The Legacy of Big Pharma: A Personal Perspective

I turned 40 this year, and "celebrated" the milestone by scheduling my first mammogram. Yeah, me!

On October 10th, I went in for what I thought was going to be my first, routine mammogram. The following day, I attended a woman's retreat, and as I was relaying my experience at the dinner table, I distinctly recall one of the older women having a concerned look. On Saturday, she disclosed that she herself was a 4-year breast cancer survivor.

On October 14th, my doctor's office called to confirm what I already knew. The mammogram was inconclusive and "may show" some abnormal findings. For the next five days, I agonized over what it could possibly mean. I felt things I had never felt before, despite consistent self-checks over the years. I had a panic attack at the mall and called my husband to come and pick me up.

On October 16th, I met with my general PCP (a previously scheduled appointment) to discuss some general gastro-intestinal issues I'd been having for about a year, as well as some less than stellar cholesterol results. On that date, I was diagnosed with irritable bowel syndrome (IBS, which is not a diagnosis until everything else has been ruled out, but I only know that NOW) and prescribed something to take for "flare ups." She also recommended keeping a food journal to try to identify my "trigger foods" and starting a FODMAPS diet. That should also help with my cholesterol, she said.

On October 18th, I had a second mammogram and a breast ultrasound, which proved cysts in both breasts (non-cancerous), but the damage was already done. I had already talked myself into having breast cancer and dying before Christmas.

NOW I know that almost 50% of women are called back in following their first appointment to establish what is termed a "baseline." NOW I know that 3D mammograms are recommended, especially women who are establishing their baseline. NOW I know that due to the strict screening guidelines, 90% of breast cancers are completely curable. NOW I know.

During all of this, I was taking my "flare up" medication because every day was the same: constantly uncomfortable and sometimes painful, distention and bloating, and a complete loss of appetite. On October 27th, I went to bed with severe stomach pain, woke up in the middle of the night, had a panic attack, and drove myself to the ER. The nurse looked at me across the registration desk, sent me home, and told me to call my PCP in the morning.

On October 28th, I was back with my PCP. She prescribed me an anti-anxiety medicine, diagnosed me at this point with gastritis and gave me a PPI to reduce the stomach acid that was exacerbating my lifelong history with acid reflux and night coughing, and causing a tremendous amount of heartburn and indigestion. She instructed me to schedule an appointment with a psychiatrist.

I called EIGHT psychiatrists in my network, and the earliest appointment I could schedule was December 30th! I started taking my anti-depressant that night before bed, as recommended due to possible drowsiness, and for the next three nights, I experienced night sweats, hand and feet numbness, dry mouth, and night terrors. I reached out to my PCP again, who confirmed that I was having an adverse reaction to the medication and prescribed another type of anti-depressant. That entire week, I was in an absolute fog, trying to function at work and doing nothing else but lying in the bed, watching television.

On November 1st, I had another panic attack. I got through the weekend, but by Tuesday morning, my husband was also beside himself with what to do with me. I had barely eaten in 10 days. I drove myself again to my PCP on November 5th. This time, she didn't even let me talk. She told me they had done everything they could for me and everything I had asked of them. In other words, get out of her office. I told her to give me a referral for a Gastroenterologist and didn't leave the office until the referral had been sent in the system. She recommended Melatonin for my insomnia.

After doing some research on the new anti-depressant I was prescribed, I decided to change my night-time administration to the morning. I didn't want to bother my PCP yet again.

On November 11th, at the recommendation of my OB/GYN, I met with a breast specialist to review my benign mammography results. She walked in, hugged me, and told me to go and grab a cocktail.

On November 15th, I started bleeding. I spent a weekend with one of my dearest friends, who hugged me, fed me, and loved on me. It was truly a highlight of the past two tumultuous months.

On November 18th, I went to my OB/GYN for an IUD removal. Due to the bleeding, they also conducted a transvaginal ultrasound which showed a 3cm cyst on my ovarian stalk.

On November 20th, I finally met with a GI specialist. He listened to every word I said and immediately ordered an endoscopy and colonoscopy. He told me to enjoy every day of my upcoming trip to Mexico with my husband.

While in Mexico, I ate some days and didn't eat other days. Every morning was an incredible struggle to get out of bed. One day, I didn't get up until almost 5pm. On the last night in Mexico, I developed a migraine, a severe cold, and spent the next 24 hours throwing up. On the plane ride home, I burst my right ear drum and couldn't hear out of it for two days. NOW I know not to fly when you have a cold.

In the wee hours of the morning of November 30th, my husband and I drove again to the ER. The doctor said I looked fine to him and asked what they could do for me. I told him I needed an IV for fluid because I was dehydrated, and they gave me an additional dose of the PPI I was already on. Then they sent me home and told me to wait for my GI procedures.

