The Onco Wars

Imagine two oncologists starting a practice, then imagine the same two oncologists having a falling out two years later. Welcome to the Onco Wars, raging now at the office where I have been receiving care for my chronic lymphocytic leukemia.

I'll call them Dr. Belle and Dr. Tower. You can think of them as Godzilla vs. Megalon, with all the attendant fire-breathing and foot-stomping that entails. 

On January 23, Dr. Belle, my doctor, wrote a letter to her patients:

"It is with sadness and a heavy heart that I announce that, due to unforeseen circumstances, I will no longer be able to attend to you as your physician. This letter is to advise you that I will not provide professional medical services to you after January 30, 2012. Your current condition requires follow up and I encourage you to find a new physician promptly to continue this care . . . I suggest you contact your insurance plan representative for assistance in locating a new hematologist/oncologist to assume your care . . ."

And on January 27, Dr. Tower wrote to Dr. Belle's patients:

"Dr. Belle has recently informed us, and sent a letter to you, stating that she will be leaving the practice effective 1/30/12. Let me assure you that our office still remains committed to serving your needs and assisting in your care. I understand that Dr. Belle's departure may be upsetting to you, but I assure you that I am more than willing and able to assume your care, and would in fact be honored to do so . . ."

There is no doubt an interesting back-story here, which I don't imagine I will ever know. For me and for Dr. Belle's other patients, the big news is that we don't have a doctor anymore. Dr. Tower wants us to stay, but I hear through the grapevine that a number are choosing to go.

For me, all this comes at the worst possible time. With a lymphocyte count of about 260,000, hemoglobin of 9.4, and platelets finally having dropped to a Stage 4-level 85, the need for treatment is staring me squarely in the face, if not also socking me squarely in the jaw.

I have spun the wheel of fortune and picked a name from the measly list my health plan offers. I'll be seeing the new name soon, and hopefully I'll like this person enough to make them my new onc. Meanwhile, I won't rule out seeing Dr. Tower. But since insurance won't cover treatment at that practice, it may be time to cut the cord and go. Especially since it has been pretty much cut for me.  

Ouch.

White bagging, or the seventh circle of health insurance Hell

Let's say you're a patient with a low income who qualifies for help from a drug company. That drug company is willing to deliver the drug, free of charge, to an infusion center near you.

Great, right?

And let's say your insurance is contracted with Scottsdale Chemo Hut. (Sure, it would be nice to get the infusion done at your oncologist's office, but your insurance won't cover treatment there, even though it will cover office visits. That is the sixth circle of Hell, which has more circles than Saturn has rings when it comes to health insurance issues.)

So let's say you are getting everything set up with Chemo Hut, and in the process you  speak to the pharmacy manager. And you are told this: Chemo Hut does not accept drugs directly from drug companies. The drug can arrive in an armored vehicle, in a suitcase chained to the wrist of the president of the company, and they'll still refuse to accept it.

And why is this? Because Chemo Hut cannot bill for it. If they use their own supplier, they can make money. Increasingly, more hospitals and infusion centers are refusing to administer free drugs that their patients qualify for. This is because they are upset about a trend known as "white bagging."  

Under white bagging, insurance plans use their own specialty pharmacies to supply drugs at a cheaper rate than those purchased through the hospital supply chain. By some estimates, this now accounts for some 25% of infusions. Complimentary drugs for the less financially fortunate are collateral damage in this tug of war between insurers, who want to contain costs, and hospitals, which want to maximize profits.

Hospitals also complain about the inconvenience of having to store these drugs separately and write things like "for David Arenson only" on the outside of the box.

FYI, there is also something called "brown bagging," in which the drug is delivered to the patient, who totes it in along with their lunch. Maybe I can see that one being a problem. Chemo Hut may not want to be responsible for infusing you with ofatumumab you bought off a guy in a truck down the block.

Still, for patients who need chemotherapy and who cannot otherwise afford it, Chemo Hut and other hospitals and centers are making no exceptions, and this makes life difficult, not to mention a little more absurd than it already is.

In my case, Chemo Hut will infuse the drug if it is ordered through their supplier; our insurance company does not work with specialty pharmacies, and it has approved the drug under my medical benefit, which means I have to pay 20% coinsurance. Or, we estimate, upwards of $20,000 by the time all is said and done.

Well, lucky me, Chemo Hut also has a financial assistance program. A patient may qualify for a reduction in the bill of up to 100%. I say "may" and I use the term guardedly, because a patient may also not qualify, and be stuck with angry collection agencies and dings on their credit if they are unable to pay. The coinsurance the patient owes must now be written off as a loss. And while the insurance company will pay 80% at a negotiated rate, there is probably not a huge amount of profit there. So how much money is Chemo Hut actually making when all is said and done?

Chemo Hut could have administered free drug and still earned money on the costs of infusion, which is not chump change. But that would have been too easy. I know from running a business that sometimes you sell something and make a lot of money, and sometimes you sell something and make a little, but that you need both kinds of sales to stay profitable. (Not to mention the moral issues involved, but we're talking the health care system here, so that may not apply.)

