The leaves I’m leaning over right now are the same colour as the vomit I’ve donated into the drain beside them. I laugh quietly, internally. Why am I thinking about leaves? Colours? Vomit? Why am I not even slightly anxious about the strangers watching me, possibly worrying about me, wondering if I’m ok or if they should or need to do anything to help me…or, in this post covid world, maybe they’re thinking about how to stay safe FROM me.
What do you think when you see someone unwell? Do you stay calm, slip into crisis management mode and think about helping? Do you get scared, wondering oh no, does she have it, have covid? Is she contagious? Is this some new horrible virus, the next pandemic? Both are normal reactions as is somewhere in between though the calm crisis management response is at least a little abnormal, a little wonderful, admirable and inspiring.
I’m not thinking about any of that, I’m noticing all the beautiful autumn colours of the leaves as they are squashed up against the sides of the drain and my chemo sickness slides down the grill over the top of them, beside them, disappearing into the deepest darkest London drain below. Wonder where it ends up? Does it pass under your house, my house? Or seep out into the underworld of this, vast, amazing city.
Gingerly, I unfold from my forward bend after what feels like half an hour. Only minutes have passed. I am relieved to see the open taxi door, the taxi driver’s patience as he waits for me to be ok enough to get back into the car. He hasn’t driven off; he doesn’t seem worried about me soiling his car, ruining his day. Thank goodness I splashed out on an exec car. I notice the slightly weird angle the car was holding in the street; the driver’s, unruffled (so grateful for that) rapid response (oh so very VERY grateful for that) as he had stopped the car when I had managed to whisper firmly stop now please, I’m going to be sick.
Shaky, trembling, feverish and nauseous, I did feel slightly better; certainly better than I had done all morning. I’d run late for a meeting, and then literally run to try and make it on time, only to find the person I was connecting with was sick too and had not bothered to tell his colleagues I was coming in. In the end, after breakfast on the house, getting something into my stomach to absorb the swathes of medication I’d downed and after a hopeful meeting with his apologetic colleague I felt safe again, listened to, cared about. I decided I had chosen the right venue for my upcoming shindig after all. The day wasn’t a complete disaster, in fact, so far most things had gone well.
Looking forward to being home and resting on the couch in front of the tv for the rest of the day, I crept back into the taxi, thanked the driver for his serenity and fluid driving skills, leant against the window and closed my eyes. I noticed how far I’d come, how I simply did not get embarrassed easily anymore, that feeling embarrassed, apologetic somehow, felt like a complete waste of my very precious time, energy and effort. I reminded myself embarrassment IS a valid feeling like all other feelings. Even though I wished we never had to experience embarrassment or shame. Those emotions crippled me in my early life and at various times throughout my teens, twenties and thirties. I had done anything to avoid embarrassment; the discomfort of being noticed in an unwanted way, of feeling shame, being caught out somehow, feeling the fool, of being judged naive, gullible or stupid.
Thank goodness I’m not so easily embarrassed anymore. I simply don’t care if I’m stared at while throwing up in the street, or when I do something wrong, make a mistake, am caught out, feel out of my depth or don’t know something. It’s easier than you think. Not caring doesn’t mean not taking responsibility; I still apologise when wrong, try to fix errors and am willing to quickly agree when I have misunderstood someone or something.
Yet remember, like me, you are human and just because you don’t know everything, or are sensitive and open enough to take something at face value and not realise someone is messing, teasing you, and above all you recognise you, me, we, ALL have, as much right, yes as much right as absolutely every other person…every other human being on this planet…to be here, to exist, to take up space, to have needs, wants, desires, have and use our voice.
We are as human enough as the next person therefore when I am being human, doing human things, like being unwell, throwing up, navigating chemotherapy, living life, craving being home on the couch…I don’t have to bother with embarrassment. I am already well and truly – ENOUGH.
I’m on a new treatment called DVD and it’s fairly heavy duty so no surprise I wasn’t going to get away unscathed. I want the regime to work. I need it to work if I am going to be able to hang about on this planet for a little longer; a little longer than the statistics still give me hope for. Anyway I’m here. I’m still here. I’m loving life, despite its challenges. I’m not going anywhere other than on travel adventures as much and as often as I can. I will be spending time with the most wonderful, special people I am privileged to have in my life, share this planet with as much and as often, as I can.
Happy holidays, Hanukkah and Christmas everyone regardless of what you do and don’t celebrate. I hope you are having an especially special break in whichever way suits YOU best.
