Changes, Inside And Out

Change (Photo credit: mbgrigby)

For many individuals, change is an unpleasant proposition. Most folks generally strive to maintain stability in their personal and professional lives. Major life changes, such as switching jobs, suffering the breakup of a romantic relationship, or moving to a new location can cause tremendous amounts of anxiety and stress, and studies have shown that some major life events, such as divorce, can have a lasting negative effect on mental and physical health. The simple fact is, though, that a certain amount of change is inevitable, and quite often changes once feared turn out, in retrospect, to have been for the better.

Once, while working for a large corporation, I attended a three day symposium that focused entirely on how to deal with change from a business point of view. Since change is inescapable, the symposium leaders told us, rather than fearing and trying to avoid it, workers and organizations are much better served by anticipating and embracing the shifting circumstances that are sure to come. Sticking rigidly to the tried-and-true will sooner or later find a business, no matter how large or successful, facing an existential crisis.

Patients dealing with progressively disabling diseases like Multiple Sclerosis are often forced to navigate lives riddled with change. Some of these changes, the physical, are often abundantly obvious to the outside world. Others, the changes that occur within, which are necessitated by the patient’s need to cope with their changing physical circumstances, are often only perceived by the patient themselves, or those closest to them.

From the moment of diagnosis, change becomes a constant way of life for the stricken, and the uncertainties associated with a disabling disease only serve to amplify the anxieties felt by the patients suffering from it. The physicians call MS a heterogeneous disease, meaning that it can present quite differently from patient to patient. Be that as it may, no matter how the disease presents itself physically, psychologically all patients share a fear of the physical destruction that can be wrought by the disease, and the resulting life changes that may be forced upon them.

I can quite clearly remember the haze of confusion that engulfed me in the days and weeks following my diagnosis, a sense of befuddlement heightened by the fact that the simple act of diagnosis had forced a sudden, irrevocable change in my reality, a permanent alteration to my sense of self. Although my symptoms at that point were largely invisible, I knew that I now stood apart from the crowd, that the so-called problems that I grappled with pre-diagnosis were dwarfed by a larger one that lurked within me, one that had the potential to change my life in ways that were almost too terrible to contemplate.

Though my knowledge of MS at that time was quite limited, I knew from the moment of my diagnosis forward that my life would never be the same. Even as I vowed to fight the disease with everything I had, and consciously told myself that this hurdle needn’t be an insurmountable wall, the research I was obsessively doing to educate myself didn’t paint quite so confident a picture. Yes, many patients were able to fend off significant disability for years and sometimes even decades, but others found themselves caught in the jaws of an insatiable monster, their lives twisted in ways they once thought impossible. Deep inside I knew that waves of changes were coming; it was just a matter of how destructive they would be and how fast they would crash ashore.

Indeed, my life now, just about 10 years later, bears little resemblance to the one I lived on the day I first noticed my right knee buckling ever so slightly with every step I took. A snapshot of my existence taken just before my diagnosis compared to one taken at this very instant would reveal changes so dramatic as to be almost surreal. The path from then to now is paved with incremental changes, each following a logical progression, but as I travel down that path the sum total of those changes seems anything but logical.

Through conscious effort I’ve managed to find a measure of solace and sometimes even contentment despite the effects of the disease, but not a day goes by that I don’t find myself at least once experiencing a terrific moment of shock at the toll the disease has thus far exacted. And then the knowledge that further changes are surely coming briefly crystallizes and compounds that shock, like a sudden chill stabbing through a drafty window frame, until with effort I force myself back into the relative safety of present. There is no getting used to the situation, rather, one learns to live with it largely because there is simply no other choice..

The physical changes inflicted by my disease (which now may or may not be MS, depending on which doctor you ask) that impact my day-to-day existence result from a toxic brew of symptoms. Muscle weakness, spasticity, fatigue, and a storm of other symptoms subtle and possibly nameless combine to grip me in their own diabolical custom-made vise. The progressive nature of the illness makes mentally coming to terms with any current state of disability a difficult proposition, since without some form of intervention it’s almost certain that more losses are to come.

Some patients are fortunate in this regard, and their disease plateaus at a certain point, stabilizing their state of disability, at least for a while. My disability, though, has thus far shown itself to be a constantly moving target. Trying to throw a psychological net around it so that it can be assimilated into at least a semi-permanent sense of self has proven to be an exercise in futility, like attempting to collect soap bubbles momentarily floating through the air. Change, then, has become a constant, and my life over these last 10 years can be charted by the mental and physical adjustments made to accommodate an ever transforming new normal.

Starting at day one and plotting my course to the present, walking with a limp progressed to walking with an ankle brace, and then to walking with a cane, as the distances I was able to travel grew ever shorter. Soon after came a power wheelchair, at first only used outside of my apartment, but eventually inside as well, much to the chagrin of my apartment’s walls, doorframes, and certain pieces of furniture. Walking is now reserved for the few clumsy and increasingly difficult steps between my chair and the bed, or my chair and my computer, or my chair and wherever else my chair can’t quite reach.

Of course, mobility issues are only part of the physical damage done by the disease. These myriad physical changes have made necessary alterations to my very definition of who I am and the qualities with which I define myself, as the disease methodically stripped away layer after layer of the superficialities that, over time, I had come to believe were the building blocks of “me”. The impermanence of what once seemed to be the foundational elements of my life speaks loudly of the tenuous fragility of what most consider their reality. In fact, the only permanence I can now count on is change, and living life in a state of constant physical flux requires ongoing psychological adaptation as well.

Unlike the changes to my physical self, which have been decidedly negative, many of the psychological changes that I’ve undergone have been surprisingly positive. I’ve certainly gained a sense of perspective, as many of the problems that vexed the healthy me have been revealed to be mere trivialities. Since the disease itself appears to delight at taking whacks at me, I’ve compensated by trying to be easier on myself, though self-criticism sometimes still does get the best of me. I’ve gained a tremendous amount of empathy for the downtrodden, victims not only of disease but also of circumstance, especially if those circumstances are not of their own doing.

Above all, I’ve learned the immense value of striving to stay rooted in the present, as the now, this very moment, is all we ever truly possess. The past is but a collection of memories filtered through a veil of years, and the future a place populated, courtesy of the disease, by some potentially very real monsters. Even if the now isn’t ideal, you do yourself a tremendous disservice by not attempting to fully occupy every moment. Far more than platinum, gold, or diamonds, time is the most precious of commodities, as it is irreplaceable and grows scarcer with each passing second. Used properly, the past is a tool that can best inform us how to make the most of the present, but it’s so very easy when faced with a present that is wrought with hardship to instead use the past has a sanctuary, attempting to blot out what is with memories of what was.

Though this may provide some temporary and sometimes much-needed comfort, ultimately one must find the resolve to seek the nugget of good that always hides somewhere in the present, even if finding it requires digging through layer after layer of psychological and spiritual pain. For each of us the composition of that glimmer of good might be quite different, but reason to hope, I think, is an essential ingredient. Once this labor is done, and the nugget of good uncovered, it must be held tightly and nurtured, and carried through the next moment, and then the moment after that.

Change is never easy, and the sea of change engendered by a crippling disease can be especially cruel. It can be tremendously difficult to not get caught in its currents and dragged under, and often the more one struggles the tighter gets the grip of its tides. Rather than wasting precious energy fighting the pull of the roiling ocean within, practicing kindness to self and making some effort to accept what is allows one to let go and float along the crests of the turbulent waves of distress, instead of fruitlessly struggling while being pulled under by them. This can be the key to finding respite amidst a raging storm, and ultimately making your way to calmer waters.

Attempting action through inaction is of course easier said than done, especially when the changes are coming hard and fast and it seems that there is no time to even take a breath, but taking charge of the raging elements within to create your own internal reality is the only way I know to soothe the savage psychological goblins of progressive illness. We must never stop fighting the disease, but in order to properly do so we must consciously give up the fight we sometimes wage against ourselves, and focus our efforts instead on the very real beast at hand.

A Potentially Effective Treatment for Progressive MS: Hiding in Plain Sight?