There is one alternative, perhaps. One might ask the insurance company to approve infusion of the drug in the oncologist's office after all. The oncologist doesn't have a problem with white bagging because the oncologist actually cares about the patient. The oncologist, BTW, would like to be "in network" with the insurance and is willing to negotiate a fair price.

All of this would save the insurance company from having to pay huge sums of money for an expensive drug that can be gotten for free. Compared to the costs of the drug, paying the cost of administration is a substantial savings.

The savings would be, as they say on Vulcan, logical. This is Earth, though, specifically the United States. The insurance company (and Chemo Hut) would rather create a ridiculous financial morass that benefits no one, including the patient.

Quack, quack

Just a little update. Marilyn (She Who Battles Insurance) and I are working on getting our ducks in a row. I have an appointment in early February with a doctor who is managing some clinical trials of Btk inhibitors. And in the meantime we are working on getting O+HDMP set up as a fallback.

"O" stands for "ofatumumab," aka Arzerra. Apparently it is a strange and unusual beast. We're working with one of the largest hospitals (where the infusion would take place) in one of the largest metropolitan areas (Phoenix) in the country, and ain't nobody never asked for none of that fancy 'tumumab stuff before. The inventory control manager of the hospital pharmacy is trying to figure out what it is and how to get hold of it.

Of course, all of this would be much easier if I could just have the infusion at my oncologist's office. But she's out of network, even though insurance will pay for me to see her. They just won't pay her to treat me. And this is why my brain is turning to mush, which is an unexpected side effect not of CLL, but of having American health insurance.
 
Surprisingly, it appears that insurance will approve ofatumumab -- under my medical benefit, not my pharmacy benefit. Medical benefit means it has to be "injected at the hospital," and I will owe 20% coinsurance. Pharmacy benefit means it's a drug with a $35 co-pay. Near as we can tell, I am going to be on the hook for something like $17,000 in coinsurance if I can't get some help from somewhere. Which means I can't afford it, unless I'd like to consider going bankrupt. 

I am reminded of the late Dr. Terry Hamblin's many posts in which he discussed the merits of one drug or another, compared often negligible differences in progression-free survival, and concluded that the beaucoup expensive drug was not worth the cost. O+HDMP could turn into R+HDMP, I suppose, or chlorambucil plus prednisone, which costs almost nothing.

Meanwhile, maybe a trial will work out. . . . The big question is how a Btk inhibitor might affect marrow function. My hemoglobin is down to 9.6, and slowly trending south. Welcome to Stage 3.

What I do know is that some kind of treatment has to come soon, and February looks like the month. I'll report back when I'm finally sitting in the chair somewhere, having something happen.

Farewell, Terry Hamblin

The CLL community has lost one of its best and truest friends, Dr. Terry Hamblin, to his own battle with a different cancer. 

Hamblin, one of the world's leading chronic lymphocytic leukemia doctors and researchers, retired from most of his duties in the U.K. about six years ago. He could have gone sailing, or found a lucrative post with a pharmaceutical company, or disappeared into a quiet, well-earned country life. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves and went to work where he was needed most, using new internet tools to help CLL patients worldwide.

I began my blog in November 2005 and Terry's came on line just a couple of weeks later. Through his blog and his inexhaustible contributions to the ACOR CLL List, not to mention personal e-mail, Terry answered thousands of questions about the disease and its treatment. He freely gave of his lifetime of experience, even to the point of exhaustion. Over at ACOR they established something called The Professors' Posts to archive his answers so the same question did not have to be asked of him again and again (the plural in professors includes another invaluable ACOR contributor, Dr. Susan LeClair).

I called him Terry, but I always felt a little awkward about it. It's sort of like calling God "dude." He signed everything "Terry Hamblin," in the matter-of-fact way that was his trademark. When he got rushed, he tended to transpose the letters in "the," and there was always a place in my mind where I saw him as "Teh Professor." And I mean that respectfully and lovingly. In a world where our written words -- in e-mails, blog posts, discussion forums -- have become our main form of communication with one another, there are little tics, little traits that you notice.

Another thing I noticed was that Terry was always honest and direct. He told you what he thought, and he told you if he didn't know something, and he never made an effort to sugar-coat anything. In other words, he treated us patient rabble like people, like equals,  like adults.

"We [doctors] really don't have the means to keep you alive for longer than about 12 years," he once wrote to me. It wasn't what I wanted to hear, but it was the truth as he saw it. That's one thing you could count on hearing from Terry Hamblin.

Terry was a bit old school. He believed in the scientific method. He had seen too many things come and go to jump on the latest bandwagon. He wasn't the cheerleader type. He liked hard evidence, and so he provided a grounded, conservative perspective as new treatments and tests unfolded. This didn't always make him the most popular voice out there, but you could always rely on him for sure and steady reasoning.