Take care out there,
p.s. if anyone is hurting and needs support contact us at ComposurePsychology
Acknowledgements and References
Images: Me or courtesy of various artists on Unsplash.
© 2022 Janine Hayward www.psychingoutcancer.com. All rights reserved.
Posted in Covid, Myeloma Treatment, Psychology for Cancer, Symptoms and Side Effects, Uncategorized Tagged with: Bortezomib (Velcade), Cancer, Chemotherapy, Daratumumab, Dexamethazone, DVD, emotions, Myeloma, Nausea, Psychology, RIchLife, Steroids, Treatment
I listened to an interview with best-selling author Marion Keyes today and she talked about writing emotional landscapes. This is a wonderful phrase; it captures the many random thoughts I have about life, being human, living with cancer, with chemo, with uncertainty. Random thoughts, the theme for this blog, a collection of moments from the last two months where thoughts appeared in my mind as I sat, walked, waited, tossed, turned, fumed, cried, ached, appreciated, smiled, laughed and loved, always loved.
House music is on my mind and in my ears…though the Brighton weekend for clubbing was a bust – great weekend – we just didn’t find a stylish club with fab house music. Our guys went ahead to do reconnaissance. They didn’t even make it inside one club. A group of people came out (not fast enough according to them) saying very loudly how sh*t the club was, dark, dingy, crap music…needless to say we abandoned that idea. Fab friends made up for clubbing disappointments. After all, we are fortunate enough to live in one of the best club cities in the world so maybe we’ll stay local next time!
The chemo regime called VTD is different this time, cannulation monthly only – yippee! The weekly injection of Velcade isn’t so bad. I take one dose of anti-nausea beforehand and haven’t needed anymore anti-nausea drugs afterwards so far. I end up with a little localised bruising. The drug kicks in fully after about 36 hours…funny sensations, aches, pains (all bearable) in my bones…I visualise Myeloma shrivelling and dissolving.
The Thalidomide seems to impact my quality of life a lot more than the Velcade. Yes that Thalidomide, the one that causes horrible side effects for foetuses. It is no longer given to pregnant women but was discovered to have a positive impact on cancer, see here), The daily 80mg dose knocks me out and I feel tired ALL THE TIME. The stuff is toxic. A nurse who first administered the pills to me was gloved up and handling it like it was a hot potato, doing their best to avoid all contact with the pills. I wondered what the hell I was about to put into my body!
Even the weekly steroid doesn’t combat the lethargy (but it has made me eat more and I’ve put on 7kg that I don’t want!). Early morning energy is now a distant memory. The other unwanted side effect of is my stomach is like a horizontal crackerjack. I take Thalidomide and out my stomach comes, tight and large, making me look like I have consumed a whole loaf of gluten filled bread or more ironically, I look pregnant. On top of the VTD chemo regime I inject nightly Clexane, a blood thinner to stop the Thalidomide from causing blood clots.
Oh the layers…take this because it helps this but then take that because to take the first thing you need that thing to stop the bad things of the first thing….and round and round it goes….Still, the regime is working and the presence of Myeloma in my blood and bone is dropping again, down from 17 to 11. Hopefully it will continue to fall.
Doesn’t it seem an age since Christmas already? I nicked named last Christmas, Creepy Chrimbo because the hospital was strange and very different from usual. My chemo didn’t stop just because it was Christmas eve or New Year’s eve. I am grateful for all of the hardworking nurses who managed to fit in everyone’s treatment to a short week so Christmas Day could be the best it could be.
Hospital halls were eerily empty and I could hear every footstep I made ringing in my ears. I felt like I was in an Alfred Hitchcock thriller or that Jack Nicholson’s horror film grin would appear around a door jamb any second. The sense of being alone was made worse because the Chemo Unit is down the end of a long corridor, I often feel like it’s ‘shoved away’ with the renal unit, out of the way because somehow we are toxic and ‘they’ don’t want us near others, the healthier people, in case we contaminate them somehow. I know this is silly but then maybe not? Chemo is after all, hazardous, noxious and needs careful handling so maybe it is purposeful that our unit is past the research centre and beyond the other wards. I know it isn’t helpful to think this way, a little negatively, like we are not really wanted and are merely being put up with somehow. The NHS staff certainly don’t perpetuate this story; they are friendly and welcoming.