Methotrexate (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

While all of the varieties of Multiple Sclerosis are vile, especially troublesome are the progressive flavors of the disease. Over the last two decades, strides have been made in understanding and treating Relapsing Remitting MS, the most common form of the illness. While the available treatments for RRMS are far from universally effective, don’t address the still unknown root cause of the disease, and some carry with them downright frightening side effect profiles, they do significantly improve the quality of life for many of the patients taking them. No such strides have been made in the fight against progressive MS. Patients suffering from Secondary Progressive MS (SPMS) or Primary Progressive Multiple Sclerosis (PPMS) are left with few if any treatment options, and their care often amounts to nothing more than aggressive attempts at symptom management. The reasons for this are many, including the relatively small patient population, and the difficulty in designing cost-effective treatment trials with readily measurable endpoints.

Given the confusion regarding the subtypes of MS that I see on Internet forums, it seems that a quick rundown of the subtypes may be in order. Relapsing Remitting Multiple Sclerosis, RRMS, is marked by distinct disease relapses, during which a patient suffers a significant onset of symptoms, followed by periods of remission, when those symptoms subside and the patient returns to their former physical state, albeit sometimes with additional accumulated disability. After a period of years, the disease of many RRMS patients transitions into Secondary Progressive Multiple Sclerosis, SPMS, at which point they stop having relapses and remissions, and instead suffer a steady accumulation of symptoms. Primary Progressive Multiple Sclerosis, PPMS, is much like SPMS, in that patients experience a steady increase in symptoms and disability, without the peaks and valleys that signify RRMS. The difference between SPMS and PPMS is that, by definition, all SPMS patients must have had RRMS first, whereas PPMS patients experience progressive illness from the onset of their disease. If a patient has ever experienced relapses and remissions then they cannot have PPMS. If such patients find themselves, over time, suffering from a strictly progressive course of the disease, they would fall into the SPMS category. As mentioned above, both SPMS and PPMS, though distinct subtypes of the disease, unfortunately share the same lack of effective treatment options.

There is, though, one treatment, called intrathecal methotrexate, that has shown promise in limited real-world implementation when used to treat progressive MS, both in anecdotal patient reports and retrospective studies conducted by the one MS clinic that makes extensive use of the treatment. Unfortunately, most MS neurologists are unaware of the potential benefits of intrathecal methotrexate for progressive MS patients, and many who are aware of the protocol are often too dubious of the treatment to give it serious consideration.

The intrathecal methotrexate treatment protocol involves injecting the drug methotrexate directly into the spinal fluid of progressive MS patients, via a lumbar puncture. The treatment is typically given every eight weeks, using a very thin needle to inject the medication into the lumbar region of the spine. While many patients may be understandably queasy about the prospect of having a lumbar puncture every eight weeks, when done by experienced medical personnel the procedure should cause minimal discomfort with few side effects. When weighed against the insidious nature of progressive MS left untreated, periodic lumbar punctures, as unsavory a prospect they may be, certainly are preferable to an inexorable slide towards significant disability.

Used extensively by the International Multiple Sclerosis Treatment Center of New York (where I am a patient), the use of intrathecal methotrexate has been shown to be widely effective in limited studies published by the clinic’s researchers and practicing physicians, led by Dr. Saud Sadiq. In one such study of 121 patients, disability scores were found to be stable or improved in 89% of SPMS patients and 82% of PPMS patients one year after their last treatment (click here). A longer-term study (click here) found that 48% of patients experienced no increase in disability after treatment periods ranging from 3 to 6 years. As noted, both studies looked at small patient populations, and did not include a placebo group for comparison, but their findings do offer some intriguing evidence of the efficacy of this treatment in a notoriously hard to treat group of patients. It is thought that intrathecal methotrexate, which has known anti-inflammatory properties, also may inhibit the progression of MS by interacting with astrocytes, cells that are associated with the formation of MS lesions (click here).

When given orally or intravenously, methotrexate’s side effects are typical of many chemotherapy drugs, and include hair loss and nausea. In the tiny doses used in intrathecal injections, though, the side effects are negligible. I experienced absolutely no side effects from the treatment, and neither has any patient I’ve met have has also undergone the protocol.

In my time under Dr. Sadiq’s care (since 2004), I have tried the treatment on two occasions, totaling eight intrathecal injections of methotrexate. Unfortunately, the treatment did me no benefit, but I am a very poor example upon which to base any opinions, since my disease is highly atypical, if it is even MS at all (click here). Another popular MS blogger, my good friend Mitch, who writes the terrific MS blog “Enjoying the Ride”, suffers from classic PPMS, and recently happily announced that after five spinal injections of methotrexate, the progression of his disease has slowed to a trickle, and may have even stopped (click here for all of Mitch's methotrexate posts). As documented in his blog, Mitch had to do a bit of heavy lifting to get his neurologist to agree to treat him with intrathecal methotrexate, but he eventually got his neurologist to agree after providing him with research documentation linked to in the above paragraph. Mitch's experiences with the treatment haven't always been easy, but have been well worth it if indeed the progression of his illness has been beneficially impacted.

Why has the use of intrathecal methotrexate for the treatment of progressive MS not been studied more extensively? You’d think that a treatment as potentially effective as this would attract researchers and pharmaceutical companies like flies to honey. Unfortunately, the sad truth is that it all comes down to money. Methotrexate is a very old drug (click here), first developed in the 1950s to treat certain forms of leukemia. It has since been shown to be effective in treating other kinds of cancer, as well as lupus and a variety of other autoimmune diseases. It was granted FDA approval for use in treating rheumatoid arthritis in 1988. Because the drug is so old, any patents held on it have long since expired, and it’s available as a cheap generic compound. In the extremely small doses used to treat MS intrathecally, each shot costs about five dollars. Therefore, there is very little profit to be derived from marketing methotrexate, and so it receives no attention from the pharmaceutical companies, which at this point fund the vast majority of medical research conducted in the USA. Many other potentially effective treatments, such as low dose naltrexone (LDN), also fall into this same trap, left largely untested and unheralded simply because facilitating robust trials would not be cost-effective. Forget about patient well-being, the financial bottom line has become THE bottom line in medicine as it is now practiced, oftentimes to the detriment of the very people the system supposedly exists to benefit. When patients are viewed first as consumers, something is very wrong.

Based on what I know about this treatment, I’d suggest that any patient with progressive MS at least discuss intrathecal methotrexate with their MS neurologist. Be prepared for pushback. As noted previously, most neuros are reticent to try this approach. This is where the importance of patient education and self advocacy comes in. When talking to your doctor, bring back up materials, such as printouts of the research linked to in this post, and some of Mitch’s blog entries from Enjoying the Ride. With other treatment options limited if not nonexistent, and the long-term prognosis of those suffering from progressive multiple sclerosis so daunting, all options need to be put on the table.

Although having a chemotherapy drug injected directly into the spinal fluid may sound a bit radical, when broken down to its individual bits the protocol really isn’t all that scary. Methotrexate has been used safely and effectively for decades, and in the tiny doses used in this protocol presents very little risk. Lumbar punctures, while no joyride, are routine for most neurologists, and the use of very fine needles minimizes the chance of postprocedure complications. Many neurologists are willing to try the new generation of powerful immunosuppressant drugs now used to treat RRMS on their progressive patients, with no proof whatsoever of their efficacy in treating the progressive forms of MS. Given the potentially dire consequences of leaving progressive MS untreated, shouldn’t a potential therapy that has already helped hundreds of patients be given serious consideration, regardless of its "outside the box" designation?

On the day of my diagnosis, I vowed that if this disease was going to take me down, I was going to go down swinging, both fists battered and bloodied, all guns blazing. Progressive MS (or whatever it is that I’ve got) isn’t very likely to show much mercy, and as a guy who grew up on the streets of New York City I know that when faced with such an adversary, all bets are off. You do what you have to do, throw any rules right out the window, and meet fire with fire. Like it or not, this is mortal combat, and if getting a spike in the back every couple of months provides even the slightest chance of beating this thing back, I was, and am, willing to take it. Treatment with intrathecal methotrexate did not work for me, but it has worked for some, and that alone should give all engaged in the struggle reason enough to give it serious consideration. Talk to your doctor, and pay close attention to their advice, but always remember that in the fight against your disease, the doctor-patient relationship should not be a dictatorship, but a partnership. Treatment with intrathecal methotrexate may be unconventional, but, as it stands now, the conventional modality for treating progressive MS has been nothing but an abject failure. Hopefully, with ongoing research, this situation will turn, but in the meantime I say self educate, agitate, and take an active role in mapping the attack on your illness.

