Now that all the holiday cheer is behind us, I’m back to the reality that I still have cancer treatments to deal with. After going through the recommended and challenging round of external beam radiation, I am waiting for information on getting what’s known as brachytherapy, or radiation placed inside the body.
(More on that: I may not actually have any more cancer cells to be dealt with, the brachytherapy treatment is more like a “just in case” scenario. As my radiation oncologist explained it, if those rogue cells still exist, they can go off and cause trouble somewhere else, so the doctors (and I) want to be darn sure they got all of them.)
If you’ve read my other Substacks on this cancer eradicating process, you know that it has been a mishmash of miscommunication and delays, to the point where another organization had to come in to try and clarify my treatment plan. Now that organization has become impossible to reach, at least for the past week, and no one is returning my calls asking for information. (Update! We’re back in touch….)
The last I heard, about a week before Christmas, was that I would be treated at a hospital in Irvine, which is about thirty miles south of where I live. After that came radio silence, and no amount of calling and leaving messages changed that.
My radiation oncologist emphasized from our first meeting that uninterrupted treatment was key to getting rid of this cancer, but so far, that’s about all I’ve had: interrupted treatment. Now she is unreachable (the office phone system hangs up on me, and if I leave messages on her direct line, they go unanswered).
I was given a prescription for the antidepressant Lexapro when the external beam radiation messed with my hormones, producing an uncontrollable sadness. I cried my way through the day, with the future looking black and hopeless. This drug was successful in waylaying those feelings of hopelessness, and I was back to my cheerful, upbeat self within a week. However, the prescription is about to run out. To renew it, I must see a psychiatrist.
This sounds simple, but it is anything but. I called the psychiatric clinic approved by my insurance, only to find they were no longer working with my medical group; the contract had ended. They told me who the new provider was, but when I called that group, they also said they had no relationship with my medical group.
It’s possible I may not need the Lexapro any more, but it would be good to have some on hand, just in case. If and when I begin the brachytherapy treatment, I may again find myself in the hormonal muck and need an antidepressant to function.
When I spoke with someone I know who works in the medical industry, he told me that these medical groups all use different applications, so communication becomes difficult if not impossible. The simple act of sending a patient’s records is shut down by this kind of technical miscommunication.
So even though I’m surrounded by family and supporters like you, I’m feeling frustrated, alone, and somewhat helpless, at least temporarily, to proceed with the treatment I was told was essential for my continued health. I am aghast at the just plain disorder I have encountered from medical professionals throughout this process. The internet is full of articles talking about this problem, and if my experience is any indication, our health system in the U.S. is in a very unhealthy tangle that even the smartest people can’t seem to unravel.
Photo by Lawrence D’Attilio.
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