On December 3rd, I finally had an endoscopy. It showed I have a medium-sized hiatal hernia and gastritis. Results from the stomach biopsy should be available later this week, but surgery has been recommended to improve my quality of life.

On December 4th, the colonoscopy showed no cancer (thank god!) but proved spastic colon consistent with IBS.

On October 14th, I weighed 124 pounds. When I went in for my colonoscopy, I weighed 114 pounds. I had lost 10 pounds in less than 2 months. That's 9% of my body weight. I've been a moderately active person my entire life, but my energy level for the past 6-8 weeks has allowed little else than walking from my car to my office desk and to my bed.

NOW I know that my story is one of thousands, perhaps millions. NOW I know how incredibly broken our health care system is; how they don't really want you to get better because then they can't prescribe more meds or more follow-up appointments. NOW I know how vitally important it is to advocate for your own health. NOW I know to fight the insurance companies every step of the way when they want to charge you for procedures previously designated for screening purposes. NOW I know how it feels to truly not want to get out of bed.

I'm one of the lucky ones. Though IBS isn't curable, I hope to find some ways to better manage the symptoms. I hope we identify what's causing the gastritis and can put an end to that. And I hope if surgery is the best answer, that I'm in good hands. But most importantly, NOW I know (though I always knew) how blessed I am by the love and support I have in my life.

Imposter

More frequently than I prefer, I feel like an imposter. An imposter at my job, an imposter with my friends, and sometimes even an imposter in my own home. I'm saying what is supposed to be said, doing what is supposed to be done, but it's in no way what I truly wish to be saying, wish to be doing.

When I'm with the more affluent, the more brilliant, the more educated, I try my best to keep up with the pretenses, but really, it's just so incredibly exhausting.

But every once in a while, you find "your person." That someone who doesn't require the lies, the deceit, the fake exterior. And you feel like you're finally home.

Fractures

Yesterday was supposed to be a BIG DAY, a VERY big day. It was supposed to be a memorable, unforgettable 24 hours. And it was; it forever will be...but not because it was a good day. Instead, it was a very BAD DAY. And I'll never have another chance to live that day, and that reality is suffocating me today, the day after such a very BAD DAY.

It's Alright by Fractures because it's really not...alright, that is.

"Too"

What led me to where I am? How did I get here? What choices along the way were most impactful...for better or worse?

I've been thinking of people, the people who are no longer in my life, but really impacted the trajectory. I would be remiss to say that it's just life, that people come and go, but in reality, it's me. I'm hard. I'm difficult. I'm complicated. And truthfully, I'm not for everyone.

Sometimes that is a bitter pill to swallow. At my core, I want to be liked. Doesn't everyone? But even deeper is an instinct to question, challenge, and push...and in the end, one of us usually walks away.

I would like to believe that they knew it wasn't negligence or apathy that dissolved the relationship, that it wasn't meanness or cruelty that caused them pain. It may be too little, too late, but I am who who I am and I've done what I've done because I'm all heart. I care too deeply, love too hard, want too much. It's the best and worst of me.

On Kneeling

It's always difficult to analyze a situation when your heart is clearly on one side of the playing field. However, I'm going to give it the old college try.

Let's talk about kneeling. When you think of kneeling, what do you typically envision? For me, it's always been synonymous with prayer. Yes, prayer. Something that for much of the populace is considered reverent, devotional, and respectful.

Which brings me to the controversy that has consumed our nation for years now regarding kneeling during the national anthem. Obviously, I'm on one side of this issue, but, for the LIFE of me, I can't understand why something I've always associated with respect is viewed expressly as the opposite. Furthermore, aren't athletes instructed to kneel when a player has fallen? As a symbol of respect? Seriously confused now.

So, I'll leave this issue now to the experts...   

"I stand with these athletes and their patriotism. They could take the easy route and not place their livelihoods at risk by standing up for what they believe in. Instead, they are speaking up for those who have no voice and working to make America live up to its stated ideals. We should all join them...This country was founded by protesters and bettered by abolitionists and the women's-suffrage, civil-rights, and gay-rights movements. To be sure, each of these made people feel uncomfortable along the way, but those were the people who needed to feel uncomfortable. People should never be permitted to feel comfortable while trampling the rights of others."  -Stan Van Gundy

So maybe I didn't really try to see the other side after all?

Home Home

Many, many years ago and shortly after moving to urban life, I was in a long-distance relationship with a man back home. During our relationship, we spent a long weekend with friends, and upon leaving him, I found myself in a severe state of melancholy. At the time, I was unhappy with my decision to move 1,000 miles away and felt out-of-place and disconnected in my new environment.

While in the airport waiting to board my plane, a man saw my face and asked, "Are you coming or going home?" And I seriously didn't know how to answer him. I eventually stated that I was heading home but leaving my "home home."

Even 15 years later, I still have a "home" and a "home home."