And Then There’s Luck!

The Author’s Face in the Crowd, Wearing the Fateful Progressive Eyeglasses

My late mother – bless her soul – used to brag to anyone who cared to listen about how lucky her two-year-old rambunctious little Celia was; and how many times she had saved the future drama queen from drowning in the shallow river that ran through our sleepy farming town. To this day I still blame her for crushing my Olympic swimming potentials. Unfortunately, she’ll never know in her eternal resting place how lucky I have gotten.  I found what I thought had been lost for good.  I finally got reunited with my pair of expensive progressive eyeglasses which I had already written off after two weeks of diligent searching.   First, a brief background….

In the evening of the day after Christmas of 2017, a big Ford sedan accidentally hit my left shoulder from behind as I crossed a major road that traverses the retirement resort where I live.  Three weeks later at the resort pool, I learned this was how my significant other (BT) had recalled the accident to our buddies: The collision propelled Celia 80 feet up in the air then she dropped face down smacked against the pavement of the outside lane of the road.  Amazingly, she sashayed out of the accident scene like the winner in RuPaul’s TV fashion show.

BT never witnessed the accident but I love his version. It makes me feel like a trapeze acrobatic star.  But seriously, the impact of my face on the asphalt pavement flattened the eyeglass thingies on my nose.  Fortunately my nose is also flat and it helped to prevent serious harm.  However, the expensive eyeglasses which were prescribed for nearsightedness and astigmatism became worthless.

As soon as I could, I went to an optometrist’s office and used my very recent prescription in the in-house optical store.  Knowing the insurance company was paying for a new pair of eyeglasses as part of the pain-and-suffering settlement, I ordered the most expensive lenses that darken against the sun and transition from clear long distance to close-up images, eliminating bifocal lines.  The progressive eyeglasses cost $600, the most expensive ones I’ve ever owned.   Usually when quoted $200 for new glasses, my face begins to exhibit symptoms of an impending nervous breakdown.

I wore the sexy new glasses happily in the days, weeks, and months that followed. Because I never had to take them off to read menus, magazines, bills, and my smartphone, I wore them without holders that dangle to my chest from both sides of my face.

One day I took the glasses off and lost them!  I don’t remember the reason and the place but had a good idea of the events that day plus and minus another day.  Sleuthing for the progressive eyeglasses went in earnest.

I  remembered taking my glasses off when I had to put my face down on the hole of the massage table in the office the physical therapist (PT).  I called PT.  He said, No one has seen them.  I called the cabbie who drove me home, thinking I might have dropped them in the taxi.  Cabbie said Sorry not here.   BT and I returned to the Chinese restaurant where we had lunch.  Checking by phone would have invited too much aggravation.  Only the cashier there speaks English.  The lost-and-found basket yielded no progressive glasses.  I phoned the bus drivers.  None there.  At every clubhouse, I inspected the lost-and-found chest.  Zero.  I repeated the process the following days.  Still zip, nada.  I told anybody within 3 feet of me about my lost pricey glasses.

At the end of the exhaustive research week, at the retirement resort pool, a regular session attendee handed me a clipping from our local newsletter.  The article said a man with a Chinese name had found a pair of progressive eyeglasses in the vicinity of my recent whereabouts and would like to find the rightful owner and gave his phone number.  OMG, my heart jumped for joy!  What are the chances? How many people could have possibly lost progressive glasses at the same time and the same place?  I thought, Those glasses are mine! They belong to me!

I googled the finder’s name, hoping I’d read more about this awesome gentleman who had taken the time to write an article in the paper about found glasses and look for the owner, who would be me.  I’ve got to know this dude in advance.

Several same-named guys popped up in my research, ranging from computer expert to an oncologist, to a fortune teller.  I thought only women are into fortune telling.   I went ahead and called the finder’s number.  Major disappointment!  A man had already claimed the progressive eyeglasses.

I gave up.  Or so I thought.  I took a vacation in Calgary and stayed with a couple of my favorite people.  I focused on enjoying great hospitality,  nutritious food, beautiful sceneries, and surviving the worst pollen allergy in my memory chest which also held my dear glasses.

Three days after returning home, BT and I set out to pick up my prescription and order 2 for $69 eyeglasses at a special sale.  But first we needed to eat lunch.  We headed to our favorite Chinese restaurant.   As I sauntered into the place, I felt a tug at my gut.  Just one last time, I told BT.  I will check the lost-and-found basket.