Just before I was alone in the long corridor I noticed a woman on a hospital bed being wheeled towards the renal unit. I try not to look at people when they are being wheeled around in public view, I often think it is fairly undignified yet obviously a necessary event in hospitals. I wouldn’t want to make eye contact with anyone if it was me on that bed. I’ve noticed some patients close their eyes, put a pillow or blanket over their face – possibly to gain some privacy in a very public space so I try to offer it by glancing away quickly. Though if someone in a bed looked directly at me I have decided to smile and hope they find it reaffirming, reassuring, and non-judgemental somehow.
This woman was on her side, looking away. It was after 5pm on the 24th and I wondered what her Christmas would be like and what her story was. Would she be sad to be in hospital over Christmas Day? Did she have family who wished she was with them? Would they visit her? Did she want them to visit? Or was she secretly relieved she had the best excuse to not ‘do’ Christmas this year, to rest and focus on herself instead. Or maybe she didn’t celebrate Christmas at all and instead would be disappointed to be missing out on holidays. These thoughts vanished as I found myself alone in a grey corridor with white walls, in silence where there was usually the hustle and bustle of nurses, doctors, patients and public, trolleys and endless supply boxes.
The silence strangely continued outside where the usually busy main street was devoid of cars and people. This reminded me of the contrasts of Christmas, wonderful, fun, exciting for some and challenging, triggering, or lonely for others.
The new buzzword popping up everywhere is Repurposed. From transforming old furniture into something new or turning one person’s rubbish into another person’s useful item, and now, the latest thing is repurposed drugs. Essentially, using drugs already approved by the medication regulators for treating non-cancer illnesses, to treat cancer or be added to existing cancer treatments to increase effectiveness.
When I first came across this I thought it was yet another cancer fad because the headlines gaining traction were about repurposing dog wormer! Yes you read correctly. Cancer patients were shouting out about how an anti-parasitic drug called Fenbendazole usually used for deworming dogs had cured their cancer! I was very dismissive. I don’t want to miss out on something that works but I don’t want to get caught up, distracted, invest time and precious energy into the cancer equivalent of the latest diet or beauty treatment. Dog dewormer seemed to be more in the fad than the credible category and on par with ‘take turmeric’ and your cancer will vanish. While I am a big fan of turmeric and curcumin and take it daily, I do not believe for one second that it (or Fenbendazole for that matter) will single-handedly cure my cancer or cure anyone’s cancer.
But then I got thinking, had I been too quick to write off this idea? Medical discoveries come in many forms, (like the Thalidomide scandal) from unlikely places so why wouldn’t it make sense that a medication that addressed one illness, whether in animals or humans, might also be found to have anticancer effects? I took another look and found this. Click Here
I googled some more (as you do) and came across some other interesting stuff…
Trials and projects involving existing non-cancer drugs are now being investigated for their effects on cancer – these are so important because if found to be effective they are likely to be approved for cancer treatment quickly, be cheaper and more widely accessible as they are already approved for human use and side effects are known. These links explain more..
Imagine living with cancer, walking in to a clinic, having your DNA and genome sequenced by a friendly lab technician and walking out knowing a specialist will create a cancer killing virus tailored just for you and your cancer. This is another exciting development that doesn’t seem too far away now…it’s not science fiction! Check out Andrew Hessel, founder of Humane Genomics, he explains how tailor-made viruses may one day cure cancer.
I wonder how I will be repurposed…will I be fertiliser for a beautiful oak? Will I return as a stretchy, wiley happy cat? A roll of loo paper (someone’s revenge though at least it’s useful)? Or a spider, imagine eight eyes to people watch with….
I’m due an upgrade on my phone. Chatting with my wonderful friend and hairdresser K, we laughed about our mobile phone providers and how I could easily be expected to sign up to a new contract that would out last me! Humour and especially dark humour is an emotional landscape I find really helpful.
It is a high blue sky, crisp cold and sunny day in London today. This emotional landscape is beautiful and I found myself smiling, A LOT.
Woman in the woods – Andrew Neel on Unsplash
DJ – Jernej Graj on Unsplash
Dog Wormer picture (care of The Sun)
Others – Me & Hubby
© 2020 Janine Hayward www.psychingoutcancer.com. All rights reserved.