I never detected an atom of pomposity in the man, and this is no small feat in a world in which "M.D." is sometimes taken to mean "Medical Deity." Terry didn't need to have his ego stroked, and while he was justly proud of his many accomplishments, he remained, as far as I could tell, a humble, uncomplicated soul. It was as if he didn't see the invisible line that we patients see between doctors and ourselves. To him, we were all just people, and when he began his struggle with his own cancer, we CLLers came to see the full scope of his strength, his vulnerability, and his humanity. Terry was now on the journey that we had been on, experiencing the travails of cancer that go beyond medicine.

Over the years, I tried not to bother Terry too much, knowing how many inquiries he received, but I did correspond with him from time to time. He once went out of his way to discuss my case with some of the best minds in U.K. hematology, a favor I did not expect nor ask for, but for which I was grateful. He read my blog sometimes and occasionally commented here, which made me feel like maybe I wasn't a complete idiot.

Readers of his blog know that Terry Hamblin was a devout Christian. But he not only talked the talk, he walked the walk.

Last November, Terry wrote something that sums up his character in far better words than any I can offer:

I had a weepy day yesterday as I contemplated the things I had left undone. At the end of Schindler's List, Liam Neeson has a scene where he looks at his luxury car and his gold ring and thinks of how many more Jews these could have bought. "I could have done more," he exclaims.

That is how I felt. I told this to Dr John when he visited and he reassured me. None of us can ever do enough. We mustn't reproach ourselves.

Today I am much more cheerful. I went out for the first time in 2 weeks and bought some flowers for my wife. The Scripture tells us not to be weary in well-doing.
 
Terry never truly tired of well-doing, and he left a world of good works in his wake. There is no better testament to a life well-lived. He will be sorely missed in this little corner of Arizona, and by his friends everywhere across the globe.

New year, new challenges

It's 2012, and my CLL journey continues along a new stretch of Shit Creek. I am, at the moment, paddle-free.

But let me take a moment to wish you all a Happy New Year. May we continue on in enough good health to continue on, and may we have time left over after dealing with medical matters to enjoy our lives, our loved ones, and the beauty and bounty that the Earth provides.

It's important to keep that perspective, even in difficult times. As you know, I lost my older brother to a stroke six months ago, so mortality seems that much more fragile to me than it did before. 

Then, this morning, I scrolled through the list of blogs I keep on the right side of this page and found that another CLL compatriot, Jackie Sue, has passed on. 

Everywhere in CLL World I see struggle; often with enough success to keep on fighting another day, sometimes with less success than was hoped. And all this is occurring against a rather jaw-dropping array of new progress in CLL, namely the kinase inhibitors such as CAL-101 and PCI-32765 and the CAR trials of juiced up killer T-cells, such as CART-19 at the University of Pennsylvania. (This PDF from CLL Global gives a good, brief rundown on both.)

I cannot help but conclude, as I think of friends I have lost, as I think of those who are struggling as I am, how close we are to salvation, and yet so far.

I blog less these days. One big reason is that I am busy with our ever-growing and ever-demanding online business, not to mention personal matters, usually my health and that of my dear Marilyn. 

But when there is a little time left over, I find myself hesitating to write. In part, I have run out of useful things to jabber about. My training as a newspaper editor etched into my head that a story has to be worth being told to merit space in print.

Another reason is, for lack of a better term, battle fatigue. You can paint lipstick on the CLL experience, but it's still a pig, and after eight years I have seen enough pain, suffering, and life-altering disruption to conclude that having CLL completely and totally sucks. There's nothing good to be said about it, and therefore I find myself not wanting to talk about it. 

That said, it was my promise when I started this blog to describe my journey honestly and completely, so that my experience will be a useful learning tool for those who come along. And so, the latest:

The good news is that the abscess referred to in my last post has healed, the drain has come out of my neck, and the infection is gone. The node in question has not enlarged very much; indeed that side of my neck shows less nodeyness than the other. Perhaps if we CLLers stick drains in our nodes the disease will simply drip away. (Yes, I'm kidding.)

The bad news is that my disease has entered a new, more aggressive phase. For the first time, my red counts have dropped due to marrow impaction. My hemoglobin has been in the 10 to 11 range for the past couple of months. Platelets have also fallen, to just above 100. I am on the doorstep of Stage 4, measuring by those numbers.

What's worse, the nodes have returned with a vengeance, that one area of my neck aside. My guess is that this is simply the product of ineffective control of the disease for many months, as opposed to some new mutation. Until I have a FISH test, I won't know for sure.

Let's back up for a minute. I'll try to cover some history, briefly, that would have made for several blog posts had I had the time.

After a year of treatment, I went off Revlimid (lenalidomide) last March, in part because I wanted to give my body a break. As you may recall, I had two transient ischemic attacks while on the drug. Clotting problems run in my family and claimed the lives of both my brother and my mother.