The restaurant cashier handed me the basket. Sunglasses of every style! I sorted through them, and underneath, saw a pair of clear eyeglasses like the pair I’d been searching for. My heart skipped a beat.  I tried the glasses on and voila! The sky opened, the angels broke into Aretha Franklin’s R-E-S-P-E-C-T, and I could see the cash through the restaurant register.  I am the only person on this earth who can wear this!!!!, I exclaimed to the nearby waiters none of whom understood a word I said. They simply exchanged bewildered glances.  I sashayed back to our table, ear-to-ear smile, sporting two pairs of eyeglasses: the lost-and-found expensive ones on my face, and the old cheap ones dangling on my chest from my neck.

Don’t we all love happy endings! Happy dance.

 

 

The Summer of Refunds, Odds, and Ends

 

This blog update is overdue and in response to some faithful followers who have been wondering: What’s going on? Is Poksa still boogieing? Did she get her six-figure-pain-and-suffering traffic accident settlement and decided to just keep filling her cup until her number’s up?

I can explain. What happened was, I was too busy trying to get refunds and tying up odds and ends.

The pursuit of refunds began when my Plus One, henceforth referred to as BT, convinced me to plant a fruit salad tree in the front yard of my minimalist manor.  What do I know about fruit salad trees, you ask.  Nothing. I am a retired professional civil engineer whose knowledge of plants was limited to the old cherry tree on the ground near the Albuquerque sewage treatment plant.  It sure bears the sweetest cherries  I have ever tasted.  Anyway the fruit salad tree that I was talked into planting was a tree that had a variety of citrus fruits – oranges, lemons, limes, and grapefruits – already on the branches.  They had been grafted.  I paid $149 for the tree which I fondly named Hugo, (variation of Jugo, Spanish for juice).  Hugo was guaranteed to be a source of my lifetime supply of citrus.  Money back was also guaranteed if Hugo died and is returned to Home Depot within a year of purchase.  BT promised to provide the horticultural services free of charge. In his previous life, he supplied plants to offices and businesses.

Well, in spite of BT’s tender loving horticultural care for and some heart-to-heart conversation with Hugo, it still went kaput.  He blamed the soil, the mites, the root system, a sick palm tree,  everything.  Hugo’s demise broke my heart but the prospect of the refund of my money softened the blow.  So BT dug poor dead Hugo up from the ground, loaded it on my golf cart, and off he drove the three of us to Home Depot for Hugo’s proper funeral and refund of my mullah.

As it turned out, what Home Depot didn’t tell me when I bought the tree was that the refund was going to be in the form of store credit.  Prior to the tree purchase, I had not been a Home Depot store kind of guy.  Now I have to think of a home improvement project to get my money back.

Other purchases with guaranteed money-back return possessed me: a hidden microphone finder that promised more than it could deliver and a door bell video that required more technology than I had imagined.  These purchases happen to little old ladies who live alone and watch a lot of True Crime TV.  By the way, the retirement resort is very safe.

But don’t get me wrong.  I am not of the chicken persuasion.  I am not a bit scared.  As a matter of fact, last year when my little sister was a guest in my manor, she went out with friends and later when she tried to return through the retirement resort gate, the security guard refused to let her in citing a technicality.  Instead he sent a security trainee to my house to get my consent to let the “pretender” guest in. The young clueless man knocked on the door.  I ignored the tapping at first.  Next thing I knew I was seeing the silhouette of a man’s face and the palms of his hands plastered flat on the drapeless glass window, like a scene in a horror movie. What do you want? I yelled. Of course the glass window prevented him and me from hearing each other.  So I rushed to the house front – put on a robe first – opened the door then asked the same question: What do you want? He asked if my sister was trying to gate crash.  I said, She has a pass. Let her in.

The security story ended happily and taught me valuable lessons.  A minimalist manor is good but it needs the minimum required bedroom window curtain for privacy.  Also turn the cellphone on when expecting someone.  The phone serves its purpose that way.

On the health front, it has been uneventful.  I’m not complaining.  Uneventful is good.  All I had was my every-three-months callus scraping from my podiatrist in my primary care physician’s office.  The scraping/buffing always takes less than 30 seconds.  I often wonder how much he collects from Medicare.

