playing career prematurely, he will watch as his No. 8 is raised to the rafters alongside the numbers of such other Bruins greats as Eddie Shore, Bobby Orr, Phil Esposito, Johnny Bucyk and Mr. Neely's long-time teammate, Ray Bourque.
This week, a quieter but no less emotional ceremony was held at Tufts-New England Medical Center to pay tribute to his hockey prowess and to some equally impressive off-ice accomplishments.
In the past 10 years, the Cam Neely Foundation has raised $10-million (U.S.) to provide more humane care for cancer patients and their families immersed in a medical bureaucracy that tends to forget patients are people. Like the McDonnell family, many of those who gathered on Tuesday night have been touched directly by the foundation: as guests at the Neely House; as patients who are receiving swifter access to experimental treatments through the hospital's Neely Center for Clinical Cancer Research, or as doctors who will be able to offer patients more comfort and better care as a result of foundation-sponsored renos.
Dr. Thomas O'Donnell, chief executive officer of Tufts-New England Medical Center, presented Mr. Neely with a set of hospital scrubs, emblazoned with his name, the Bruins insignia and the soon-to-be-retired number. "You have taken the same qualities that made you a great hockey player," he said, "and you directed that energy towards the battle against cancer.''
Mr. Neely credits his mother, Marlene, and father, Michael, with instilling those qualities in him as a youngster: a fierce desire to achieve and the dedication and perseverance needed to translate desire into reality. And when cancer claimed them both, he turned their inspiration and his own enormous drive to another goal: providing more humane care for cancer patients and their families.
In practical terms, his hockey greatness made it all possible. A huge favourite with fans for his aggressive style and willingness to play hurt, he has traded on that popularity and his continued celebrity status to raise money with golf tournaments, comedy shows, Monte Carlo nights and direct appeals.
But in an interview in his sparsely furnished office a few blocks from the sprawling Boston medical complex, he quickly makes it clear that, while the foundation bears his name, it's a family endeavour. Brother Scott has been the executive director since it was established 10 years ago, sisters Shaun and Christine are consulted on major decisions, and their work is an ongoing tribute to their parents.
When Marlene died of colon cancer at 47 in 1987, Cam Neely was 22 and in his second season with the Bruins. (Born in Comox, B.C., he had begun his pro career with the Vancouver Canucks in 1983.) His father contracted brain cancer around the same time, passing away in November, 1993, at the age of 56. He died while visiting Boston, where his son was back in the lineup after being plagued by injuries for two seasons.
Mr. Neely missed three games and then returned to resume a torrid scoring steak that saw him collect 50 goals in 44 games, a pace bettered only by Wayne Gretzky. That year, he was awarded the NHL's Bill Masterton Trophy for "perseverance, sportsmanship and dedication to hockey."
But the experience of watching his parents die left an indelible impression. Mr. Neely not only had to fit his visits to Vancouver into a gruelling hockey schedule but felt the doctors had treated him and his siblings as little more than bystanders. "I really felt that the family was kind of left out," he recalls.
By then he was already active on Boston's charity scene. A regular, though unheralded, visitor to the cancer wards at the Floating Hospital for Children, he had met parents who had stayed at the Ronald McDonald House, the Golden Arches-backed facility for out-of-town parents with children in hospital.
With their sisters' support, he and Scott decided to start a foundation to help people cope with the often dehumanizing grind of cancer treatment. "Our goal was to be completely patient-focused and family-focused," he says.
Scott Neely, whose own hockey career was marred by injury when he was still in junior, had dabbled in business, organizing golf tournaments first in Vancouver and then in Boston. He offered to run the foundation while his brother concentrated on hockey (he had yet to retire) and other business interests.
In consultation with Dr. O'Donnell and Dr. David Schenkein, then head of hematology/oncology at NEMC, they agreed to build a hotel-like facility in the hospital itself where outpatients could stay or their families, if they had been admitted.
The brothers raised $2-million (all figures U.S.) for construction and have since provided the home with a $3.5-million endowment to pay operating costs.
Neely House manager Patricia Rowe said the residence is not only convenient and comfortable for patients and families, it is also "a healing place.''
A former intensive-care nurse and the mother of five grown children, Ms. Rowe has her own apartment on-site and provides round-the-clock supervision and more counselling than she admits to.
"My nurse's ear is listening all the time," she said as she conducted a tour of the facilities.
She contends that the presence of the Neely House actually helps patients in their battle with the cancer. "It can be very healing for the patient just to have the family nearby and looked after, knowing, [for example] that a wife won't have to schlep around an unfamiliar city.''
One woman, she said, was called to her frantic husband's beside at 2:30 a.m., navigating the hospital corridors still clad in her nightgown and robe.