Another reason was the expectation that I might qualify for a CAL-101 clinical trial. I will call this the Godot trial, because I kept waiting and waiting and waiting for a slot to open, and was told "any day now" for what became months and months. What was supposed to have occurred in April was delayed until August. Even then, it all seemed rather promising. I had restarted Revlimid in July because the need to treat could wait no longer. Calistoga, the maker of CAL-101, was even willing to waive the requirement that I should not have had treatment 28 days before enrolling. When I was about to pack my bags, I got the bad news: due to a clerical error, the slot in question did not exist. And they could not just add a new one, since the maker of the other drug in the trial, ofatumumab (aka Arzerra), would not provide any more free drug.

I was told that drug companies hire other companies to organize and manage trials for them, and that one of these companies had made the mistake. The principal investigator was quite aplogetic and said this had never happened in all the years he had been conducting trials. Goodbye, paddle.

Meanwhile, back at Revlimid Ranch, things weren't going so well. When I restarted the drug, I did so with a great deal of care paid to the clotting issue. At the time I began Revlimid 2.0, my brother lay in the hospital, unable to move his left side and barely able to move his right. 

I had a complete clotting panel done, which confirmed my propensity to clot. Indeed, it came out worse than a similar panel that was run on my brother.

I had been on warfarin for a little while prior to quitting Revlimid in March, but my clotting time always remained pretty much normal, which means fast. And so when I began Revlimid again, we added more warfarin, to which, it turns out, I don't easily respond. Later, my doctor added aspirin to the warfarin. Meanwhile, the Revlimid dose was kept minimal, at 5 mg twice a week and occasionally every other day. As it turns out, I wasn't getting enough of the drug.

In November came the first signs of trouble. My red counts showed a drop, and my lymphocyte count showed a jump. Shortly thereafter, I began to notice an orange cast to my urine. I've posted about that several times, and in the past it had always been a sign of hemolysis due to autoimmune hemolytic anemia (AIHA). I assumed that was the case this time as well.

Revlimid, an immunomodulator, had seemed to put an end to my AIHA. Tests were ordered, and in the meantime I went on Revlimid 5 mg daily in an effort to head the hemolysis off at the pass. It made sense at the time: Maybe I needed more Revlimid to control the situation.

But the testing showed no signs of AIHA, and also that red counts were continuing to drop. And the orange urine remained, which brought me to the next logical conclusion: internal bleeding due to blood thinners. 

So I stopped the thinners and the orange disappeared almost immediately. And no blood thinners meant no Revlimid, which was coincidentally giving me new fits in terms of tumor flare. (Goodbye, other paddle.) After merely five days of 5 mg, the minimal dose Celgene makes and well below that considered optimal in trials, I looked freakishly flarish (see second-to-last photo in my last post). 

I had always had a tumor flare reaction with Revlimid, which is actually a sign that the drug is working, but never anything like this.

It felt like a Vise-Grip was closing around my neck from the back, leaving just a bit of my Adam's Apple free, and making it hard to open my mouth very far. It was at this point that the abscess formed, although it took another week, during which steroids brought down all the flare but the abscess, before I ended up in the ER and the diagnosis was made.  

During the December Drain Festival, I could not treat the CLL because of the wounded node. Now that it has been removed, and the node is healing -- the ENT doc says to give it at least two weeks -- treatment is back on the table.

I am looking into a couple of clinical trials, as well as into a treatment to keep me going in the interim. One thing I have learned about trials, of course, is that Things Take Time. Another thing I have learned is that the study drug may be free, but all other expenses, from administering the drugs to CT-scans to the cost of the drug that the study drug is being tested with, are usually out-of-pocket. Unless covered by insurance (insert guffaw here).

The treatment I may do soon is R+HDMP, or perhaps Arzerra plus HDMP, which is a whole 'nother can of worms.

I've been stymied at every turn by my increasingly stingy health insurance plan, which covers fewer and fewer doctors -- including treatment in the office of my own oncologist -- and fewer and fewer drugs. Clinical trial expenses, forget it. And while Arzerra may have FDA approval for CLL, to borrow a phrase from a popular viral video, honey badger don't care. 

It's gotten so bad that I've found myself flirting with the idea of dropping coverage for six months so that I can get on the new federal Pre-Existing Condition Insurance Plan. I know, this is probably a bad idea, especially since my little hospital getaway (two fun-filled nights and three fun-filled days) came to more than $10,000, of which I will end up paying no more than a third thanks to my insurance, bad as it is 

(I am so looking forward to 2014, when I'll be able to buy decent insurance under the new health care law. I have my issues with President Obama, but from where I sit, he deserves a big, wet kiss for Obamacare, imperfect as it is.)

The cherry on the sundae is that there is a fair degree of tumult at my oncologist's office that is also not helping matters. 

So let's just say that external forces are not making my little canoe trip an easy one. Shit Creek is hard enough to navigate with a paddle. 

