Mets Day 1076 How to now no longer do a CT scan

Mets Day 1076 How to now no longer do a CT scan

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Today was my first CT scan since I started out the nivolumab clinical trial. The scan is intended to provide a prestige document on the sizes of my various tumors. It shall be some days formerly than I get the consequences. The trial protocol requires two scans formerly than the doctors can make any determination of whether the Opdivo drug is working, so at present's scan should not definitive.
Anyway, so I arrived on the Hopkins scan at about 10:30 am, handiest to have the nurse tell me that Hopkins has not gained approval from my wellbeing and fitness insurance company to do the scan. I explained that this scan was a part of a clinical trial, which was news to the nurse. She disappeared to make some calls, then came to come back and told me that, even though I was in a clinical trial, Hopkins judicious this scan to be within the common primary of care, so it was appropriate to ask the insurance company to canopy it. She pointed out that an someone was calling the insurance company now to get the approval. She pointed out that an someone should have flagged this formerly than, and apologized for the wait.

After an hour of waiting, the nurse came to come back and told me that United wellbeing and fitness care had accredited the scan. At about the same time, the analysis nurse for the clinical trial showed up and also apologized for not acquiring the approval in advance. She assured me that future scans would get the approval in advance. I asked about the relationship between the clinical trial sponsor, who was supposed to canopy the costs on the topic of the trial, and the call to seek reimbursement from UHC for the scans. The answer is that any care that is consistent with the primary of care is billable to the insurance company, regardless of whether it occurs within a clinical trial.

With the approval in hand, I was escorted to come back to have my port accessed, then led into the CT scan room. I was to have scans of my neck, chest, and stomach without, then with, contrast. After the scans without contrast, a nurse hooked me up to an infusion pump that would feed the glucose-rich media with iodine through my port and into my bloodstream, in which it'd be distributed at some level of my body in about five heartbeats. I was used to this procedure, having undergone it more than 20 times ago three years.

Instead of getting that familiar warmth as spread through the body and gather in the loins upon the pump activation, on the other hand, the connection between the pump and my port broke aside, spraying my face, arms, torso, and the internal of the CT doughnut with sticky goo. I yelled out to keep at bay the scan, and three nurses and techs came running out bearing bowled over expressions. They were more rattled than I was. The nurse who had hooked me time and again apologized, saying that had never happened to him formerly than. (Me either.) They hooked a different bag of contrast up, double-checking the connection line to my port, then ran me through the scan.

As the table was moved out of the doughnut, the nurses returned to wash me up. The media on my arm had started out to harden, like sugar glaze exposed to air. The nurses were unable to in finding a towel, so they grabbed one of the clean sheets for the table, wetted it, and wiped off my arms, face, and hair. Another one wiped out the machine, then the 3rd escorted me out to have my port de-accessed, repeating her apologies. (Please don't tell the administration, she silently pointed out. Don't be concerned, I silently thought to come back. I'll just submit it on my net publication.)

As soon as my port entry was removed, one of the CT techs came running to come back to get me. It seems that they didn't do the contrast scan of the stomach – they just did the neck and chest. Since I'd just had the contrast, they pointed out I didn't need more. So they slapped me to come back on the table, ran me through the scanner, then sent me on my way. They were visibly rattled. I'm convinced they didn't come to a decision to crank up the scanner strength and nuke me. Or maybe they did and I don't realize it.

I'll get the leads to an afternoon or two. And next Monday, I'll have a different infusion. We'll stay the course until as a minimum early May, when I'll have the second scan after six rounds of infusions, and we'll come to a decision whether this trial is doing me any good.

Speaking of clinical trials, yesterday the New York Times ran anarticle about he low percentage of adult cancer sufferers who entered clinical trials. While eighty to 90 percentage of pediatric cancer sufferers participate in clinical trials, the article pointed out, fewer than 5% of adults with cancer participate. I'm amazed at that figure. Upon some reflection, I assume it's because adults wish to assume that their course of treatment will result in a cure, not an experiment. And their doctors are obliging them, and not telling them about clinical trial alternate options. I assume that there desires to be greater humility by oncologists who treat adults, moreover to their sufferers. There is so a substantive deallots we simply don't know about cancer.

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