How to Survive Cancer Suspense and Other Medical Minutiae

Yesterday, I went to see my oncologist, the original guy who did my hysterectomy a couple of years ago. I had to specially request to see him, because his IPA contract had ended. According to the definition of an “IPA”, which stands for Independent Practice Association, it’s a group of independent doctors who work together to provide healthcare services. IPAs contract with health insurance plans to provide care to their members. They are further defined by the following:

• IPAs are made up of physicians who maintain their own private practices.

• IPAs can share resources to improve services and lower costs.

• IPAs can contract with employers and health plans.

• IPAs can improve care coordination between primary care doctors and specialists.

• IPAs can share medical records to reduce duplicate tests and procedures.

  
  

Benefits of IPAs

• IPAs can give patients access to a wide range of medical services within the network.

• IPAs can give patients access to a broader network of specialists without leaving their trusted healthcare system.

  
  

Anyway, that may be a little TMI for a lot of you, but it has made my life and fight with cancer extremely complicated.

I was contacted by my Primary Care Physician several months ago to alert me to the fact that I was being reassigned to a different oncologist. This was just as another malignancy showed up, so I was not happy about changing doctors. I liked and trusted my oncologist; particularly with cancer, but with all life-threatening conditions, trust is a big deal. So I requested that I stay with him, and was granted that request, a “continuation of service”.

Anyway, I arrived at my appointment yesterday, and was warmly greeted. My doc wanted to know how things were going, so I told him about my saga with trying to get brachytherapy lined up, a procedure recommended by my radiologist after external radiation. He told me that before seeing me, he had tried to get my records from the radiologist with no luck. So he had nothing to go on.

However, he recommended that we get a PET scan going, and said he would order that right away. (A PET scan dumps a radioactive concoction into your bloodstream which lights up when it encounters cancer cells, so it’s very easy to see if there are any, and if so, where they are camping out.)

I will also see his Physician’s Assistant in two weeks, the woman who originally spotted the tiny vaginal cancer growth and had it biopsied.

“I guess I’ll have to start beating up some doctors,” he commented as I left. Please do.

ONE DAY LATER, I got a call from my long absent radiologist’s receptionist. “OMG, these IPAs will be the death of me, I swear,” she complained. Well, that doesn’t explain why you couldn’t bother to have a phone system that works, I thought to myself. Or when I did get through, to return my call.

She promised to get the ball rolling on getting me set up with someone in a hospital setting, which is the kind of brachytherapy I need, and which should have been ordered months ago.

Yesterday, I turned seventy-three. When I heard a friend was planning his hundredth birthday party, I jumped on board with that idea. There’s still a lot to do, people to meet, places to see, children to hug. Let’s get through this thing.