Why Must Being Sick Be Such Hard Work?

Being sick sucks.

Of course, this notion is self-evident. Nobody in their right mind wants to be sick. For those who are otherwise completely healthy, even illnesses as benign as the common head cold bring with them a blanket of misery. That misery is multiplied exponentially when the disease you’re forced to deal with isn’t of the temporary variety, but instead is one that sticks around and steadily gets worse. Chronic and progressive disabling illnesses, such as multiple sclerosis, are especially cruel, as they wreak havoc not only on their victims’ bodies but on every aspect of their lives as well. As the disease progresses, hardship piles upon hardship, until accomplishing once simple tasks become daunting challenges requiring grit, determination, and sheer force of will. Putting on a pair of pants turns into an exercise in ingenuity and physical stamina; taking a shower metamorphoses into a death-defying feat. As the body becomes more and more rebellious, new methods of accomplishing old tasks must be devised, or else those old tasks must be dropped from the patient’s dwindling repertoire of the tightly entwined activities that represent normalcy and independence. Realizing that a button-down shirt has become a puzzle too complex to solve can really ruin one’s day.

Given the challenges inherent in grappling with a crippling illness, it would seem only fair that somehow the rest of the world would get with the program, and endeavor to make the life of sick people as easy as possible. Unfortunately, this just isn’t the case. On top of having to deal with all of the physical obstacles and frustrations of feeling lousy, and having to work around bodies increasingly on the fritz, chronically ill patients (or at least this chronically ill patient) are often met with a stupefying array of incompetence, insensitivity, and needless impediments, often personified by the healthcare establishment that is supposed to exist to help them. From the Byzantine bureaucratic bullshit of insurance companies to the sometimes mind-boggling incompetence of medical office staff, patients are often faced with uphill battles that can make getting proper care and needed services disheartening and daunting experiences, the equivalent of a particularly odious full-time job. Nevermind the innumerable frustrations of being disabled in an able world, attempting to navigate the medical landscape can drive one absolutely bonkers.

Back when I first came to grips with the fact that I did need a wheelchair, a notion which grew roots only after a heavyweight bout of denial, I had the not so great fortune to experience the exquisite pleasures of dealing with insurance company automatons, the folks at the other end of the line who excel at sounding entirely reasonable while spouting a line of crap longer than New York City sewer system. The insurance company brain trust decided that the perfect chair for me was one designed for indoor use only, which was completely ill-suited for life in the big city. This was at a point in my illness when I could still precariously hobble around my apartment, and the point of my getting a chair at that precise juncture was to allow me access to the world outside of my apartment door. Inasmuch as that world is smack dab in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world, I needed a chair that was rugged, had long-lived batteries, and was relatively speedy, lest I get shmushed in the middle of trying to cross Broadway. Okay, I’ll admit that I also wanted a really fast chair because I thought having speedy wheels would be fun (I was correct), but getting around New York City does provide a need for speed. The wheelchair vendor that the insurance company referred me to apparently couldn’t give a damn about my real-life requirements, and insisted on trying to sell me chairs that were completely ill-suited for the task at hand, but were of the type preapproved by my insurance company. In other words, easy money for the wheelchair vendor.

The more I insisted on getting a chair I could actually use, the more the insurance company insisted that I was being unreasonable, and I was soon thrust into the company’s “appeals process”. Well, there was nothing appealing about it. Obviously designed to simply wear a patient down by attrition, the process was convoluted and nonsensical, as each appeal was decided upon by yet another layer of insurance company bureaucrats, thereby almost ensuring a continual string of denials. The entire exercise took on an air of the surreal, as I found myself vehemently arguing for a contraption the idea of which horrified me to no end. And I mean arguing in a very literal sense; phone clenched in my fist as I screamed myself hoarse trying to get my point across. As I generally am not a very confrontational person, it takes a lot to get me to the point of screaming, but the wheelchair madness got to where I would become absolutely apoplectic upon just seeing the name of the insurance company on my caller ID, worked into a lather before even answering the phone. After a full six months, and with the help of my neuro’s social work staff and photos documenting the cracked pavement, construction sites, eight lanes of traffic, and other realities of my urban environment, I was shocked with a phone call telling me that the insurance gods were sated by my burnt offerings, and that my appeal had been approved. Thus, The Wheelchair Kamikaze was born.

I’ve heard countless similar stories of other patients’ battles with their insurance companies, often times over treatments that the patients themselves were scared to death of receiving. Many patients simply give up, something I’m sure the insurance companies count on. They probably have charts and tables accurately predicting just how much corporate cat herding the typical patient will put up with before crying “uncle”. These patients are sick people, dammit, trying to feel better or make their lives easier. Instead of being treated as such, too often it seems the patient is treated as an adversary. Meanwhile, through all of the pleading, arguing, and appeals, the disease continues its relentless march, only heightening a patient’s sense of desperation. I believe this kind of treatment of chronically ill patients falls into the category of cruel and unusual punishment.

It’s not only the insurance companies that complicate the world of chronically ill patients. Insensitive doctors and incompetent office staff too often are the source of consternation, and just about every patient I know tells tales of the frustrations and sometimes sheer anguish visited upon them by folks whose job it ostensibly is to help them. One of the most common complaints are unreturned phone calls, usually placed when a patient experiences a disturbing new symptom or has a serious question about their condition. Let’s face it, not too many people call their doctor to engage in idle chitchat. Yet, getting some doctors and members of their staff to promptly return calls, or even just return them at all, is far too often an exercise in futility. Thankfully, my own primary neurologist’s clinic is an exception to the rule. The office runs a “nurse’s helpline”, on which I can leave a message that is invariably responded to that very same day by an intelligent and empathetic healthcare professional. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same of the constellation of other physicians with whom my condition has forced me to get acquainted, many of whose offices are Bermuda Triangles for phone messages left with office staff.

This lack of response puts patients in the uncomfortable position of either making repeated phone calls and risk being placed in the “pain in the ass” file, or just letting their issues go and leaving them unresolved. Worse still are instances when, out of sheer frustration, patients must take the lead in micromanaging their own care, in effect doing the job of office staffers for them. In the last six months I’ve found myself having to call hospital radiology departments to get the info needed to schedule tests ordered by one specialist or another, and have even had to call medical records departments in order to get test results sent to the ordering physicians, all tasks that should have been handled by the physician’s office staff. If I had waited for the staffers to handle things themselves, though, I fear I would still be waiting. I understand that such staffers are under constant barrage by needy patients, each of whom thinks their problem should take precedence over all others. The stress of dealing with seriously ill people day in and day out must certainly take its toll, but that’s no excuse for people simply not doing their jobs.

At the top of the frustration food chain are physicians themselves.Most are indeed outstanding individuals who take the time to get to know their patients and show a true interest in them as complex emotional beings, and not just broken bodies on which to ply their trade. Others, though, while clinically proficient, are seriously deficient when it comes to compassion and the art of listening. Neurologist horror stories litter Internet MS forums and chat rooms, tales of doctors who seem to place their own interests over those of the patients they treat, brushing off patient concerns with condescension and disregard, often acting as if they are doing the patient a favor by examining and treating them. This can leave patients more befuddled after their appointments than before, a situation that simply should not be. Yes, doctors are only human, and perhaps some patients expect too much of them, but at the end of the day it is the patient who is left alone to navigate the frightening world of chronic illness, a fact that should be at the forefront of every physician’s mind and personal code of conduct.