On the fronts requiring closure, some good news.

My fight with the insurance company is over.  The case concerned the liquid biopsy after the end of my CO-1686 trial participation.  A year has passed and I never heard from the insurance again after the letter that said, We agree with you.  Thousands of dollars that I did not have to pay and did not want to pay!

The AARP gentleman volunteer lived up to his promise to file my income tax towards the end of summer.  I had to pay a whopping $6.00 to the federal government.  Win some lose some.

The physical therapy for my right shoulder which was injured in the traffic accident the night after the 2017 Christmas is winding down.  The latest MRI showed progress has been made but there is still some inflammation in the traumatized area of the shoulder joint.  Since some important range of motion has returned, the physical therapists are concentrating on strengthening the left shoulder.  By October everybody hopes to settle the price of pain and suffering.

It’s a good thing I take things in stride.

Happy dance!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

June, CT Scan, & Tagrisso

Last month – June – brought exciting events.  June is my cancerversary month – the 6th this year. A few days after posting my 6th cancerversary story, I had my scheduled chest and abdomen CTscans, the kind that requi red me to drink two bottles of the white chalky raspberry-flavored barium shake over a period of 2-1/2 hours. It had been 7 months since the last time I went through those motions.  Then came the CT scan procedure and soon it was over.

After dislodging myself from the CT scan contraption, I thought, Wow, the results better be awesome, after all I had just crowed in my blog update how great I am doing, hopefully boosting the spirits of the afflicted others. The fans who exist only in my imagination would be terribly heartbroken if I post that something horrible is seen in the latest scan images.  I like to fantasize being deeply cared for by wonderful humans other than myself.

The moment of truth came.  My smartphone notified me that Onc Dr Smiley had a message in the Patient Portal.  I went there and there it was: a short paragraph from the happy-faced doctor announcing that he and his family will be off for over a week for their summer vacation.  I quickly glanced at my face in the mirror to look for indications  that I gave a hoot about his family’s whereabouts.  Finding none, I returned to the smartphone. There was another email!  It contained a short paragraph summarizing the radiologist’s good report on my CT scans.

But I wanted to read the full report.  I had this crying need to use the knowledge gained from my web oncology degree.  Use it or lose it, so they say.  I don’t know who they are.

I sent a message to Dr Smiley who was by then in transit with his clan. I said, Kindly post the full radiology report in the Patient’s Portal.  Lo and behold, I had barely hit “send” when his registered nurse phoned me and said that Dr Smiley had asked her to respond to my request. She then proceeded to read the same short paragraph that I read. Like I was illiterate!  Later in the day, under Dr Smiley’s name, the full radiology report appeared in the Patient’s Portal.

So I read the report, word for word, line by line, reading between the lines, periodically asking my distinguished colleague Dr Google for his interpretations.  Long story short, my take: Everything in the chest and abdomen was stable or within normal limits. The tiny nodules too numerous to count still populate the lungs.  Conclusion:  My designer lungs persevere!

There we have it.  Tagrisso has been rocking it for 19 months.

Feel free to ask questions.

 

Dusting Myself Again

The Author Won’t be Competing in a Speed-Typing Event Anytime Soon

If you’ve been wondering why I hadn’t updated this blog sooner, here is a clue: I’m dusting myself all over again.

What happened was, on the evening of the day after Christmas 2017, I was involved in a traffic accident in a busy Southern Orange County road.  It was a car-versus-pedestrian kind of collision. Yup. I was the pedestrian in that conflict.

I was cautiously crossing the major road, the green light in my favor, when suddenly a formidable object, which turned out to be a Grand Marquis, swiped my back left shoulder and tossed me like a rag doll.  Hey, I’m only a svelte 112-pound senior babe.  I thought, OMG I have been hit!  Next thing I knew I was in a cobra yoga position, raising my bloody face from the hard asphalt pavement, determined to get the culprit’s license plate number in case the accident was a hit-and-run situation.  It happens when the blogger has seen too many True Crime TV stories.  And then it dawned on me:  This is absolutely amazing, quite incredible, and super fortunate.  I have my wits! I live to tell the tale!  I was shocked.