Posted in Chemotherapy for Myeloma, Myeloma Treatment, Results Tagged with: Bone Cancer, Cancer, Christmas, Dexamethazone, Dog Wormer, Drugs, Fenbendazole, House Music, Myeloma, Repurposed, Steroid, Thalidomide, Velcade
Sick as a dog, thank you Chemo. I am meant to be on top form tomorrow. It’s hubby’s very special birthday and we have a full day of fun planned. Thanks, thanks a million for deciding to be ‘a bad Chemo’ day. Team, my wonderful team, I feel let down. There has been a mistake. You forgot to give me my steroids. I trusted you. I felt safe. I wasn’t safe today. It made a difference, a huge difference. I let myself down too. I forgot to do my own checks. I forgot to ask for my steroids. Consequences. There are always consequences in this Cancer game, some big, some small, some easily remedied, others drastic and most, a right pain in the arse. Consequences, you can rip the rug right out from under my plans. A plan to; feel good, not have to go near a hospital and not have to be in, manage my mood mode because something unexpected and unhelpful has triggered me.
Monday, you didn’t start out a bad day. In fact, you were brilliant until 6pm. I went for my morning blood test, at 8.30, later than usual after a wee welcomed sleep in and a fab, fun, friends packed day, on Sunday. Then, I moseyed to a café near hospital to do Italian language practice before my lesson with the fabulous C from Sardegna. I wandered back to Macmillan to a meeting with my therapist who helped me think about my recent test results, the meaning I was adding and my plans to up the ante on the work front. As usual she was a great help. My pink smoothie, a nutri-bulleted beetroot and green salad was yummy. My call with friend and coach M, was great. Even Chemo went smoothly. Or so I thought.
I got home and started feeling wretched. More wretched than I have in ages after a Chemo day. Even drinking water was difficult. Pain, everywhere. Nausea, constant. Stuck close to the bathroom. The Dom anti-nausea pill wasn’t doing its thing. Sweat, cold, sweat, cold. Aaargh. Why? Why today? This is sh*t. Will I function tomorrow? Hubby’s birthday is so important to me. He has even taken the day off work which is so rare. 10.15pm rolls around and Chemo you bit*h, you have me sitting on the couch, head in hands and between my knees.
Then it dawns on me. I didn’t receive my steroids today. Dexamethasone, I wasn’t given it and I was so busy watching Americans on Prime to distract me from any pain of the cannula going in, that I didn’t do my own checks. Bugger. Now what. Now, I’ll have to telephone the Haematology Registrar on-call and see if I can take my day 16 (tomorrow’s dose) of Dex now. It’s not a great time of day to be taking a steroid, they’ll keep me up all night…but hopefully I’ll feel better. Priority right now: feel better.
Then I realise. Pissed off. If I take the dose I have at home, I’m going to have to go to hospital tomorrow now, the very day I didn’t want to go and normally don’t have to go near it. And on your birthday, darling Man. I don’t know how long it will take, to pick up a steroid on a day I am not usually there. VERY PISSED OFF. My feeling wretched, my having a problem, my having to go into problem solving mode, my having to deal with the impact, accept the consequences, pissed off…it was all so preventable. Annoyed. Sad.
I ring the hospital, ask for the Haematology Reg on call. Operator says she‘ll page him and he’ll call me back very soon, often straight away. I wait. 40 minutes later, I’m still waiting. I’m so sick, I can’t get angry. Hubby calls. The operator is surprised I haven’t heard. She pages him again. He calls back in 5 minutes. No apologies, no explanations (e.g on another call). He runs through the usual questions – have a vomited? Not yet. Do I have a temperature? No, just the sweat, cold combo. Do I have diarreah or constipation? No. Just pain, a lot of pain and nausea that pills don’t kick. Finally, he confirmed I should take the Dex I have at home and go up to hospital for another dose tomorrow.
I take the steroids and Hubby manages to find another stronger anti-nausea tablet amongst my large array of pills in ‘the pill box’ (a large bread bin, works a treat). I cuddle up to Hubby, focus on his breathing and wait for drugs to kick in. By the time we move it’s 1am and despite the steroid, I feel like my body is now desperate for sleep. Good. Happy to oblige. I drag myself upstairs to bed.
Hubby’s birthday day. I feel a whole heap better but very drained. He drives me to hospital. I go to get my steroid and my fear about how the day may unfold starts to be realised. Cancer, you bit*ch, you don’t make life easy. My steroid isn’t ready. I don’t get to drop in, collect it and get out again (my hope). Despite having an email back from my specialist in the morning, acknowledging that a) my Chemo, carfilzomib is hard to tolerate without the steroid and b) containing his request that I be dispensed the steroid today, directly from the Chemo Day Unit (CDU) and c) that the clinical trial nurse should call the CDU nurses to make sure they have the steroid ready for 9.30am – it’s not ready. I even get there about 10.40am, figuring I’d give everyone a bit more time to communicate and prepare.