One of her more delicate tasks is stick-handling the bookings when someone is scheduled to arrive but the family currently in the room has had a loved one take a sudden turn for the worse and needs to stay. At such times, she has to rely on all her skills as a critical-care nurse who has had long experience dealing with anxious and grieving family members.
By mid-2000, with the facility completed and endowed, the Neelys had to decide whether to stay in charity business.
"We figured we had momentum and it would be a shame to lose that," Scott Neely explains. When they asked for another challenge, the hospital pitched a renovation of its clinical-research centre, a task the Neelys took on determined to improve the comfort level of patients undergoing experimental treatment and reduce the time needed to have such treatments approved.
The resulting Neely Center for Clinical Cancer Research is the smallest of the foundation's projects, costing only $250,000. But by consolidating the clinical-trial team and bringing in state-of-the-art data equipment, NEMC won the right to work with the National Cancer Institute in an innovative program to reduce waiting times for experimental treatments.
Dr. Jack Erban, the current head of hematology/oncology, says the program is already providing patients with quicker access to innovative drugs without jeopardizing safety. One leukemia patient received an experimental treatment within 24 hours of having it prescribed, rather than waiting the usual six weeks.
The research facility, Dr. Erban says, is a classic example of the Neely approach. "They want concrete results -- if they take on a project, they want the donors to see a result within a year. And they are patients' advocates. They are always looking at the aspect of how does this help people negotiate the medical process better?"
An even more ambitious project is the $2-million rebuilding of the hospital's stem-cell and bone-marrow collection and transplantation centre. Cam Neely said the foundation agreed to finance it after seeing the cramped and dismal space where donors and recipients were forced to spend hours waiting. "It was a depressing, archaic kind of space where people sat in the waiting room with no windows and could see people in beds undergoing procedures."
This week, the brothers toured the new space, due to be finished in mid-February, quickly putting to rest any doubts that they just hand over cheques. The newly roughed-in waiting area did not meet with their approval. As Dr. Erban explained the benefits of the new facility to the guest, Cam and Scott began discussing whether the waiting room wall, which abutted a supervisor's office, couldn't be moved to give patients more space.
"When you look at the waiting room, it's a little smaller than I had pictured," Scott Neely told Dr. Erban. "You don't want people crammed in here."
"What about the families?" his brother asked. "I'm worried about where the family members will wait."
They were assured their concerns will be taken up with the construction supervisor.
With the transplant centre nearing completion, the foundation has launched a new project and, for the first time, the Neelys are focusing on pediatrics.
When they launched the foundation 10 years ago, they approached cancer care thinking about patients' parents. Since then, both have become parents themselves and changed their thinking.
The opportunity arose when the foundation participated in a CIBC World Markets charity event in which trading commissions are donated to children's charities.
The Neelys asked Dr. Larry Wolfe, medical director of the Floating Hospital for Children, for a "wish list," and wound up agreeing to finance the $2-million renovation of the pediatric ward. Rooms will be brightened up and space created for daybed to be used by parents wanting to spend the night with a frightened child.
For Cam Neely, returning to the FleetCenter surrounded by family and friends on Monday night will be a bittersweet moment.
Forced to retire at 31, he stayed away from the game he had loved so much. But lately, as his contemporaries have retired as well, he has come back. Last year, he joined fellow former Bruins Barry Pedersen and Rick Middleton as broadcast commentators.
What sustained him in the difficult years, he says, was the work of foundation and the birth of his two children. So the coincidental timing of the ceremony honouring his hockey career and the formal announcement of the Floating Hospital project couldn't be more fitting.
Shawn McCarthy is The Globe and Mail's
http://www.theglobeandmail.com
Forced to retire in his prime because his body could take no more, scoring ace Cam Neely turned his back on hockey. He had an even more important mission -- to save lives -- and his fans,
SHAWN McCARTHY reports from Boston, were only too eager to help
Steven and Erin McDonnell were leaving the country. He had quit his job and they had sold their home near Boston to head north to Nova Scotia. The plan was to go into the seafood business.
Then came the dreadful news: Isabel, their 11-month-old daughter, had leukemia.
The couple feared for their baby's life. "We thought that was the end of the story," Mr. McDonnell recalls.
It wasn't. Within weeks, Isabel's leukemia began to move into remission. But she would require a year of chemotherapy, spending up to six months of it in hospital. Meanwhile, her parents faced uncertain medical bills and had nowhere to stay.
They thought about renting an apartment, but in the overheated Boston market, landlords were demanding first and last months' rent and security deposits; on top of that, you needed to pay a broker just to find a suitable place.
Then came something Mr. McDonnell describes as a godsend: admission to the Neely House, where, for just $10 a night, they had a room in a renovated wing of the Tufts-New England Medical Center while their daughter underwent treatment at the adjacent Floating Hospital for Children.