Yes, being sick can be very hard work. My MS friends tell story after story of almost unbelievable travails within the labyrinth that is modern medicine. Although different countries have different medical systems, it seems every patient, no matter where they live, has their own tale of battling the medical powers that be. Not every physician’s office is dysfunctional, not every doctor is an egotistical ass, and not every medical staff member is incompetent, but there are just enough that are to make being sick sickening. When I “retired” from my career six years ago I had no idea that a new occupation awaited me. Far too often, being sick is a full-time job.

Our System for Treating the Sick Is Sick Itself; No Cure In Sight

Hippocrates: a conventionalized image in a Roman "portrait" bust (19th century engraving) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve recently come across a spate of news pieces that illustrate just how far our health care system has gone astray. Most of the folks reading this blog are themselves chronically ill, or have a personal connection to the chronically ill. As such, Wheelchair Kamikaze readers are unfortunately more familiar than the average Jane or Joe with the inner workings of the world of modern medicine.

For the healthy, from the outside looking in, modern medicine can often appear to be a sleek and technically sophisticated miracle machine, using high-tech wizardry and groundbreaking research to treat and tame diseases that have been the scourge of mankind for millennia. This image is carefully cultivated, through public relations, advertising, and a news media that loves a good story about astonishing advances made in the battle against disease. Those of us who are forced to enter the belly of the beast, though, often find something quite different: a confusing, frustrating, and often dysfunctional world in which reliable answers are heartbreakingly few and where patients are too often seen as consumers rather than sick human beings. Though individual healthcare practitioners themselves are, for the most part, good men and women, the system within which they operate has evolved to put profit before patient, and the subtle and not-so-subtle pressures this framework exerts can warp even the best intentioned souls among them.

Here, then, is a smattering of examples that each serve as windows into the often enigmatic environment in which patients are forced to tread. Think of the following snippets as flashbulb lit snapshots taken in a pitch black room, briefly illuminating nooks and crannies that can only hint at the whole of a much larger setting. Each example is in itself maddening, but strung together they portray a system of treating the sick (and healthy) that has drastically gone off the rails.

♦ HCA, the largest for-profit hospital chain in the United States, is revealed in this article (click here) to have played host to a disturbingly high number of cardiac procedures (mostly angioplasties) that were found to be medically unnecessary, and apparently performed to drive profit and increase both the company’s and the treating physicians’ financial bottom lines. At Lawnwood Regional Medical Center, in Fort Pierce, Florida, a confidential review revealed that about half of the diagnostic cardiac catheterizations done at the facility were performed on patients without significant heart disease. A review of HCA internal documents indicated that “rather than asking whether patients had been harmed or whether regulators needed to be contacted, hospital officials asked for information on how the physicians’ activities affected the hospitals’ bottom line.”

Driven by the need to show steadily increasing profits in the face of the company’s impending Initial Public Offering, it seems that HCA turned to cardiac care to provide a reliable pipeline of revenue. A 2003 review of procedures done at Regional Medical Center Bayonet Point, in Hudson, Florida, revealed that a disturbing 43% of 355 angioplasty cases “were outside reasonable and expected medical practice”, and that treating physicians routinely overstated the degree of coronary blockage found in the treated patients. As a result of this internal review, Bayonet Point suspended the privileges of nine physicians. These cardiac procedures were a financial boon to the company, as Medicare reimburses hospitals about $10,000 for each stent used in angioplasties, and $3000 for diagnostic catheterizations.

One would hope that instances of such rampant malfeasance are extremely rare, but although this report concentrated on one large hospital chain, the unnecessary procedures were performed in a number of different facilities, and by a shockingly high number of physicians. As is evidenced by this account, the institutional and personal pursuit of profit within the healthcare system would appear to be a potent inducement for some of those who took the Hippocratic oath to turn their backs on that solemn text.

♦ The headline of this article shouts that “Diabetes May Be Reversed by Long Used Vaccine for TB” (click here). Great news, right? Well, not so fast. In a small study the 90-year-old vaccine, called BCG, was shown to induce the completely nonfunctioning pancreases of some type I diabetics to once again start producing insulin. “These patients have been told their pancreases were dead… We can take those people, give them a very low dose twice and see their pancreases kick in and start to make small amounts of insulin.”

So, what’s the problem? Sounds like widespread research should be undertaken posthaste. The vaccine already exists, and has been in use for almost a century to treat not only tuberculosis but also bladder cancer. But therein lays the problem. A 90-year-old vaccine cannot be patented, and is readily available as a cheap generic. Therefore, huge heaps of cash cannot be generated by finding new uses for it. Soon after the lead researchers made their initial discoveries using mice, “they tried to interest every major drugmaker in developing the vaccine as a possible cure for diabetes. All told her there wasn’t enough money to be made in a cure that used an inexpensive, generically available vaccine.” The researchers are currently undertaking fundraising from private donors, and thus far have $11 million of the $25 million needed to proceed to the next stage of research.

As disturbing as the story is, with its seemingly blatant disregard for the well-being of millions of people worldwide suffering from type I diabetes, the hard truth is that the major pharmaceutical companies were actually fulfilling their legal mandate in turning down research that had very little, if any, profit potential. All of the major pharmaceutical companies are public companies, their stock traded openly on world markets. Publicly traded companies are mandated by law to be beholden to their shareholders, not to the customers who eventually consume their products. The job of pharmaceutical company CEOs is not to produce the most beneficent concoctions their researchers can come up with, but rather the most profitable ones. In declining to fund further research into the BCG vaccine’s role in potentially eradicating type I diabetes, drug company executives were not only fulfilling the responsibilities of their office – doing their jobs, so to speak – but also following the letter of the law. Not to go all gutter on you, but how fucked up is that?

♦ As patients afflicted with a horrible disease that has no cure, we often vent our frustrations about those who are the face of this medical universe we have unwillingly been sucked into, the physicians who regularly treat us. A quick sampling of the online conversations being held on Internet MS forums soon reveals that many patients openly revile their neurologists, some of whom I’m sure deserve all the reviling they can get. I count myself as one of the extremely lucky ones, as I feel an actual affection for my neuro, despite his inability to stop the relentless progression of my disease. He’s simply an empathetic man, and his frustrations with trying to treat this repugnant illness are evidenced by his obsession with trying to unravel its mysteries. We don’t always agree on treatment options, but I know in my heart that my neurologist has my best interests in mind. I say this not only because of my own personal sense of the man, but also for some far more tangible reasons: he doesn’t accept insurance, and doesn’t allow pharma sales reps to enter his clinic.

This commentary (click here) provides some insight into the phenomenon of physician burnout, a condition brought on by the restrictions and edicts of a system that would seem to sometimes be as frustrating for the doctors trying to operate within it as it is for patients seeking reliable and compassionate treatment. A recent survey of 7000 doctors “found that almost half complained of being emotionally exhausted, feeling detached from their patients and work or suffering from a low sense of accomplishment.” Doctors suffering from such burnout are obviously more prone to make mistakes, have an inability to establish any kind of real relationship with their patients, and generally perform below the expectations of the sick people who are so reliant on them.

The cause of this physician malaise is often invisible to those of us under a doctor’s care, who may only see an insensitive and mechanical being who exhibits little or no empathy towards our plight. Indeed, that’s the way I viewed my first MS neuro, and why I sought out the services of the man who is now my doctor.

According to the commentary, “The study casts a grim light on what it is like to practice medicine in the current health care system. A significant proportion of doctors feel trapped, thwarted by the limited time they are allowed to spend with patients, stymied by the ever-changing rules set by insurers and other payers on what they can prescribe or offer as treatment and frustrated by the fact that any gains in efficiency offered by electronic medical records are so soon offset by numerous, newly devised administrative tasks that must also be completed on the computer.

In this setting, “doctors are losing their inspiration… and that is a very frightening thing.”

While this certainly does not excuse all of the bad behavior by physicians recounted by patients in conversation after conversation, it certainly makes some strides towards explaining it. Indeed, many doctors feel so frustrated by the factory like approach dictated by insurance companies, with daily quotas to see X number of patients and restrictions placed on the treatments they can offer, that they are leaving the practice of medicine entirely.