An ambulance ride ensued.  Later the sheriff interviewed the driver, who did not hit and run, a witness, and me.  It became abundantly clear that the accident was a liability issue against the driver.  According to my research later, the insured driver is a US doctor of Middle East origin.  Why can’t I stay away from doctors?

I’d like to tell the story in excruciating detail but it is best to keep my mouth shut while lawyers from both sides are hashing things out.

Thank you for your interest.  I’ll keep you posted.

 

 

Revisiting Tarceva Divas & Dudes

Looking Back

What a difference 3.5 years make for Tarceva users! I was cataloguing my blog posts, carefully reading each of them, and searching for timeless information beneficial to new Tarceva users when one particular post stood out.  It’s in the Tarceva Divas and Dudes blog.  The update post title was Tarceva Divas and Dudes 03/28/2014 (The Update).

The Update stood out because:

(a) It reflected the evolution of Tarceva users. I noticed that in 3.5 years, many users have moved on to other treatments, some have abandoned Tarceva in favor of clinical trials or approved clinical trial drugs, and a few moved on for good.  Moving on for good is  something all of us – with or without cancer – will do sooner or later, preferably later, because that’s what we finite beings do.

(b) It generated 125 comments, making the thread 7 pages long. A few comments even took on lives of their own.

(c) It was chock full of relevant information, including a first-hand blow-by-blow account of a biopsy and answers to often-asked questions like Why go on a clinical trial, What time do you take your Tarceva?

(d) It reflected the history of the Tarceva Divas and Dudes blog.

(e) It shows how the author evolved into an awesome amazing woman.  Ooops, sorry!  I just had this crying need to throw that in the mix.

And now to the If’s:

1. If you want to walk down memory lane, or learn something new, or just want to have a chuckle for whatever reason, here is the link:https://www.inspire.com/groups/american-lung-association-lung-cancer-survivors/discussion/tarceva-divas-and-dudes-03-28-2014/
2. If the link doesn’t work, and you are really into it, please cut and paste the link on your browser.  Or if you are a member of Inspire.com, search Tarceva Divas and Dudes 03-28-2014 on the site.
3. If you make it to the site and you recognize yourself, please tell us where you and/or your loved one are in your cancer journey.  Only if you want!

Okidoke? Thank you.

 

My Trouble Finder

The Author Did Manage to Get up From This Yoga Pose Unassisted

My day’s highlight came early. The secretary of my Primary Care Physician (PCP) phoned me to remind me of my upcoming appointment with him.  Immediately I cringed. Uh-oh, it’s time again for the good doctor to look for unpleasant issues with my body.  It’s his job, his livelihood.

So at the appointed hour, I showed up at the PCP’s office, braced to hear everything that’s the matter with me.  The handsome Southern Orange County doctor scooted into the examination room where I sat after my current weight and vitals had been established. He scoots because a water skiing accident in his youth smashed his tailbone, so I heard.

He started the session by reporting to me the results of the pre-visit blood tests.  Most results are good, he declared with a smile.  But your kidney function test numbers aren’t so good.  We call those numbers Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD) Stage 3.  Stage 3? I asked with feigned shock.  That sounds awfully close to Stage 4.  My lung cancer is stage 4. Does this mean my body is in various stages of decay? He replied, I won’t say that. The previous test results were the same, which means the CKD is stable.  Aha, I said. That would be me: Ms Stable.  Besides, he continued, with CKD your blood pressure should be out of control, but it’s great, and you don’t have other symptoms. We’ll take another blood test in a month and monitor the CKD.

He looked at my weight on the chart.  Let us see if you have lost any weight, he said.  Not me, I disagreed right away.  It’s just perfect right now for a string bikini.  He responded: You’re the hippest senior I see.  No other senior comes in here for a check up carrying a loaded backpack and wearing Z-Coil shoes.

He kneaded my neck, searching for swollen lymph nodes.  Nothing there, he announced. Then he ordered me to sit on the examination table: Get up here, Slim.  He raised the back of my aquamarine blouse to do some stethoscope motions on bare skin.  A strawberry-ice-cream-colored bra greeted his eyeballs.  Sexy bra, he said, and laughed. I’m not big on color coordinated underwear, I confessed, and we laughed.  Having found nothing wrong with me yet, he proceeded to drill a small flashlight into my nostrils.  You should have allergies, he insisted. But I don’t, I said. He saw nothing and gave up.