Today, blond-haired, blue-eyed Isabel is 5, and quite literally a poster child for the residence, which has offered shelter to more than 2,000 cancer patients and their families since it opened in 1997. It was home to the McDonnells for 11 months as Isabel underwent the treatment that drove her illness into total remission. If she remains cancer-free until next September, doctors will consider her "cured."
While Isabel was in hospital, one parent would stay in the room with her and the other would sleep at the Neely House. Later, when she was being treated as an outpatient, the whole family lived in the self-contained, bed-and-breakfast-type unit, one of 16 with access to a common living room and kitchen.
"You don't realize how amazing the place is until you have experienced it," Mr. McDonnell says. "You can't even imagine how appreciative you are to have just the little things there for you, like laundry and not having to commute when you are going through something like that.''
The man responsible for all this knows just how Isabel's father feels. In fact, Cam Neely has been through "something like that" twice. He has lost both of his parents to cancer.
On Monday night, before an expected crowd of 17,000 adoring fans at the FleetCenter, the Boston Bruins will honour their former scoring ace by retiring his number.
A four-time all-star who epitomized the term "power forward," Mr. Neely was a forceful checker who also led his team in goals for seven seasons and remains its all-time leading goal scorer in the playoffs. Seven years after a degenerative hip injury ended his playing career prematurely, he will watch as his No. 8 is raised to the rafters alongside the numbers of such other Bruins greats as Eddie Shore, Bobby Orr, Phil Esposito, Johnny Bucyk and Mr. Neely's long-time teammate, Ray Bourque.
This week, a quieter but no less emotional ceremony was held at Tufts-New England Medical Center to pay tribute to his hockey prowess and to some equally impressive off-ice accomplishments.
In the past 10 years, the Cam Neely Foundation has raised $10-million (U.S.) to provide more humane care for cancer patients and their families immersed in a medical bureaucracy that tends to forget patients are people. Like the McDonnell family, many of those who gathered on Tuesday night have been touched directly by the foundation: as guests at the Neely House; as patients who are receiving swifter access to experimental treatments through the hospital's Neely Center for Clinical Cancer Research, or as doctors who will be able to offer patients more comfort and better care as a result of foundation-sponsored renos.
Dr. Thomas O'Donnell, chief executive officer of Tufts-New England Medical Center, presented Mr. Neely with a set of hospital scrubs, emblazoned with his name, the Bruins insignia and the soon-to-be-retired number. "You have taken the same qualities that made you a great hockey player," he said, "and you directed that energy towards the battle against cancer.''
Mr. Neely credits his mother, Marlene, and father, Michael, with instilling those qualities in him as a youngster: a fierce desire to achieve and the dedication and perseverance needed to translate desire into reality. And when cancer claimed them both, he turned their inspiration and his own enormous drive to another goal: providing more humane care for cancer patients and their families.
In practical terms, his hockey greatness made it all possible. A huge favourite with fans for his aggressive style and willingness to play hurt, he has traded on that popularity and his continued celebrity status to raise money with golf tournaments, comedy shows, Monte Carlo nights and direct appeals.
But in an interview in his sparsely furnished office a few blocks from the sprawling Boston medical complex, he quickly makes it clear that, while the foundation bears his name, it's a family endeavour. Brother Scott has been the executive director since it was established 10 years ago, sisters Shaun and Christine are consulted on major decisions, and their work is an ongoing tribute to their parents.
When Marlene died of colon cancer at 47 in 1987, Cam Neely was 22 and in his second season with the Bruins. (Born in Comox, B.C., he had begun his pro career with the Vancouver Canucks in 1983.) His father contracted brain cancer around the same time, passing away in November, 1993, at the age of 56. He died while visiting Boston, where his son was back in the lineup after being plagued by injuries for two seasons.
Mr. Neely missed three games and then returned to resume a torrid scoring steak that saw him collect 50 goals in 44 games, a pace bettered only by Wayne Gretzky. That year, he was awarded the NHL's Bill Masterton Trophy for "perseverance, sportsmanship and dedication to hockey."
But the experience of watching his parents die left an indelible impression. Mr. Neely not only had to fit his visits to Vancouver into a gruelling hockey schedule but felt the doctors had treated him and his siblings as little more than bystanders. "I really felt that the family was kind of left out," he recalls.
By then he was already active on Boston's charity scene. A regular, though unheralded, visitor to the cancer wards at the Floating Hospital for Children, he had met parents who had stayed at the Ronald McDonald House, the Golden Arches-backed facility for out-of-town parents with children in hospital.
With their sisters' support, he and Scott decided to start a foundation to help people cope with the often dehumanizing grind of cancer treatment. "Our goal was to be completely patient-focused and family-focused," he says.
Scott Neely, whose own hockey career was marred by injury when he was still in junior, had dabbled in business, organizing golf tournaments first in Vancouver and then in Boston. He offered to run the foundation while his brother concentrated on hockey (he had yet to retire) and other business interests.
