Standing Up To Cancer

I live by the old baseball saying, “When something hurts, rub dirt on it.” I bought a T-shirt with this saying for my baseball-loving son.

I’m not one to run to a doctor for just any reason. If I visit our medical clinic, it’s usually for something simple like a sprain, back pain, sports injury, or walking my damaged bike home with no memory of what happened, which resulted in a broken back, rib, collapsed lung, and traumatic brain injury (Too specific?)…small things like that. My first question for the doctor is always, “Will the pain kill me?” If he says no, I’m fine and I can deal with it.

Recently I discovered some blood, where blood wasn’t supposed to be, and enough to be concerned. I immediately ran to my doctor, which started a bunch of tests that led to a diagnosis of Stage 4 Prostate Cancer. How ironic, I have something that is not causing me any pain but may be what kills me. I don’t hear anyone laughing.

When I shared my diagnosis with my senior friends who play golf and softball with, instead of getting sympathy, most of them started sharing what they are going through with their prostate cancer. Can’t a guy get a little pity here? I just discovered my softball team leads the league in prostate issues.

The odds of a man contracting prostate cancer are about one in every two guys. That is based on my very clinical and thorough research that consisted of asking four guys on my team and finding two of us who have it. It’s not that different from claiming something is true because some random guys said so. I wish I could get those kinds of odds in Las Vegas. 

Many of my comrades from golf and softball have different degrees of the disease. Some are contained and easily treatable. Some have metastasized and require a more involved solution. A few are full blown and the disease is taking its toll. I’m one of the guys in the middle. It has metastasized but is small, and there is a chance of forcing it into remission. My oncologist made statements like, “Quality of life,” and “extending your life,” before saying the magic word I wanted to hear, “remission.” Talk about burying the lead. 

Many doctors say, “Something else may kill you before the cancer.” I know what it is, the cost of treating this horrid mess…or getting hit by a bus, but I can see the bus coming and avoid it, can’t avoid the outrageous cost of all the medications. 

I was sent for a shot to start my treatment. It was called Lupor and as the paperwork said, it would be given to me in my gluteus medius. I guess my butt isn’t good enough to be Maximus. It was a real kick in the ass, literally and virtually. I couldn’t sit for a couple of days after the injection, and then I received the bill for the shot, which was $16,500. My co-pay was $348.00, a bit better but still a shock. After reading the bill, I grabbed my chest (my heart started racing) and thought, this is what’s going to kill me.

I was then prescribed what the pharmacist called a “chemo” drug. I’m supposed to take four pills a day. I received a note from my pharmacy that ordering would take a couple of days. Two days later I received another note that said the pills were ready and my co-pay would be $1,992.50. There goes my down payment on that Shelby Mustang I wanted. Can’t touch my golf fund. I intend to go down swinging.

I reached my Medicare maximum co-pay on drugs with the first prescription, and everything after that should have no co-pay. I’m still a long way away from medical procedures with a separate co-pay maximum. I have discovered that it’s cheaper to die.

I know how to pay for my medications without going bankrupt and maybe make a few extra bucks in the meantime. Everyone has seen those commercials on television, where people are walking in the park, visiting farmer’s markets, or dancing around and singing an upbeat song about the drug that may save their lives from the terrible disease they have. There is often a little disclaimer saying, “Actual patient has been compensated for the commercial.”

Hey, why not me. I can sing and dance around a fountain with a large group of choreographed extras in the background. I could become the “Flo” (Progressive Insurance) for my medication and be set for life, or what’s left of it.

The problem with these commercials is that I can’t just buy the drug. A doctor has to prescribe it to me. The pharmaceutical companies want me to harass my doctor until he does prescribe it to me.

The way of reducing the costs of these drugs is to cut out the costly commercials, eliminate the 10s of millions of dollars the drug executives receive as salaries, and have the companies quit hiring lobbyists. Pharmaceutical lobbyist pressure our elected representatives to vote against our best interest and for the gouging of the sick and older adults, in exchange for a donation to their campaign. Or, we could all move to Canada, Denmark, England, Germany or other industrial countries that don’t allow large corporations to rape their customers, fiscally. While we’re at it, let’s go after big oil too. 

For many readers, I am preaching to the choir. I’m not the first person to get this disease and I won’t be the last. It has become commonplace. I am sorry if I have offended anyone for how flippant I have been addressing my condition. While some folks are laughing along with me…and quite a few at me, some seem to be taking this more seriously. My wife is sitting on the other side of the room giving me a look. You know what look that is guys.

I have always dealt with adversity by getting pissed off…and the drugs they are giving me has taken away that pleasure…then with humor.

I will be sharing my journey on this blog, and may try to be respectful…naw, that ain’t going to happen. While this may seem like a rant, it is an outlet for me.

If I don’t get hit by a meteorite in the meantime, I will return to my usual dribble in my next blog.

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