Tell me before we say goodbye if there’s anything wrong with you, PCP enjoined with a sense of urgency.  Under pressure I felt I had to say something: Bunion. Ten years ago I spent a lot time pondering what to do with the bunion on the outside of the big toe of my right foot.  Then came the lung cancer Stage 4 diagnosis and eight months to live prognosis.  Suddenly the bunion issue became the least of my concerns. Now it’s front and center again.  He was quick: Good!  I’ll refer you to Dr Paa (fictitious name; “paa” is Filipino word for feet).  He will advise you to either change your shoes or your foot. I exclaimed, I like it! He took advantage of my enthusiasm, I still want you to get a colonoscopy.  He was so totally pushing.  The last gastroenterologist I saw said nothing needed to be done.  Okay, I grudgingly agreed.  I’m retired.  I’ve nothing else to do.

In conclusion, PCP’s nurse gave me a pneumonia shot and a flu shot.  Then PCP gave her instructions: (a) Get approvals for a new gastroenterologist for the colonoscopy, a podiatrist for the bunion, and the opthalmologist for the annual eye exam.  (b) Prepare a requisition for kidney and liver function blood tests to be performed in mid-November.   Finally, he turned to me and said, Next time bring all the medicines you’re taking. I just feel better when I see them. My turn to think.  I suspect he remembered that instead of the calcium pills prescribed by him, I had bought calcium gummies.  I had complained that the calcium pills were too big and like horse pills.  Get the petites, he had ordered. He probably wanted to be sure next time that I am in compliance.

PCP was determined to keep the retired senior babe shuffling.

Is your PCP like my PCP?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Probiotics 101

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A Cousin of the Author’s Kimchi

Ok, let’s cut to the chase. This post is about kimchi, the famous Korean hot and spicy fermented napa cabbage delicacy.

What does kimchi have to do with cancer?  Well, while surfing the internet, I read kimchi contains probiotics and probiotics are all the rage these days and have been for a while now.  I decided I’d get in on the action. Gotta be where the action is, especially when it comes to strengthening the immune system, which is usually compromised in  cancer sufferers.

Health enthusiasts mention kefir, yogurt, and fermented vegetables such as sauerkraut as excellent sources of natural – meaning not store-bought in pill form – probiotics.  One cancer-free best friend of mine once told me that urinary tract infections (UTI) used to harass her several times a year but not any more after she started taking probiotic pills. Of course she has this tendency to try to topple me from my perch as the drama queen.

To satisfy my curiosity and get answers to my questions about probiotics, I revisited my alma mater Google University (GU).  Sure enough, entry after entry discusses probiotic properties found in fermented cabbage such as sauerkraut and kimchi.

I’ll focus on kimchi.

GU defines a probiotic substance as a microorganism introduced into the body for its beneficial qualities. It translates to my simple English as good bacteria. We know the bad kind, the ones that bring bad news such as pain, nausea, shortness of breath, the runs, etc.  Here we’re talking about the good guys, the kind that by sheer number can overpower the bad dudes and allow for a healthy body to flourish.

Some scientists actually investigated the types of good bacteria that populate kimchi. They found several types that have the capability to annihilate the bad bacteria in the intestines.  That fact drove me to rekindle my interest in making kimchi regularly like I used to.

Many years ago, I had a dear Korean friend named Jeannie.  Being both Asian immigrants married to Caucasians, we bonded easily. She owned a Mexican restaurant located in a roadside motel in Cuba, a small town in New Mexico some 70 miles northwest from Albuquerque. My engineering company had a construction staking project in Cuba and my surveyors stayed there for the duration of the project.  Jeannie and I found a common real estate to do a show-and-tell on making kimchi from scratch. She demonstrated how she and her mother had done it all their lives.  Then in a small bowl, she gave me  a good serving of her recently fermented homemade kimchi.  I remember how awesome it tasted.

Upon my return to Albuquerque, I embarked on kimchi construction based on my newly acquired knowledge.  I assembled the requirements: (a) a large jar. My late first husband got it from a bar after the last maraschino cherry was removed from the glass jar to adorn a pina colada drink; (b) locally available fresh ingredients – a couple of heads of fresh napa cabbage, garlic, and ginger; “bagoong” (fermented shrimp Filipino style), sugar, and New Mexico powdered hot chilis.