In consultation with Dr. O'Donnell and Dr. David Schenkein, then head of hematology/oncology at NEMC, they agreed to build a hotel-like facility in the hospital itself where outpatients could stay or their families, if they had been admitted.
The brothers raised $2-million (all figures U.S.) for construction and have since provided the home with a $3.5-million endowment to pay operating costs.
Neely House manager Patricia Rowe said the residence is not only convenient and comfortable for patients and families, it is also "a healing place.''
A former intensive-care nurse and the mother of five grown children, Ms. Rowe has her own apartment on-site and provides round-the-clock supervision and more counselling than she admits to.
"My nurse's ear is listening all the time," she said as she conducted a tour of the facilities.
She contends that the presence of the Neely House actually helps patients in their battle with the cancer. "It can be very healing for the patient just to have the family nearby and looked after, knowing, [for example] that a wife won't have to schlep around an unfamiliar city.''
One woman, she said, was called to her frantic husband's beside at 2:30 a.m., navigating the hospital corridors still clad in her nightgown and robe.
One of her more delicate tasks is stick-handling the bookings when someone is scheduled to arrive but the family currently in the room has had a loved one take a sudden turn for the worse and needs to stay. At such times, she has to rely on all her skills as a critical-care nurse who has had long experience dealing with anxious and grieving family members.
By mid-2000, with the facility completed and endowed, the Neelys had to decide whether to stay in charity business.
"We figured we had momentum and it would be a shame to lose that," Scott Neely explains. When they asked for another challenge, the hospital pitched a renovation of its clinical-research centre, a task the Neelys took on determined to improve the comfort level of patients undergoing experimental treatment and reduce the time needed to have such treatments approved.
The resulting Neely Center for Clinical Cancer Research is the smallest of the foundation's projects, costing only $250,000. But by consolidating the clinical-trial team and bringing in state-of-the-art data equipment, NEMC won the right to work with the National Cancer Institute in an innovative program to reduce waiting times for experimental treatments.
Dr. Jack Erban, the current head of hematology/oncology, says the program is already providing patients with quicker access to innovative drugs without jeopardizing safety. One leukemia patient received an experimental treatment within 24 hours of having it prescribed, rather than waiting the usual six weeks.
The research facility, Dr. Erban says, is a classic example of the Neely approach. "They want concrete results -- if they take on a project, they want the donors to see a result within a year. And they are patients' advocates. They are always looking at the aspect of how does this help people negotiate the medical process better?"
An even more ambitious project is the $2-million rebuilding of the hospital's stem-cell and bone-marrow collection and transplantation centre. Cam Neely said the foundation agreed to finance it after seeing the cramped and dismal space where donors and recipients were forced to spend hours waiting. "It was a depressing, archaic kind of space where people sat in the waiting room with no windows and could see people in beds undergoing procedures."
This week, the brothers toured the new space, due to be finished in mid-February, quickly putting to rest any doubts that they just hand over cheques. The newly roughed-in waiting area did not meet with their approval. As Dr. Erban explained the benefits of the new facility to the guest, Cam and Scott began discussing whether the waiting room wall, which abutted a supervisor's office, couldn't be moved to give patients more space.
"When you look at the waiting room, it's a little smaller than I had pictured," Scott Neely told Dr. Erban. "You don't want people crammed in here."
"What about the families?" his brother asked. "I'm worried about where the family members will wait."
They were assured their concerns will be taken up with the construction supervisor.
With the transplant centre nearing completion, the foundation has launched a new project and, for the first time, the Neelys are focusing on pediatrics.
When they launched the foundation 10 years ago, they approached cancer care thinking about patients' parents. Since then, both have become parents themselves and changed their thinking.
The opportunity arose when the foundation participated in a CIBC World Markets charity event in which trading commissions are donated to children's charities.
The Neelys asked Dr. Larry Wolfe, medical director of the Floating Hospital for Children, for a "wish list," and wound up agreeing to finance the $2-million renovation of the pediatric ward. Rooms will be brightened up and space created for daybed to be used by parents wanting to spend the night with a frightened child.
For Cam Neely, returning to the FleetCenter surrounded by family and friends on Monday night will be a bittersweet moment.
Forced to retire at 31, he stayed away from the game he had loved so much. But lately, as his contemporaries have retired as well, he has come back. Last year, he joined fellow former Bruins Barry Pedersen and Rick Middleton as broadcast commentators.
What sustained him in the difficult years, he says, was the work of foundation and the birth of his two children. So the coincidental timing of the ceremony honouring his hockey career and the formal announcement of the Floating Hospital project couldn't be more fitting.
Shawn McCarthy is The Globe and Mail's
http://www.theglobeandmail.com