But onward I go, mateys, trying not to capsize.

To quote Newt Gingrich (yes, I am quoting Newt Gingrich):

Perseverance is the hard work you do after you get tired of doing the hard work you already did.  

A real pain in the neck

And I mean that literally. Yes, that's me, laying in the ER, just after a drain was put into my neck.

It all began with a lymph node under my left jaw that swelled up, and kept swelling and swelling, and swelling and swelling, until I could barely open my mouth. I've heard of CLL patients getting massive nodes before, but this was no ordinary CLL event. 

It turns out that a bit of bacteria, something in the strep family, got caught up in the node and caused an abscess. The CT scan at the ER pegged the node at 5.0 x 4.1 x 3.3 cm. But the way it was stretched over my neck, it felt much larger than that, and measured by touch more like five inches than 5 cm. It was crushing my neck muscles and salivary glands. Had it gone on for much longer it would have dislocated my jaw.

According to the ENT doc, such abscesses are not uncommon among the general population. (Who knew?) At first there was some concern that the abscess could have originated from a necrotic place within the lymph node, but cultures of the chocolate-brown pus showed a garden-variety strep. (The culture report states. "Mixed flora (multiple species present). Predominately Beta Hemolytic Streptococci, Group F.") Fortunately, blood cultures showed no bacteria in the blood, which would have meant sepsis, a much more serious condition and one that would have kept me in the hospital beyond the three days that I was there.

Mmm. Chocolatey brown pus in syringe at left.

I was admitted so that I could receive IV antibiotics, clindamycin, which I am now taking orally at home. The drain is still in my neck and will be there for at least another week.

I haven't been a patient in a hospital since 1964, so the whole routine took some getting used to. Who knew you could order meals at whim off a room service menu these days? Or that the nurse would strap air bags to your legs that puff up and down to prevent deep vein thrombosis? I caught up on my television viewing, even if I didn't get a whole lot of sleep.

I do believe there is a CLL-related cause to all this. Prior to the abscess, I was on Revlimid at 5 mg, for four days in a row. The tumor flare reaction was so incredibly way-over-the-top that my guess is the bacteria made its way into the node as part of that process. The tumor flare was so bad that I had to stop the Revlimid and go on steroids to bring it down.  It was the failure of the one node to go down very much -- and then its ballooning overnight once I went off steroids -- that alerted me to the fact that something unusual was happening.

Now 5 mg of Revlimid over four days is a baby dose, as these things go, and I have been on and off the drug for a year and a half without the monstrous flare I encountered this time. So why the sudden overreaction in terms of tumor flare? 

I can't say. What I can say is that a recent paper shows that tumor flare predicts response to Revlimid in CLL. That's a good thing in my case. But tumor flare like this???

There are a number of things going on that I'll go into later, but suffice to say that I may not be able to tolerate Revlimid to the degree needed to keep using it. I've been off of it since the flare, and until the abscess is gone and the lymph node heals, I can't do anything in terms of treatment that might put stress on the node.

In the meantime I lurk around the house like Frankenstein with one knob. Fortunately I work at home, where I can't scare small children.

This is how the tumor flare in my neck looked after four days of Revlimid, and the photo barely does justice to it; below is my neck in its more normal state some ten days later.

Hang on

Here comes September 3 again, the anniversary of my diagnosis with chronic lymphocytic leukemia. It approaches each year like the garbage truck that groans down the street every Monday morning, screeching, growling, and filling the neighborhood with diesel fumes.

In other words, it’s unpleasant. But it’s made palatable by the fact that I am still here to reflect upon it.

This is my eighth anniversary, and I have the song “Hang on, Sloopy” running through my head. It’s easy to figure out why. If I have any advice to offer as a grizzled veteran of CLL, it’s “Hang on.”

* * *

On some fundamental level I have never accepted that CLL will kill me. It’s a silly disease, all these B cell clones making copies (cue the Richmeister from Saturday Night Live) and clogging up the works. The clones can be killed rather easily, it’s just that it’s nearly impossible to kill every last one. And you can have very good quality of life while living with CLL. Cancer is never good, but on the Bell Curve from Hell, CLL is at the better end.

Call me crazy –- and some of you no doubt will -– but my refusal to accept that CLL is my end is just the sort of wild-eyed faith that cancer patients who beat cancer sometimes have.

So I have spent eight years muddling through, often rejecting the advice of doctors, which is usually conflicting, about what to do.

The choices, until lately, haven’t been very good. One doctor told me to do PCR and “get on with my life.” He was reduced to mumbling when asked what I should do after PCR wore off in two or three years. Another doctor did the obligatory push for fludarabine; after he became assured that I was an adult and not prone to panic, he admitted that well, no, it really isn’t as effective over the long term as it needs to be. I've looked seriously into transplants, which have been advocated by some very reasonable people, and have come away thinking they're too risky on too many levels. (I'd still do one if I had to -- I'd do anything if I had to, except vincristine again -- but I have a very high bar when it comes to defining "have to.") What I'm saying is, scratch the surface of any responsible medical professional and they'll admit that most treatments currently in use have unfortunate limitations.