It was amazing how the concoction developed a life of its own from assembly through fermentation, which took seven days.  I made kimchi regularly for years.  I liked to claim it was a talent and often told anyone who cared to listen that I had very few talents but the few I had were outstanding.  Then I stopped. Hanging out at the bar drinking beer was far more exciting than filling a large jar with vegetables for the purpose of making them saucy and sour.  Those were the days when the word cancer was just a word.

Fast forward to modern times when cancer is a disease that hit home, blogging is a pastime and probiotics are the in thing.  I made kimchi again based on my memory of the days of Jeannie, Cuba, and the survey project,  wondering if my new kimchi would turn out as good as my old ones. By golly, it did!  Thus began again the predictable presence of kimchi in the refrigerator.

I’ve been back to eating kimchi regularly because it’s there and I’m an environmental eater.  I notice the UTI has not returned in a while.  My bff might just have a point.

Do you like kimchi?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Research Expedition

Research, Research, Research

Google University has always come through for me over these years that I have been in the blogging universe. I have researched everything intriguing to me, from anemia to Zoster virus. Of course the computer intelligentsia always beats me to it. It pains me to admit that but I am sure of it because every time I type on the search space a phrase, a list of a hundred other ways of expressing my idea pops up. What gets me is their approach is much better than mine.

Well, I got tired of being beaten to the draw by my colleagues so I decided to change my path.  By golly, I’ll be researching lung cancer’s new mutations after T790M from EGFR, I better go where the real research action is: University of California in Irvine or UCI! After all, part of the now defunct clinical trial CO-1686 where in I thrived as a participant for nearly 3 years happened in UCI. There is a library there called, drum roll: UCI LIBRARIES GATEWAY STUDY CENTER (Library).

Okay let me come clean here. The brilliant new idea did not suddenly jump out from the inner folds of my brain. My friend, the string bikini supplier, rammed the concept into my head. I liked it.  Give credit where credit is due.  By the way, where did he get the idea? you ask.  The answer: He is a UCI alumnus.

To get started, he offered the use of his laptop, but my inner sleuth insisted on having her own toy. I asked our genius cohort at the resort pool to order me a laptop from Amazon because as a Prime member, he can buy goods at discounted price and free speedy shipping. It’s nice to have friends in high places.

The bus trip to the Library would be an hour and 45 minutes. We packed snacks and left at 8:00am to beat the heat.  We need to be out of there by noon, my companion declared. I said, What? I had all day in mind. Oh no, he insisted.   You don’t want to be there when 40,000 mostly Asian students are scurrying to go home.  They are ruthless. You’ll get trampled.  Immediately my late mother’s oft-repeated story of our family running away from the Japanese occupiers in the Philippines revisited my head.  So it went that except for one uncle, all my male relatives refused to carry me during the mad dash because I was a fat blob of a baby who refused to stiffen her back and make it easy on the carrier. The first time I heard the story, I kept imagining being trampled by the occupiers had my uncle abandoned me in the name of self-preservation.

The UCI campus during pre-registration day was awesome.  Students in their late teens, mostly dark-haired, bustled around.  A handful should have blond hair based on their appearance but I suspected they had dyed their hair to blend in.  A few mothers accompanied their freshmen babies to help them find their way in the adult world of higher education.  The restaurants boasted inexpensive menus tailored to the student budget.  The clothing stores grabbed my attention!  The beachwear wraps looked hip yet cost much less than those in the malls.  I lost mission research temporarily.

My guide bought two Simpler Times beer at Trader Joes and a bag of Cheetos.  Researcher extraordinaire wanted Cheetos.  We settled on a table at the food court.  We drank from the napkin-camouflaged beer and ate street tacos, my home-made contribution to the expedition.  We watched people as we imbibed and chewed, my companion occasionally addressing a group of freshmen with gusto: Welcome to UCI!   The blissfully optimistic teenagers gladly thanked the self-proclaimed greeter.

With eating and people watching done, we ventured into the library.  After a few minutes of browsing medical literature on the computer,  I saw my guide asking the librarian a question.  When he returned, he gave me a 3″ x 5″ card with a link to a medical research database scrawled on it.