This of course does not excuse the behavior of physicians who blatantly order unneeded tests and perform unnecessary procedures simply to run up bloated billing, or who view their patients as vehicles for their own financial advancement. Such doctors do exist, and in unacceptable numbers, but can we expect more from a healthcare system that has evolved into a moneymaking Goliath, under the direction of huge corporations that routinely squeeze the humanity out of the medical equation? A system increasingly dominated by publicly traded companies whose calculations are based more on stock price than on patient care? From research labs to clinic examination rooms, the well-being of patients, and sometimes of the doctors who treat them, is being sacrificed at the altar of the Almighty dollar.

Is it any wonder that diseases seem never to be cured, but instead turned into lifelong “manageable” conditions, those suffering from them forced into a state of perpetual reliance on obscenely expensive pharmaceutical products to maintain some semblance of wellness, and sometimes even to just maintain life?

If only there was some evil cabal to blame, some sadistic brethren of money grabbers to be tarred and feathered and run out of town. But no, what we are faced with is a systemic dysfunction, a misguided medical colossus that requires only decent people doing their jobs to maintain it, even as its course runs further and further astray. It is an engine with a wicked momentum, dragging all of those in its tow to a place where everyone, eventually, will be unwitting passengers. Very few make it through this life without finally suffering serious illness, and this universal fate is what ultimately fuels the system, driving it ever forward.

Do no harm, indeed…

Related articles

• The last antibiotic: Drug companies run out of weapons against the very same superbugs they helped create
• Clinical trial results support strategy for reversing type 1 diabetes

Fear Factor

I'm scared.

There, I said it.

Actually, the word "scared" hardly suffices; I guess "terrified" would more fit the bill. Fear in copious amounts might as well be listed as one of the symptoms of MS. I've talked and corresponded with hundreds of MS patients, on topics ranging from treatment options to conjecture about the nature of the disease to the day-to-day strategies we employ to simply get by, and though it's often unspoken, all of these interactions share one inexorable feature: an undercurrent of fear, at times more prominent than others, but even at its quietest, always present.

Multiple sclerosis is a diagnosis brimming with frightening features. Before getting sick, most of us had only cursory experiences inside the world of modern medicine. We'd get the flu or suffer an injury, make the obligatory trip to the doctor’s office or emergency room, and after a period of days or perhaps weeks our association with doctors and nurses would come to an abrupt and welcomed end, the arc of our lives resuming their previous trajectories. Getting hit with the diagnosis of a chronic and serious illness, though, transforms us from occasional patients to perpetual ones, and throws some nasty curves into the course of our lives. Quite suddenly we are faced with a Pandora's box of terror, which once opened spews forth a never ending stream of reasons to be frightened. From diagnostic tests to treatment options to uncertain futures, we are bombarded with physical and psychological body blows that sometimes literally leave us breathless.

When I was going through the diagnostic process, I expected that at some point there would be answers. Someone would tell me what exactly was happening to me and how to fix it. After all, it seemed that every day, on television and in newspapers, I was delightfully infomed of one momentous medical breakthrough after another, a steady stream of scientific miracles brought forth by the shiny whiz-bang machine of modern medicine. But once I found myself a reluctant resident inside that machine, entangled in it like a fly in a web, it quickly became apparent that despite all of the fancy gizmos and sometimes impenetrable terminology, there wasn't all that much substance to hold onto. Instead of concrete answers I was offered a fusillade of "I don't knows"and "We're not sure's", all delivered in a rather self-assured manner that was completely at odds with what was being said.

Although I somehow managed to maintain an outward demeanor of rationality, inside my mind reeled with the gradual realization that all those people in white coats very often more resembled the gang that couldn't shoot straight than the intricately synchronized and intellectually enlightened medical gurus whose image popular culture had propagated all these years. I felt lied to and cast adrift, not by any individual but by the system as a whole. How else is one supposed to feel when told that the only treatments available for a disease whose cause is a complete unknown were drugs whose methods of action were equally as mysterious. In the parlance of the 21st century, WTF?

Since I have progressive disease, I can only imagine the fears and anxieties that go along with the relapsing remitting flavor of MS, not knowing when going to bed whether or not your body will be functioning come the next morning. Might you wake up temporarily blind? Unable to stand? A quadriplegic? I am intimately acquainted, though, with the unholy terror of watching yourself slowly get whittled away, gradually withering on the vine as, quite consciously, the losses just continue mount. I first noticed a slight limp in my right leg almost exactly 9 years ago. Since then I've looked on in horror as that leg slowly became useless, even as my right arm and hand followed its example. Now my left arm and leg are mimicking their right sided brethren, and though internally I scream for them to stop, they appear to be intent on enacting a repeat performance, like a good child turned bad by a naughty friend. I've already watched this movie once, and I really didn't like the way it ended. Fortunately, when my right side eventually reached the point of complete incompetence, my left side was there to take up some of the slack. Now that the left side is going, well, let's just say that if I don't figure out how to grow another arm and leg, the situation might get a tad bit ugly.

What demonoid could come up with such a disease, a fiendish thing that forces you to watch yourself disappear but then doesn't have the good manners to finish you off? One of my greatest fears as a youngster, having been eleven years old when the film Jaws came out, was being eaten by a shark. Well, now I am being eaten by a shark, only it's invisible, takes its good time, and somehow lives inside me. And it's a hungry fucker, seemingly insatiable. As Sheriff Brody says in Jaws, after catching a glimpse of the huge man eater in the water, "We're going to need a bigger boat!" Problem is, none of the well-intentioned shark hunters in the white coats seems to have a clue as to where I can find myself a bigger boat. In truth, they haven't even been able to throw me a life preserver. There are no known effective treatments for progressive disease, and even the new wave of treatments now available to treat RRMS are rife with the specter of horrific side effects, bringing with them, along with their increased efficacy and hope for relief, all new reasons to be terrified.

I am constantly amazed at the courage displayed by my fellow patients. Faced with a potentially paralyzing disease, and with it a terror that can be just as paralyzing, we persevere, channeling all of that raw emotion into life, wonderful, glorious, crazy, mixed up life. Despite days when the simplest of tasks seems insurmountable, we forge ahead, maintaining whatever semblance of normalcy we can cobble together, constantly making the adjustments necessary to navigate an increasingly difficult landscape. Through the Internet and in person, we reach out to each other, offering advice, comfort, and often just the knowledge that there are others out there like us, dealing with similar hardships and plowing through the dread only a fellow sufferer can know. I've seen the emotions engendered by MS turned into incredible pieces of visual art and tremendously moving poetry and prose, all loudly expressing that we are here despite the fear, and though physically diminished our spirits remain defiant.

Sheer terror can be an energizing force, as the medical world is learning through the tremendously transformational patient advocacy being done on behalf of CCSVI research, a movement whose spirited core is animated not only by the horror of the damage the disease may wreak, but also at a dogmatic medical profession that seems stuck in neutral, unable to give up on theories that are treated as fact despite there being little or no evidence to back them. Faced with terror at what is happening to them and frustration with the inability of anybody to do anything about it, patients are educating and liberating themselves, and by doing so becoming a powerful force of self advocacy. CCSVI may or may not prove to be the turning point we fervently wish for, the jury is still out, but at the very least the patient movement behind the CCSVI tsunami has flipped the traditional patient-doctor relationship on its head, and no longer will patients placidly accept answers that simply don't make sense. It is the terror born of the disease that has emboldened patients, and all of that focused energy has shaken the walls of a medical establishment that too often puts profits ahead of people, a situation that we the terrorized will plainly stand for no longer.

In the end, when faced with a reality that the "healthy you" would have found just about unimaginable, terror is a completely rational reaction. There can be no denying it, and though sometimes it is felt more keenly than others, it is our constant companion, worn as a second skin, permeating all that we do. But terror need not be a solely negative force. As with all things in nature, the darkness of fear is accompanied by the light of courageousness, as is demonstrated every day by those of us who by sheer power of will make it through another stanza in the face of pain, weakness, and frustration, more often than not speaking nary a word of the terror within. Sometimes we cry, sometimes we scream, but most of the time we just go about our business as best we can, and that may be the most courageous act of them all.