It can be easy to get swept up in the world of incremental progress that researchers make. But the bottom line is that improvements do not mean that the progress is satisfactory.

So I have waited until I have been forced to act, I have avoided the most potentially damaging options whenever possible, and I have waited some more.

Is this a wise approach? I don't know. It's what works for me. In the absence of a way to win the war, I find it better to sit and wait for the enemy, conducting a guerrilla campaign around the edges, than to go all in and claim a Pyrrhic victory.

* * *

This has come at a cost. No matter how you choose to fight CLL (or choose not to fight it) there are risks. It’s very much a war of attrition, as Terry Hamblin once put it.

This blog is filled with posts about the challenges I have faced. For those of us not “blessed” with indolent CLL, the disease can only get worse over time. Treatment helps, but it also exacerbates the situation by increasing disease resistance. This goes for softer treatments as well as harder ones. Failing to treat when you ought to -– sometimes we need to be proactive -– leads to similar consequences, since the disease will grow and potentially evolve into a worse form just for the hell of it.

In hindsight we can see how things might have been different had we done X, Y, or Z. But in the heat of battle, it is, as they used to say in the military, S.N.A.F.U. You just do your best and hope nothing explodes.

And if you don't choose too badly, if you respond decently to treatment, if your body proves more resilient than not, if a little luck comes your way, you can muddle through.

* * *

After eight years, I see tangible evidence that waiting pays off.

We’re all familiar with the great news from the University of Pennsylvania. Finally, a T cell therapy has been developed that can apparently wipe out the disease, even in cases considered to be hopeless. It’s like having a successful transplant without all the risk. This means the cure, or de facto cure, could be at our doorstep. 

I have seen other drugs become available, either officially, or off-label, or in trial. There’s Revlimid, which for some people is a control. CAL-101 and other kinase inhibitors, which are doing well in studies. (I wonder how Revlimid and CAL-101 would work together?) Ofatumumab has been added to the list of options; it’s no panacea, but it helps.

I have also seen some flavors of the month fall by the wayside, notably alemtuzumab. And I have seen opinions change: The 11q deletion, once thought to be the kiss of death, isn’t always so. The point is that the longer we have to learn, the more we know.

So my thought this anniversary is to hang on. The longer you can drag things out, the greater chance that scientific progress will come up with something to save your sorry ass. It doesn’t matter how inelegantly you arrive across the finish line, just so long as you get there.

Eight years later, I’m still at Stage 2. My hemoglobin and platelets have weathered the storm. I’m no more prone to infections than I was when diagnosed. My quality of life is pretty much the same, challenged occasionally by side effects from the Revlimid I'm taking. The disease is definitely bigger and harder to treat, more node-based and less leukemic, but Revlimid is holding the line. (I got lucky with that one; luck is part of the equation, remember.)

I’m basically none the worse for wear. And crazy, of course, as a sack full of otters.

Benediction

When my brother Rick was in Vietnam, a grenade went off nearby. It knocked him out. There was shrapnel in his skull.

He could see himself floating above his body. He saw loved ones around him and felt a profound sense of peace. It was, he said, the most wonderful thing he’d ever felt. (This was the mid-1960s, before reports of near-death experiences were publicized in books and the media.) It was, Rick said, the last thing he expected to happen.

And then he was awake. A paramedic had saved his life.

“Why did you do that?” my brother asked, after which he slugged the medic as hard as he could.

* * *

Rick died Friday of the stroke that felled him two months before. He was not a religious man, but the near death experience stayed with him and made him unafraid of death. Years later, after a motorcycle accident, he had the same experience, saw the same things, until he was snapped back to life.

Being unafraid of death does not always make it easy to say goodbye, of course. Fortunately, there was enough time after the stroke for the process to work its way through, and for moments to be shared. Heavy, meaningful things were said, but mostly it was just the joy of companionship. We looked at old photos and talked about old times, which became more difficult as he lost his ability to speak clearly. And he wanted to know what Marilyn and I were up to, no matter how unimportant our activities seemed to us.

We were not present for the final days of his decline. His wife, Mary, said he had begun to see his twin. Rick's twin brother was stillborn and now, somehow, Rick saw him there in the living room. What he looked like, what he communicated to Rick, I do not know. How much of the transition to death is illusion, how much is reality, I also do not know, except to say that it is a mystery that befuddles the living.

* * *

Rick confided in his wife the most, of course. At one point he told her that he had wanted to be there for me when I died, and he was sorry that, instead, I had to be there for him.

I came to realize that, somewhere in the back of my mind, having CLL had created the expectation that I would die before everyone else in my family. Not just before those who are younger, which would be expected anyway, but also before Rick, who was 11 years my senior, and even before my father and stepmother, who are now in their 70s.