I explain again, what has happened. The CDU nurses won’t give me the steroid and when they call the Clinical trial nurse for information something is lost in translation so they now think they need a prescription before they can give me anything. I show them my box of Dex with the prescription and dose details AGAIN. I start to get upset. Really upset. I could be waiting for ages for the clinical trial nurse to come to the CDU with a prescription (I’ve been through this before so know how long it can take) and then if I must go to the regular hospital pharmacy for it to be filled, I can write off another hour, it is hideously inefficient.
Tears. Yep they’re coming. I cry. M the wonderful receptionist comes to comfort me and says ‘this is not like you’ and to find out what’s going on. I fleetingly wonder ‘what is like me, when I’m here?’ I feel bad because I know the team have had someone die today and one of the head nurses has had to race off and manage that. My tears over impacting my day with my hubby seem trivial in comparison and yet not, nothing is trivial in this Cancer journey. It’s all bearable for me most of the time, yet it is all sh*t too. I cry some more.
Nurse L comes to my rescue. She looked after me all last year and I missed her when she left to do a stint in private practice. She asks what is going on, I tell her, show her my empty box of Dex and say I just need my day 16 dose because I had to take it last night after not receiving the steroids yesterday. I don’t say which Nurse forgot to give me the steroid. Nurses are human. We all make mistakes. She is usually so so good so must have had an ‘off day’. AND, it was my mistake too. It’s not really fair to hand all responsibility and agency of my care over to a Nurse. After all, I bang on about being the agent in your own health and treatment for as long as you possibly can. Nurse L goes and gets the Dex dose immediately and finally I get to leave.
Thank you M and L. You saved my day. I know my Clinician plans to talk to the nurses about how the steroid was missed but I don’t worry about that now. I know mistakes happen yet between us, the Nurses and I are usually so good at going through a checklist each time. It’s a shame it went wrong.
On this day of all days.
Psychology Tips – Working with your and others’ mistakes
Admitting mistakes can be hard. Research shows there are links between our beliefs about whether we can change our behaviour or whether our personality is fixed and if mistakes and admitting mistakes are perceived threats.1 Cognitive Scientist, Art Markman summarised the research results2 and explains when you believe that your behaviour can change, you are more likely to be willing to admit responsibility. You recognise that by admitting what you have done wrong, you can work to make it better, to grow and so you are not threatened or are less threatened by admitting mistakes.
People who do not believe that they can change, can be stressed by admitting their mistakes, because they believe that those mistakes say something fundamental about who they are as a person. Understanding that people see their own mistakes as a threat, and have different beliefs about their own and possibly others’ ability to change, can help us to remember to avoid showing unhelpful frustration and anger when managing mistakes. We can all change our behaviour. We can all learn from our mistakes. We can all repair and improve relationships. It can take some people longer than others, to recognise that change and growth is possible, especially when their starting point is one of: I and others have fixed personalities and mistakes are flaws.
It’s easy to get frustrated with others’ mistakes when we feel something is unfair (it can be completely justified) but does it help the situation to show the frustration? A compassionate response will get you more powerful results and responding with anger and frustration negatively impacts loyalty3,4. In my case, I want the Nurses to like treating me. I want them to feel we are on the same team, to feel loyal, committed. Showing my frustration and upset was normal, human, yet unlikely to have been the optimal way to have managed the situation. Remembering that frustration, anger and stress raise heart rates, make it harder to think, mean that when recognising frustration, a good first step is to pause, be mindful, and then choose a more powerful response. One of clear communication, compassion, kindness, empathy, forgiveness. This is more likely to invoke compassion, kindness and loyalty in return.
Recognise too that anger, frustration and upset at mistakes of yours and others are often underpinned and exacerbated by worry and a catastrophising thinking style. I was worrying that my need to go to hospital on Hubby’s birthday day would ruin our day. Ruin his day. Eventually I managed to realise an unhelpful worry and thinking style was probably in play and ask myself, was my hospital visit really the worst thing in the world? Were my thoughts true, would our day really be ruined? How much time in our day did it take up really? Was it more likely that hubby was happy to help and had enjoyed his rare time alone, in a café, doing things he wanted to do, without having to be at work, while I was at hospital? Regaining perspective enabled me to let my frustration and upset go. An hour later I noticed I was laughing at something Hubby said and our day was going well. Yes, it meant we came home earlier than expected because I was really tired yet we relaxed together and the evening was a good one. I could easily have been very tired anyway. It’s not unusual for the day after Chemo.