At 3:00pm we were on the bus for our ride back to our homes.  I exclaimed, That was so much fun!  I raved on and on about the exciting observations on the campus.  And then, light dawned.  We had traveled to UCI to do internet research.  I could have done that in the peace and quiet of my minimalist manor and saved me the hassle of fixing street tacos, carrying my roommate the backpack, walking to and from bus stops.  But I had to admit enjoying the disguised beer and Cheetos.  Getting away with something verboten excites the young at heart.   What were you thinking? I asked the ringleader. He answered, Wasn’t it rejuvenating being around starry-eyed hopeful young people for a change?

So true.  The experience seems to have peeled 50 years off my body.  I feel like dancing the Boogaloo.

Now on to the business of going to the link passed on by the UCI librarian.  Feel free to tell me if there is something you’d be interested in knowing while I’m hot on the research tracks.

 

 

 

Revisiting “10,000 Views”

TO-DATE STATS: Big deal at the moment

I remember the arrival of the 10,000th view of my blog. It got me so excited that I updated the blog with a post about the 10,000th read.  Now that I have published a total of 88 posts as of today,  I realize I was blissfully amateurish then, especially after someone recently asked me if the blog was getting 1000 views a day!  But I had a great time being an honest newbie blogger.

There’s beauty in honesty.  I remember when our high school newspaper adviser selected me, a mere columnist/reporter,  to be an alternate delegate in the event one of our school’s seven editors could not join the delegation that would sail to a national secondary schools press conference in the southern Philippines.  The prospect of being on a boat bigger than a canoe for three days on the Philippine Sea –  something I had never experienced – excited me endlessly.

As instructed I packed for the trip.  It was pretty cruel, really, to order me to pack to go nowhere unless one editor became ill.  I wanted to go so bad I could taste it but I did not want anybody to get sick.  Why did my 16-year-old life have to be so complicated?  So on the delegation’s departure day, there I sat in the house, waiting for word on my fate as a future awesome journalist.

Oh dear.  As fate would have it, the flu bug sickened the society editor.  Consequently I was notified of my life’s purpose that week! My parents rushed me in a public jeepney to the port to board the boat at the last minute.  My school’s healthy editors’ dim view of my sudden appearance on the scene was palpable.

I was like a Beverly Hillbilly on the boat.  After all, I had never been on one, never been in any other island on the map, never been a delegate – a total hick from the sticks.  My mouth was probably agape all the time in silent wonderment.  Everything amazed me – the aging boat, the measly food, the cots for us to sleep on, the help, the diversity of passengers, the balmy sea breeze, and myself.  I was in total disbelief of my presence there!

At the conference, competitions were held among us budding writers from high schools all over the Philippines.  Our adviser entered me in a feature writing event.  I wrote with unabashed honesty about my awe of the three-day boat journey.  Perhaps the judges found unsophistication, naivete, and honesty so refreshing that they awarded me a bronze medal.  Hey, that was third prize – after gold and silver!  Correct spelling and grammar probably did not hurt either.

Okay, where was I on the blog stats?  I honestly got sidetracked.

According to the blog site statistics that readers don’t see, five (5) posts stand out as the most viewed out of 88 posts over 40 months.  Who knows who the readers are, but it would be safe to say they are mostly cancer patients and caregivers looking for answers.  The rest are lurkers and cancer drug investors.  The response exceeded my expectation. I had only decided to blog to inform family and friends about my ongoing fight against the malignant tumor at the bottom of my left lung and the unknown tiny spots too many to count scattered throughout both lungs.  By so doing, I could avoid repeating my answer to the persistent question: How are you doing?

The statistics tell a story.  I have my own take, too, on why the 5 blog posts attract the most all time viewers.  Like all the other posts that did not make the top 5, they are written in humor. They can be found in the archives.

Following are the top 5 and why:

No. 5 About Celpeggy

Readers want to know who is this blogger? What does she know? What makes her tick?  How can she write in such a style?  What’s her problem?

No. 4  Cancer Diagnosis is not a Death Sentence

Don’t we all look for hope and reassurance that we are facing a situation that is not insurmountable!

No. 3  My CO-1686 Stoke that Appetite!

Loss of appetite is universal.  Based on experience, this medical marijuana account is very honest and extreme honesty can bring about hilarity.  A caregiver, a Hollywood comedy writer, told me after reading it, You are a very funny girl.   You’d think she saw me in a string bikini.