One

One is the loneliest number, at least according to a song written by Harry Nilsson in 1967 (and made famous by Three Dog Night in 1969). Though social interactions are a basic emotional necessity, for a patient plagued with increasing physical disability along with fatigue and an assortment of other symptoms, sometimes one is just about all you can handle. Chronic disabling illness often brings with it a troublesome companion: isolation, a condition that is often feared, but which has a more benign companion, solitude. The problem of isolation/solitude is a paradoxical one; although in anticipation loneliness is often dreaded, there are times, when caught in the thicket of illness, when a patient just wants to be left alone.

MS is a transformative disease, and the changes it brings can leave the afflicted feeling like some strange new breed, with the memories and inclinations of the old conflicting with the stark physical and emotional realities of the new. The disease progresses at different rates for different people. Some can remain quite active participants in healthy society for years or even decades, while others find themselves considerably disabled and their lives significantly impacted in a relatively short period of time. Whenever it occurs, when the patient is cleaved from the day-to-day existence they once took for granted, a sense of otherness can set in, as what had been a daily routine becomes anything but. Activities and actions that had once been accomplished with hardly a thought slowly become difficult and then impossible, and though the person going through these changes may be surrounded by well-intentioned friends and family who suffer their own emotional distress at the plight of their stricken loved one, the full emotional toll of mounting physical deficits can only be absorbed by one, the patient themselves.

Like the main character in Franz Kafka's novella "Metamorphosis", who wakes up one day to find himself transformed into a huge cockroach, patients experiencing progressing disability find themselves living through alarming change. Though this change doesn't occur overnight, as in Kafka's tale, it certainly can feel as if it comes on suddenly, and the physical transmutations taking place are inevitably accompanied by troublesome psychological companions. Nine years ago I was happily taking my pooch for a long brisk walk on a very cold winter’s day when I suddenly realized I was limping; fast forward to today and it's a treacherous and painful struggle to take 10 steps with cane gripped tightly in hand, and more often than not my sorry ass is planted firmly in the seat of a wheelchair. Nine years may sound like a substantial amount of time, but despite the innumerable trials and travails of the intervening years, it feels as if I took that long walk only yesterday. And though I've tried to handle my situation with as much grace, courage, and humor as I can muster, deep inside I cannot deny there exists a well contained but always present silent scream (click here to hear my silent scream).

Of course, it's of the utmost importance to stay connected with the world at large, regardless of your physical state. There is substantial danger in allowing the psychological tentacles of the disease to have their way, grabbing and dragging the emotional focus of the patient deep inside themselves. Concentrating on every new weakness, numbness, or deficit can cast a crippling spell, a self-perpetuating cauldron of compulsive anguish, whose only antidote is social interaction. The comforting give-and-take of a friendly conversation or the diversion of an outing whose sole purpose may simply be to lay eyes on other human beings can truly be a much needed balm for the soul, a reminder that though the body may be broken the spirit remains intact, and that the world is still filled with wonders big and small, even if they must sometimes be dug out from under a huge pile of crap.

Yes, human interaction is key, but the problem is that being sick takes up so much damn time. As levels of disability increase, so too does the time it takes to do almost everything. Whereas an impromptu get together with a friend for lunch may have once made for a happy couple of hours, for the disabled there is no such thing as impromptu. The simple act of getting dressed, which once was about as problematic as breathing, now presents hurdles and obstacles that require a preconceived tactical plan, especially in the colder months when such hobgoblins as sweaters, socks, coats, gloves, and scarves come into play. Depending on the patient, showering without assistance can be a daredevil high wire act or an absolute impossibility. Even if there has been advanced planning, after going through the effort of readying oneself for a guest appearance in the outside world, that day's allotment of energy may have just about been exhausted. The fatigue patients experience is not any kind of normal weariness, but an at times absolutely complete and debilitating exhaustion of mental and physical energy, which no amount of willpower can overcome. Many times, the only place I want to go after getting dressed is right back to bed.

Even the prospect of talking on the telephone can sometimes be daunting, especially to folks with whom you haven't communicated in a while. After "Hello" comes the inevitable "How are you?", a loaded question if ever there were one. It feels incredibly disingenuous to answer with a token "Oh, I'm okay", or "I'm hanging in there", but for sure the person on the other end of the line doesn't want or need to know the full dossier of your afflictions. Discussing the details of a well friends active life can sharpen focus on the deficiencies of your own, and despite honest attempts at sympathy, hearing of another's problems at times makes me want to shout "Hey, want to trade?" Shooting the breeze, sharing some laughs, and talking about anything other than illness and medicine can be incredibly uplifting, but as much joy as talking to old friends can bring, at times the prospect is overwhelming, the effort required tapping deep into the paucity of energy that is a constant companion. I must admit I have an embarrassing number of calls from dear friends for whom I have deep fondness that I've left unreturned for far too long.

Like many patients, I'm blessed with a social situation (in my case, a wonderful wife and caring family and friends) that keeps my periods of solitude, which I've come to quite appreciate, from morphing into isolation. Despite mounting physical difficulties, with effort I'm still able to get out and about on my own, to pursue my photography or just to break a bout of cabin fever. Still, as the progression of my disease continues, such outings require increasing effort, and I find I value time bereft of social responsibilities quite highly, hours spent meeting nobody's expectations but my own. I do know of many patients, though, who do suffer from isolation, whose lives are plagued not only by physical illness but by soul wracking loneliness, and to them my heart goes out. The Internet, through chat rooms and forums, offers opportunity to connect with others, if only in a virtual sense, but I know from experience that virtual friendships can indeed develop and deepen into surprisingly multifaceted relationships.

One is the loneliest number, but one can also be a source of solace as well. Persevering through chronic illness is a complicated affair, and navigating its hills and valleys, even with the solace of companions, is in many ways a solitary matter. Though others may help buffer the blows, ultimately each patient's experience is unique, and the mechanisms for coping theirs alone. Solitude and isolation are two sides of the same coin, a currency that can be prized or shunned, and in the convoluted and confused world of chronic illness, the line between the two can be fragile and blurred. Despite the difficulties imposed by illness, our connections to others are in many ways what keep us human. If isolation has too often become your domain, please make efforts to reach out; if you recognize isolation in others, please make efforts to reach in. Although the human state dictates that ultimately we all are alone, so too we are all in this together.

Related articles

• 40 Best Quotes About Solitude (ecosalon.com)

Don't Get Stuck in the Suck

(For those who receive Wheelchair Kamikaze via e-mail, this post contains a video, which can only be viewed from the WK website)

In one of my recent posts, I mentioned that having a progressively crippling disease royally sucks, but that somehow I've managed to learn how not to get stuck in the suck (click here). I thought I might expand on that idea some, in part because it's a hard yet vitally important lesson to learn, but mostly because I'd like to see the expression "Don't Get Stuck in the Suck" emblazoned on T-shirts, billboards, beer cozies, and ladies undergarments from Paris to Beijing.

I've seen and heard some folks with MS express the sentiment that their getting sick was somehow a blessing, in that it gave them a sense of perspective and allowed for a richer existence intellectually, spiritually, and philosophically. Well, more power to those people, but from where I sit watching myself slowly wither away just flat out sucks. In one of my very first blog posts, I wrote that MS sucks big fat hairy monkey balls (click here). Now, almost 3 years deeper into the progression of my disease (which is now a mystery illness (click here)), I can say with utmost surety that whatever ails me sucks something far more disgusting than big fat hairy monkey balls. At this moment I'm having a hard time thinking of anything more disgusting to suck, so let's have some fun and make this an interactive exercise. Please leave your ideas for something that's more disgusting than big fat hairy monkey balls with which you equate having your disease in the comments section below this post. Hopefully, your efforts will be both cathartic and extremely entertaining for all involved…

Okay, given that having a chronic progressively disabling disease sucks -insert super disgusting object here-, how does one saddled with such an affliction not get stuck in the suck? Well, it takes a lot of mental discipline, as well as a liberal dash of the perspective that being sick does indeed impart. Don't get me wrong, along with the "Blessed with MS" people, I readily acknowledge that the disease has led me to live a much more enlightened life, but given my druthers I'd happily go back to my former sometimes miserable and largely unenlightened but physically healthy old existence. If I could take with me just a smidgen of the wisdom that's been pounded into my head by dealing with a chronic progressive illness, all the better, but that certainly wouldn't be a prerequisite for a visit from the good health fairy. Unfortunately, I don't think the good health fairy is going to be flitting around my bedroom anytime soon, so in order to avoid getting stuck in the suck I've found that it's extremely important to not compare your circumstances to anybody else's, and especially not to yourself as you once were.