1 Who accepts responsibility for their transgressions? Schumann, K and Dweck, CS. Who accepts responsibility for their transgressions? Pers Soc Psychol Bull. 2014 Dec;40(12):1598-610. doi: 10.1177/0146167214552789
2 Markman, A. (2014) What makes some of us own our mistakes and not others?
(2009) Witnessing excellence in action: the ‘other-praising’ emotions of elevation, gratitude, and admiration, The Journal of Positive Psychology, 4:2, 105-127
4 See Adam Grant, Psychologist and author of Give and take: A revolutionary approach to success. See also work by Emma Seppala, Center for Compassion and Altruism Research and Education.
Shadow and Dex pictures by Me
Dog Photo by Matthew Henry on Unsplash
Shattered plate Photo by chuttersnap on Unsplash
Failed it Photo by Estée Janssens on Unsplash
© 2018 Janine Hayward www.psychingoutcancer.com. All rights reserved.
Posted in Chemotherapy for Myeloma, Myeloma Treatment, Psychology for Cancer, Symptoms and Side Effects Tagged with: Cancer, Carfilzomib, Compassion, Consequences, Dexamethazone, Frustration, Mindfulness, Mistake, Mistakes, Myeloma, Nausea, Psychology, Sick, Steroids, Sweats, Tears, Worry
Most people take more time over choosing a new sofa or hairstyle than I was given to decide on my treatment pathway for Myeloma Cancer. There was no time to waste; my back vertebrae were in danger of fracturing and causing cord compression so treatment needed to start asap. I seal my fate within the week, a time frame Dr R and I could live with. I frantically researched global treatment options versus UK treatment options, NHS versus private care, compared treatment side effects, managed queries in phone calls with Dr R in the evenings, spoke to experts, trawled the internet and discussed pros and cons lists with Hubby.
I had a flash of realisation that no one could make this choice except me. All the other big choices in life recently had been joint decisions; which house to buy, whether to move to Cambridge, when to move back to London, whether we could afford for me to start a business, whether to get a cat, how each clinical psychology course could work for us if I was offered a place. Joint decisions, because they impacted both of us.
Yet, here was the decision that could turn both of our lives completely upside down and I ultimately had to make it alone. A decision impacting my health, my body and what I was going to let someone else do to it. What if I chose the wrong thing and I shortened my life unnecessarily? What if I chose something that turned out to have gruesome side effects for me? What burden was my choice going to cause for Hubby? How long will it be before I am in excruciating pain, breaking bones left, right and centre, paralysed or need full time care?
Pause, breath. I remind myself that survival rates in myeloma are increasing at one of the fastest paces among all cancer types in the UK1. Pause. Breath.
In the end four things kept zooming around my head:
- There is some evidence (though better and more research is needed) that people have better outcomes when they participate in clinical trials2,3.
- Standard care involves Thalidomide. I know it has improved since the old days but the side effects can still be nasty and I just don’t like the sound of it.
- The main trial drug Carfilzomib has had great results for people at relapse stage and it and its side kick Cyclophosphamide have been much better tolerated than Thalidomide.
- I will be monitored like a hawk if I sign up to the trial so reactions and adjustments are likely to be more timely.
- I can always withdraw if I feel the trial is no longer serving me and move to standard care. I don’t want to withdraw yet I can, if I feel it’s necessary.
You guessed it, in the end I chose the trial. It’s called CARDAMON and is being overseen by a partnership between University College London (UCL), Cancer Research UK and Amgen Ltd (Pharmaceutical company). Participant recruitment is taking place at UCL and Kings College Hospital (KCH) and several other UK hospitals.
So, what will be done to my body and its overzealous Myeloma para proteins?