Not only was this my expectation; it was obviously Rick’s as well, and perhaps is shared by other people I am close to. It’s not something they talk about, just something they assume.

This assumption conflicts with another expectation that I have, which is that I will manage to muddle through thanks to new drugs like Revlimid, and perhaps have a reasonably normal lifespan after all.

Time, which I am aware is ever-short, even for the healthy, will tell.

And if Rick’s near death experiences are right, he’ll be there for me when I die, after all -- just not on this side of the curtain.

Off and on

As a newbie, CLL was the center of my universe. As time has gone on, it has become more like the chronic condition that it is -– albeit a chronic condition with a potentially deadly bite. My focus, by both choice and necessity, has gone elsewhere. I have a business to run, a family to attend to.

Other questions, big and small, tend to take over my day. What is a tambour door? Should I put the old treadmill on Craigslist or Freecycle? Why do the doves always build their nest in the windiest corner of the front porch, from which their nest will be blown away?

Of late, my time and energy has gone toward a more serious and sad situation. My older half-brother, who lives about three hours away, has had a severe, debilitating ischemic stroke. He’s been in the hospital for several weeks. At first it wasn’t clear that he would survive. But he has emerged with his faculties intact, as well as some movement on his right side. At best, he faces the prospect of a long and difficult recovery.

He’s 66, eleven years older than I am, and his current condition has shaken the frame of reference I formed as a child. He was always taller, stronger (he was in the Marines), and more world-wise. Now, in dealing with family issues and the health care system -– all the details, from the mundane to the deeply emotional, things that CLL has prepared me for -– our roles are reversed.  

This is not his first stroke, and our mother died at 57 of a pulmonary embolism and had a history of phlebitis. I don’t respond to the blood thinner warfarin (Coumadin) at 2 mg and 4 mg doses. Apparently clotting issues run in the family. 

Which brings us back to Revlimid (lenalidomide), a potential side effect of which is the creation of blood clots. Readers will recall that I have had two TIAs, or transient ischemic attacks (mini-strokes) while on the drug.

*  *  *

I am acutely aware that I have been allowed the time to deal with all things great and small courtesy of Revlimid. For a year, it stepped in to halt the progress of a fast-moving disease when nothing else would reliably work.

Starting March 15 of this year, I went off Revlimid for three months. One reason was to give my body a rest, in part because clotting issues had arisen. Another was to see how long my remission held without it. And a third was related to my application for a clinical trial involving CAL-101, the node-busting drug that has created a great deal of hope among CLLers with bulky disease, which pretty much describes me.

I may yet get into the trial, if the trial arm is ever organized. It has been “two more weeks” for months now, and even the principal investigator has stopped trying to predict when the drug companies involved will sign off on everything. When the arm is finally organized, I’ll need to be off Revlimid for 28 days before the initial round of testing and evaluation to determine my eligibility.

Meanwhile, I learned during these three months that I probably shouldn’t be off Revlimid for more than about six weeks. The first month was quite encouraging: The nodes continued to get smaller and smaller and I lost weight. The second month involved a brief plateau. During the third the nodes began to come back, steadily and surely.

A month into my “vacation,” which was also a vacation from blood thinners, I had a PT/INR test done. My clotting time came out at baseline, 1.0, which is exactly where it had been when I had been on warfarin. My oncologist has now ordered an extensive clotting panel -– Nurse Dracula took 14 vials of blood -– to determine if there is anything unusual going on. This will help us determine what the best blood-thinning strategy is.

In the meantime, I have started a minimal dose of Revlimid, 5 mg every other day, accompanied by aspirin. After a few doses I’m noticing a fair degree of tumor flare, not as bad as it was when I first began the drug, but definitely pronounced. This will probably last for two to three weeks.

* * *

During all this time my blood tests showed some interesting things.

As expected, my absolute lymphocyte count rose, from 8.6 just before I stopped to 19 two months later, then dropping back to 10.5 just before I resumed. This fallback was probably due to the CLL cells returning to the nodes.

My platelets, which had been increasing before I stopped, quickly fell back to around 130, which is what “normal” has been for me for several years.

My red count remained strong. Hemoglobin was 14.5 just before I quit, 15.1 just before I resumed. This tells me that after three months off the drug, there was no sign of the dreaded autoimmune hemolytic anemia (AIHA), which had plagued me before Revlimid.

So let me repeat here once again what I’ve said in this blog before: I am one anecdotal case but I am pretty solid evidence that Revlimid can have a huge impact on AIHA, even bad cases of it. If you are dealing with this scourge and have begun to run low on traditional options, consider Revlimid!

Finally, there is some bad news in the mix. My B2M had been as high as the 11s while I was on Revlimid. I attributed this to a great deal of ongoing cell-kill as my drug-reinforced immune system did battle with the evil clones. My vacation appears to have substantiated this as the B2M has fallen to a consistent 7.