While zooming around the streets of New York City in my wheelchair, I'm usually able to keep myself amused and engaged by simply soaking up the sights and sounds of the city whizzing by, and occasionally scaring the living crap out of unsuspecting pedestrians as I careen past them just a wee bit too close. I've only actually hit maybe three people, but I'm convinced they were all really bad people. When I'm in Central Park or down by the Hudson River, I'm typically busy taking photos, watching and listening to street performers, taking in the scenery and parade of humanity, or a combination of all three. I also consciously try to not project an "I'm a victim" vibe, and approach these activities con mucho gusto, or at least with as mucho gusto as I'm feeling capable of on any particular day, which sometimes is more lesso then mucho.

This combination of outside distractions and inner focus usually keeps me from getting ensnared in any self-defeating mind traps, but occasionally the shields do go down and I find myself overcome with waves of tremendous envy for the swarms of people who can simply walk, jog, dance, ride a bike, lay out on a bench under a shady tree placidly reading a book (trying to read a book with only one working but wonky hand is damn near impossible), stroll hand-in-hand with their partner while lost in idle chatter, or do any one of the infinite number of things that I once accomplished without thought or effort but now are completely beyond my shrinking repertoire of tricks. At such moments all it takes is just a gentle push, and down into the vortex I tumble, pummeling myself from the inside out with a toxic mix of regret, chagrin, anger, helplessness, fear, panic, and dread. Into the darkest black hole I plunge, sucked in by the almost inescapably wicked gravity of big fat hairy monkey balls.

It's very hard to climb out of such a pit, and extricating myself usually entails screaming, crying, cursing the universe, and driving my wheelchair even more recklessly than usual (again, taking care to hit only really bad people). When caught in such a trap, you must not allow yourself to inflame the situation by getting down for being down, or else you'll get caught in a vicious loop, a snake eating its own tail. Admittedly, when dealing with a heinous disease, it's impossible to never plumb the depths, but it's imperative to keep such forays to a minimum. To do that, to avoid getting stuck in the suck, one must exercise control over the thoughts and emotions that create each person’s own version of reality. The treacherous shoals of agonizing self-pity constantly whisper an enticing siren song, and sometimes it's awfully difficult to not allow yourself to venture dangerously close to smashing up against some devastating inner rocks, but you can take command of your emotional rudder and steer clear. In fact you must, in order to give yourself any chance of escaping endless suffering (this goes for both sick and healthy alike).

So much has been written and said about living mindfully, occupying the moment, and staying in the now, that the sentiment has come dangerously close to becoming trite. The effort to stay rooted in the present has also been made to sound almost clinical, like some kind of joyless mental exercise as appealing as attending a psychological fat camp, but the reality of living mindfully entails joyfully soaking up all of the wonder that each moment has to offer, if only we allow ourselves the gift of recognition.

Thoughts of the past have their value, as remembering the good times and learning from the bad can certainly enhance the present, but living too much in the past is a trap of its own, stealing that most precious commodity of all, time, and preventing the creation of new memories to take their place alongside the old. When living with progressive illness, thoughts of the future can be tremendously frightening, and peering forward too often can lead to hopelessness and despair. Whatever a person's circumstance, nobody knows what the next moment may bring. As President Kennedy's limousine made that fateful left turn onto Elm Street in Dallas around noon on a sunny November day, he was the most powerful man in the world, oblivious to the horrors that lay in wait just seconds away.

Despite my piss poor physical state, I still retain enough quality of life to appreciate the hints of magic contained within most moments. For example, at this very instant I can sense the creative gears spinning in my head, and am transported by that feeling. I glance to my left and see one of my favorite vintage fedoras, a perfectly formed deep brown felt hat that's over 50 years old but is still as soft as a kitten, perched atop a tiny Adirondack chair in which sits my little plush replica of Wally the Green Monster, the Boston Red Sox mascot. Silly as it is, that little Wally makes me happy.

In front of me is a wonder that is truly enchanted, my computer, a machine that performs tricks that would leave Houdini insanely jealous. Right now it's transcribing my words as I speak them, and soon enough it will send them to some Fantasia in which people all around the world will be able to read and respond to them. The powers of this electronic wizard leave me humbled and profoundly grateful, having enriched my life in ways that are beyond words.

I look to my right and smile at just how messy my desk is, and then see a photo of one of the true loves of my life, my late great Labrador Retriever Stella, staring up at me with bright sparkling eyes, floppy ears, and a goofy smile on her face, still my faithful companion even though she's no longer here to snooze at my feet.

Outside my window, as I sit perched in the sky 18 floors up, the sounds of the city late at night create a gentle opus, a tapestry of sound comprised of the soft hum of cars and people passing by way down below, regularly punctuated by the staccato rhythms of the labors of pneumatic brakes on faraway buses and garbage trucks, all interrupted by periods of pregnant silence, these elements coming together to comprise a mellow ambience that signals tranquility to the ears of this city boy. My sweatpants and hoodie feel soft and comfy, helping to keep at bay both the emotional and physical chill of the outside world.

The fact of my disability robs this moment of none of its wonder, and if it tried I just wouldn't let it. That may change in a few minutes when I attempt to make my way to the bathroom to get ready for bed, but that moment might as well be decades away, because I am immersed in the now.

All of this does not change the fact that being sick sucks big fat hairy monkey balls, but it does help me keep from being stuck in the suck.

The below video does a much better job than I ever could describing the wonder of every moment. Its visuals and narration are simply sublime. I've been watching it at least once a day for about a week now. I hope you'll be as grateful for it as I am. Please be sure to watch it in high definition and full-screen. When the video starts playing, click on the little gear symbol on the bottom control panel and choose either 720P or 1080P to get high-definition video. For full-screen, click the symbol on the far right of the control panel.

Bits and Pieces: CCSVI, Stem Cells, Big Pharma, Boobs, and A Sad Goodbye

Image via Wikipedia

( For those readers who receive Wheelchair Kamikaze via email, this post contains videos, which can only be viewed on the WK website.)

As you may have noticed, I've changed the look of Wheelchair Kamikaze, more out of necessity than preference. Google's Blogger service, which hosts this blog, has been introducing new blog templates over the last year or so. Along with these new templates, some new functionalities have been added, many of which don't work with the templates originally provided by the Blogger. One of these new functionalities provides an easy way to reply to individual comments left by blog readers, which I thought would be an elegant and useful tool to utilize. Unfortunately, this new function doesn't work with the old blog template that I had been using, so, after holding out for several months, I've finally switched to one of Blogger's new designs. Not so sure that I am all that thrilled with its look and feel, so I'll probably be doing some tinkering over the next several weeks. Feel free to leave your input and or suggestions on the new design in the comments section of this post if you're so inclined.

As for this edition of Bits and Pieces, I've collected some interesting links related to CCSVI, stem cell research, and a very important new law that will finally rip away the veil of secrecy that now shields the financial monkeyshines that go on between pharmaceutical companies and the physicians that they constantly court to get them to prescribe their products.