For four months, in one month cycles, I will receive a chemotherapy cocktail of three drugs nicknamed KCD. KCD comprises of:
Carfilzomib (Kyprolis)4,5. This has been used to treat over 4000 myeloma patients world-wide with both relapsed and newly diagnosed myeloma, is licensed for use in the US and approved by the Food and Drug administration (FDA) but is yet to be approved in the UK, hence the trial. It is a proteasome inhibitor that prevents breakdown of abnormal proteins in cancer cells, causing the cells to die. It has only rarely been reported to be linked with the side effect of peripheral neuropathy (pins/needles/numbness in extremities) which can be painful and which has been associated with the drug used in standard care, Velcade (Bortezomib). I will get Carfilzomib by intravenous infusion, through a cannula in my vein on 6 days out of the month. Doesn’t sound so bad…
Cyclophosphamide (Cyclo)6. This drug belongs to a group of drugs called alkylating agents. It works by sticking to one of the cancer cell’s DNA strands. DNA is the genetic code that is in the heart of all animal and plant cells. It controls everything the cell does. The cell cannot then divide into 2 new cells. I will get Cyclo orally by tablets on 3 days out of the month. Doesn’t sound so bad…
Dexamethasone (Dex)7. This is a strong steroid that can suppress inflammation and the immune response, kills cancer cells and usually induces a better response to the other chemotherapy drugs than when chemotherapy is used alone. I will get Dex orally by tablets on 4 days out of the month. Doesn’t sound so bad…
After three weeks in the month of going into hospital every Monday and Tuesday for the above, I get a week off the KCD and don’t have to go to hospital.
I do though have to take a bunch of other meds too, one to protect my kidneys, another to prevent/manage nausea, another to stop a virus outbreak, an antibiotic to prevent infection. These continue during the non-chemo, no-hospital week.
I’ll also start another drug called Zometa8, a biophosphanate with good evidence that it reduces bone loss, fractures and helps to build bones. I will get Zometa by intravenous infusion, through a cannula in my vein on the same day as getting Carfilzomib I think. I’m yet to understand how often this happens.
After four months, my response to the Chemo will be assessed and if my Myeloma para protein level has dropped by 50% or more, the Chemo will be considered a success.
I will then be scheduled for a heavy-duty med to induce stem cell production ahead of stem cell collection.
After recovering from the stem cell harvest, I will then be randomised to either the;
- branch of the trial that receives an autologous stem cell transplant (ASCT; meaning using my own harvested cells) in the same way I would have received one if I had chosen standard care or
- I will go into the branch that receives a further four months of the KCD cocktail
After this, participants in both branches of the trial receive maintenance medication.
So, what is hoped for from all this medication? Short term, the hope is that the standard care response of a minimum of a three-year remission is achieved and for the patients in the continued KCD arm that this remission period is achieved without having to undergo an invasive stem cell transplant. Longer term, the aim is that the treatments, even within the three years of my own remission, will have moved on so quickly (there are already exciting drugs coming down the line in trials) that Myeloma moves from an incurable illness to a chronic illness. A stem cell transplant would then become the final defense at the later stages of the illness.
If this all a lot to take in, I get it. I thought so too and I’m still getting my head around it all. There is a massive new language set that goes with moving in this world of cancer and Myeloma.
Have I done the right thing? I hope so. I feel that I have, with the research and time in which I had to make the decision. Psychological cognitive science theory purports that usually you will choose your choice. It is called choice–supportive bias or post-purchase rationalization9. It is the tendency to retroactively ascribe positive attributes to an option one has selected and it’s a cognitive bias. Therefore, I am highly likely to have a cognitive bias about my decision to choose the trial because not to do so would undermine my choice…and make it much harder to believe the trial treatment will be successful. I usually try to avoid or at least be cognisant to my own biases. In this case, I fully own and embrace my bias about my decision to go with CARDAMON. BRING IT ON!
Acknowledgements and References:
1Myeloma UK. www.myelomauk.org
4 CARDAMON Patient Information Sheet; Kings College Hospital; version 4.0; 07Nov16
Copy Editor: Stephanie Kemp
Image: Photo by Angelo Pantazis on Unsplash
© 2017 Janine Hayward www.psychingoutcancer.com. All rights reserved.
Posted in Chemotherapy for Myeloma, Psychology for Cancer Tagged with: Cancer, Carfilzomib, Chemotherapy, Choice Supportive Bias, Chronic Illness, Clinical Trial, Cognitive Bias, Cyclophosphamide, Dexamethazone, KCD, Myeloma, Para Protein, Post-Purchase Rationalisation, Response to Chemotherapy, Stem Cell Harvest, Stem Cell Transplant, Survival Rates, Treatment, Treatment options, Zometa