The bad news is that my baseline B2M is that high. It’s way over the top. In a normal person it should be less than 2.3. In a CLLer it should really be less than 4. So what this tells me is that my disease is still big and aggressive.

And what this means is that Revlimid -– which hopefully will continue to work as it did before -– is going to be a constant and necessary presence in my life, stroke risk and all.

Unless, of course, things work out with CAL-101.

* * *

It's an odd existence. CLL reminds me of handling a rattlesnake. There are people who deal with venemous snakes every day, usually harvesting the venom to use as an antidote to snake bite. These people live with constant danger, and with luck they'll never be bitten. But there's a thin line between living a normal daily existence and something going terribly wrong. My childhood doctor collected snakes as a hobby, and one day his office was closed and he wasn't there anymore.

When I was in first grade we lived in Poston, Arizona, near the Colorado River. It was teeming with wildlife -- mallards, skunks, bobcats, scorpions, and many rattlesnakes. When a rattlesnake got into the house, it was my older brother's job to kill it with a shovel. He would whack off the head and the body would writhe around. I would stand behind him, holding my mother's hand, watching with fascination.

"Don't play with snakes," my mother would constantly remind me. 

Alas, sometimes we have no choice.

I’ll update you in a couple of months. Please accept my apologies for any emails that have gone unanswered. I have had to leave many important things by the wayside to make time to deal with the essential.

Revlimid, the Klopman Diamond

There’s an old joke about the Klopman Diamond. It goes something like this:

A businessman boarded a plane to find, sitting next to him, an elegant woman wearing the largest, most stunning diamond ring he had ever seen. He asked her about it.

"This is the Klopman Diamond," she said. "It is beautiful, but it's like the Hope Diamond; there is a terrible curse that goes with it."

"What's the curse?" the man asked.

"Mr. Klopman."

I’ve now had a year’s worth of experience with Revlimid, aka lenalidomide, and I have come to think of it as the Klopman Diamond of CLL treatments.

In my case, Revlimid is stunningly beautiful when it comes to controlling autoimmune hemolytic anemia, reducing absolute lymphocyte count, and increasing hemoglobin and platelets. It even does a respectable job of reducing lymph nodes. This is pretty much what any CLL patient could want, especially one who has had several other treatments.

But it comes with a curse: unpredictable side effects that in my case have a little too much to do with clot formation. Not for me the simple neutropenia that bedevils many patients, or just the tumor flare and fatigue I reported early on. I get the full Klopman –- i.e. the prospect that some kind of clot will do some kind of damage that I really won’t like.

Presumably the lady with the diamond stays with Mr. Klopman because he provides so well. And so it is with me and Revlimid. It’s a rocky marriage. Happy overall, but punctuated with incidents that create a certain degree of apprehension.

*  *  *

After a year of being on Revlimid most of the time, it’s time for a trial separation. I went off the drug on March 15 and plan to stay off until I need to go on again. It’s time to give my body a rest.

That was my oncologist’s take at a recent meeting, and I agree. There’s no proof that staying on constant Revlimid maintenance (at 5 mg daily) will be better than starting the drug again when I begin to relapse. Patients are handled both ways by leading CLL centers, and this seems to have a lot to do with the guesswork of doctors and the drug tolerance of patients.

In my case, given my proclivity for clot-related problems, there is potentially some value in the “rest” theory. As you may recall, the blood thinner warfarin (Coumadin) was added to my regimen following a TIA, or transient ischemic attack. This started at 2 mg daily. It was increased to 4 mg three days a week, 2 mg four days a week as my PT/INR tests continued to show that I was clotting quickly, like someone who was not on the drug. Even at the higher dose there’s been no improvement in clotting time. Apparently I have a somewhat supernatural ability to clot, which is not useful when taking Revlimid.

I went off Revlimid at a high point. My latest CBC confirms improvement in hemoglobin and platelets that I first reported in my post of February 20. My lymph nodes have reduced nicely; I have lost five pounds since going off the drug and the nodes have gotten smaller. I’m sure that’s not all lymph node weight I’m losing. But I do think it again proves my theory that when on the drug I am in a constant state of tumor flare; off the drug, the nodes reduce to baseline.

I’m not sure they’re at baseline yet. What I can say is that they are definitely improved over a year ago. Without a CT scan I can’t put a number on it. But the nodes I can feel in my neck and under my arms are significantly smaller and a large mass under my right arm has broken up. My abdomen is noticeably slimmer. If I were forced to guess, I'd say the reduction has been up to 50% in some areas, and I'm a very nodey guy.


* * *

After I was diagnosed in 2003, I participated in online discussions about whether chronic lymphocytic leukemia could someday be controlled as a chronic disease, much as diabetes is. It seemed like a pleasant fantasy at the time. What, we wondered, if there was a pill we could take to keep the disease in check?

Today, this might be closer than we could have imagined. Might Revlimid be it? Might CAL-101?

And to what extent will we have to take our chances with Mr. Klopman? 

Only time and trial will tell.