No. 2  Tarceva Resistance – When It’s Time to Move On

Sooner or later, cancer cells outsmart the drug that’s targeting them.  Newly diagnosed patients and their caregivers want to keep one step ahead.  We’ll revisit this topic.  It could have been done better.

No. 1  CO-1686 First Scan CO-1686 Vs Diva’s Lung Cancer

This is a one off.  June 4, 2014.  One investor in the CO-1686 drug was following my blog.  When my first CTscan after six weeks of Poksceva (my tongue-in-cheek brand for Rociletinib) showed great promise as the drug for the T790M mutation of EGFR, he twitted and his tweet went viral in the investment community, sending my stats completely out of the chart.  Unfortunately, the CO-1686 trial was eventually discontinued.  I don’t know if the investors lost money, but that’s not my problem.

Thank you for your support and patronage.  We are meant for each other.  Which topic would you like to revisit?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Insurance Company Denies….(Cont)

TEAM GRANDS – Grandma Author and Grandson Oskar, 11, all thumbs up. Failure is not an option

The SECOND payment denial by the Insurance Company (IC) hovered like a dark cloud over my head. The new 60-day appeal filing period had just begun and the sense of urgency had not yet grabbed my attention. If the dark cloud meant rain, I felt like I could do a hippy hippy shake speed walk and still have time to find me an awning that would save me from being drenched. Of course I did not know how much money I was supposed to spring if I eventually lost the appeal. Maybe if I knew, I’d be flying! But paying for something that I shouldn’t is not an option.  Failure to prevail is not an option.

Two weeks passed and I decided I had lived dangerously long enough. It was time to rattle Dr Brevity’s RN.  I went on a messaging spree with the RN through the Patient’s Portal. Okay, that’s grossly exaggerated. I fired exactly 2 messages in a row over a span of 2 days. Exaggeration happens when the Patient/Blogger suddenly forgets her coolness and magnifies everything.

My first message read: I received IC’s Notice of SECOND denial of payment based on the information provided by you.  I agree with you that your submittal was responsive to IC’s requirement to reverse the denial.  Now the new and improved reason for denial was “When you enrolled in a Medicare Advantage Plan, you selected a Primary Care Physician to coordinate/authorize your medical care. The services received were not authorized and not payable by Monarch.”  Please continue to represent me to Monarch.

I did not receive a response.  I sent another message.

My second message read: Please let me know what action you intend to take.  IC gave me another 60 days to appeal the SECOND denial.  I don’t want to lose that opportunity.

I still did not receive a response.  The following day, I gave up being Ms Nice Guy. I reached for the phone.  After all sorts of mysterious phone connection motions at Club Med, RN and I finally found our voices.

RN:  Celia what do you need?

Me: Did you get my messages at the Patient’s Portal?

RN: No I did not.

Me: The long and short is, I got a Notice of SECOND denial of payment.  All I want to know is if your office intends to continue to represent me.

RN: We already gave IC what they needed.

Me: In other words, your office is through helping me.

RN: There’s nothing more we can do, but I can call Guardant and ask for Patient Claim Assistance.

While we were talking, she found my messages.  She did not see them because she had not turned on her computer since her return from vacation.

Anyway, I thanked her for everything she had done to help me and proceeded to call the number that Guardant gave me if I needed help in filing the claim. The phone rang.

Voice on the other end: How can I help you?

Me: Please connect me to Client Services.

Voice: This is Client Services.

Me: Oh, you are Client Services.  My contagious laughter roared.

Voice: (Laughing, from contamination). Yes I am.

Me: I need help to file a claim.

She asked for identification, date of birth, yada yada.

Voice: OK I found your case file.  We received the same Notice that you received.  I’m glad you called.  But first I want you to  know that win or lose the appeal, there is a fixed fee you must pay.

I felt my hackles kind of lift from the back of my neck.

Me: How much?

Voice: 60 dollars

Me: Come again please.  I want to be sure you did not say 6K dollars.

Voice: 60 dollars

I laughed.  And she laughed.

The appeal is supposed to be a lengthy process.  I hope everybody lives long enough to see the end of it.

(to be continued)

Is there any experience out there like this? I’d appreciate input.