Included in the mix is a video of Suzanne Somers talking about her boobs, so let me never be accused of not providing culturally redeeming materials…

♦ On the CCSVI front, The International Symposium on Endovascular Therapy was held this past week in Miami, Florida (click here). The symposium featured several presentations on CCSVI, including data from what I believe is the first large-scale study looking at CCSVI treatment outcomes since Dr. Zamboni first published his initial findings. This study (click here), conducted in Sicily, tracked 170 patients who underwent CCSVI angioplasty. Patients were assessed by physicians prior to treatment using the standard scale to measure MS disability (EDSS), and were asked to assess their own quality of life using a 16 item questionnaire. At the three-month point post treatment, it was found that median EDSS scores fell from 4.5 to 4.0, with patients who suffered from less disability benefiting more than patients with more severe disability. Quality of life scores followed a similar pattern, indicating that patients relatively less impacted by the disease reported greater improvements than those experiencing a more advanced disease state. Since the symptoms most often cited as being improved by CCSVI treatment are fatigue, cognitive functioning, and heat intolerance, these findings do make some sense. Patients with less advanced disease (as defined by mobility issues) often find these symptoms to be their most debilitating, whereas more severely disabled patients might not find the relief of the symptoms quite so impactful. The authors of the study note that a longer observation time and a control group are needed to confirm these findings.

♦ An interesting theory out of Australia links chlamydia pneumonia infection with CCSVI (click here). According to this theory, the venous defects and anomalies found in the veins of MS patients might not be congenital (developed in the womb), but instead may be caused by chronic inflammation due to infection with the chlamydia pneumonia bacteria. According to this hypothesis, when inflammation within the vein walls subsides, it may leave behind the webs, septums, and valvular abnormalities now being found by doctors performing CCSVI angioplasty. There has long been a small but adamant group of researchers (led by a research team at Vanderbilt University) and patients who believe that MS is caused by chlamydia pneumonia, and some of these patients have successfully treated their disease using a long-term course of combination antibiotic therapy. More info on the link between MS and CPN can be found that CPNhelp.org (click here).

The proposed link between CPN and CCSVI certainly opens the door to new areas of investigation, and highlights just how much there is left to be learned about CCSVI and its relation to multiple sclerosis. What initially seemed to be a relatively simple hypothesis with a fairly straightforward minimally invasive surgical solution is now slowly being understood to be more complex than we had originally anticipated. The treatment protocol used to alleviate CCSVI is still a work in progress, with the techniques used varying greatly from physician to physician, and the results experienced by patients who undergo the procedure varying widely as well. Unfortunately, very little scientifically valid tracking of patient results has thus far been done, so most of our evidence remains anecdotal. The discovery of the vascular abnormalities associated with MS, now called CCSVI, is, I think, an extremely important one, but it's becoming increasingly clear that CCSVI is a part of a bigger MS puzzle, one that includes not only vascular issues but also genetic predisposition, infectious exposures, and environmental factors as well.

♦ The coming 6-12 months should bring important research data from ongoing CCSVI studies, information that very well could raise as many questions as it answers, as is so often the case with scientific investigation. The upcoming second annual International Society for Neurovascular Disease (ISNVD) meetings will be held in Orlando, Florida from February 18-22nd, and should bring with it a veritable smorgasbord of CCSVI findings (click here). For those readers in the Central Florida area, a patient information program is being held on February 18 at the Orlando Hilton, and registration is now open for the event (click here). Please note, for those not in the Florida area, registration for a live webcast is also available, at the link previously provided.

♦ Here's a chance for you to get involved in CCSVI activism. Activist Karen Golden Oronte has started a letter writing campaign to members of the US Congressional MS Caucus. A list of Congress members to write to, as well as tips on what points to make in your letter, can be found on the always informative CCSVI in MS Facebook page (click here). Compared to coverage in other countries, CCSVI has received very little attention here in the US (strangely so, actually), and this letter writing campaign is a great idea for raising awareness of the issue amongst our elected representatives. So write a letter and use the tools of democracy to make our voices heard. Power to the people, right on!

♦ It seems there has recently been a palpable uptick in the number and pace of advancements being made in the field of stem cell research. One early stage study was recently completed on patients suffering from SPMS, using autologous (taken from the patients themselves) mesenchymal stem cells infused into the patient intravenously (click here). Although the study was small (10 patients) and primarily aimed at assessing the safety of this kind of stem cell treatment, it also assessed the impact of the treatment on some of the visual deficits experienced by the patients involved. After 10 months researchers were able to document several physiological improvements in the treated patients.

♦ An interesting study done on mice demonstrated that exposing older mice with MS like nervous system damage to blood taken from younger mice activated stem cells resident in the central nervous systems of the older mice, resulting in nervous system repair (click here). Although this research is in its earliest stages, this may point the way to therapies that allow the stem cells that are resident in all patients to someday be stimulated to regenerate nervous system damage done by diseases like MS. In early MS, stem cells that are already a part of the nervous system can effectively repair damage done to myelin, but this ability decreases with age and time afflicted with the disease. In this study, exposure to youthful blood increased myelin regeneration in older subjects.

♦ Another group of researchers were for the first time able to convert umbilical cord stem cells into oligodendrocytes, the central nervous system cells that produce myelin (click here). This is a very important advance, as stem cells specifically targeted at central nervous system damage would, in theory, be more effective at repairing this damage than generic stem cells when transplanted into a patient. The use of umbilical cord cells circumvents all of the moral and ethical controversies surrounding the use of embryonic stem cells, and research on these cells, as well as on adult stem cells, offers the greatest promise for rapid deployment into a clinical setting.

♦ As an American male who was a teenager in the 1970s, I can attest to the incredibly powerful effect that the jiggling Suzanne Somers, star of the sitcom Threes Company, had on the raging hormones of red-blooded American males of the era. I'm not too proud to admit that I watched the show not for the deadpan humor of Norman Fell or the comedic timing of John Ritter, but for the substantial endowments of the young Ms. Somers, which the producers of the show put to prodigious use by packing each half-hour with as many scenes of the actress dressed in tube tops or cut off T-shirts as possible. I've been aware for the last several years that Ms. Somers has been battling breast cancer, and was extremely heartened to come across this video clip, in which she explains that she appears to be winning the battle, and that an experimental stem cell treatment helped regrow one of her breasts after breast cancer surgery. Breast cancer is serious business, as is the disfigurement its treatment can leave behind, so this was all very welcomed news. Here's Suzanne Somers, happily explaining how stem cells helped her grow a boob:




♦ Under the United States' new healthcare law, sometimes derisively referred to as Obamacare, pharmaceutical companies will soon be forced to disclose the payments they make to doctors in an attempt to increase the sales of the drugs and medical devices the companies produce (click here). Physicians are routinely paid tens of thousands of dollars in "consulting fees", are treated to all expenses paid "educational symposiums" that are most often held at luxury resorts in exotic locations (where more time is spent on the golf course than in educational conferences), and are treated to expensive dinners, all in the name of "educating" them as to the merits of a particular pharmaceutical product. Analysts have found that at least one quarter of doctors routinely taking cash payments from drug or device makers, and that two thirds accept gifts of food, including lunch for staff members and dinners for themselves.

The New York Times reports that it "has found that doctors who take money from drug makers often practice medicine differently from those who do not and that they are more willing to prescribe drugs in risky and unapproved ways, such as prescribing powerful antipsychotic medicines for children." How nice.

Under the new regulations, a website will be set up on which patients can research exactly how much pharmaceutical largess their physicians have received, and thus be able to make better informed medical decisions for themselves. All I can say is, it's about freaking time…

♦ On a very sad note, one of my favorite recording artists, the incomparable Etta James, has died. Although beset with drug abuse problems for much of her life, Ms. James had an incomparable voice, one that conveyed the deepest of emotions with a simple inflection or a throaty growl. Having spent much of my career working for a major label music company, I can attest to the fact that many of today's most lauded singing stars sound no better than you or I do when warbling in the shower (you would be shocked, believe me), their careers kept aloft by the prodigious use of electronic wizardry and slick production. Not so with Etta James, who built a career in an era when actual talent and the soul of an artist were required to achieve stardom. Sleep well Etta, your powerful essence will live forever in the hearts of many, in the form of your magnificent music.

Related articles

• Hurry up and wait for a CCSVI strategy (macleans.ca)
• Blood Vessel Condition Tied to MS, with Caveats (nlm.nih.gov)
• Risk factors for CCSVI are similar to risk factors for developing MS, UB study shows (eurekalert.org)
• Welcome (thinkccsvi.com)