Part of the challenge in oncology is maintaining the balance
between hope and reality, and that is probably the most important thing to
strive for on behalf of patients living with metastatic disease. Often times,
the important conversations relate to treatment options, goals of care, and
patient preferences (i.e., frequency of visits to the doctor, side-effect
profiles of treatment options, and the important life events patients do not
want to miss). Yet, some of the most important are also the ones I struggle
with the most.
This was the case with Laynie*. She and I met when she was
diagnosed with ovarian cancer. I had hoped to cure her of her advanced disease,
and given that she had no evidence of disease at the completion of her primary
surgery, I had every reason to offer that. Unfortunately, she relapsed only
six months after treatment ended. We talked then about the incurable nature of
recurrent ovarian cancer and that our goals would need to change to more
realistic ones—controlling her cancer and preventing symptoms. “I hope that
with the current options of treatment you can continue to live and thrive,
despite recurrent disease.”
Sure enough, a year later she was still okay—on treatment
with stable disease and no evidence of progression. She was still working and
still enjoying her grandchildren. To look at her, one would not have guessed
she had recurrent ovarian cancer—well, except that her treatment had taken her
once flowing blonde hair.
“You look really good,” I told her.
“Thanks so much,” she said. “I wasn’t sure I’d be here now,
let alone feel well enough to work. I just wish I didn’t have to sacrifice my
hair.”
We had talked about discontinuing treatment given her stable
disease, but we had opted to continue treatment, as maintenance. “If it ain’t
broke, don’t fix it,” she said.
“I got this letter in the mail, though. I am due for my
mammogram and I am wondering if I should do it. What do you think?” she asked.
For a moment, I did not know what to say. Although she was
doing well, it was very likely she would someday die of her ovarian cancer. The
thing is, I had no way of knowing when that day might come. I have found that I
have terrible predictive abilities in answering the question, “How long do I
have?” especially in the situation that Laynie was now in.
Still, I wasn’t sure what to do about breast cancer
screening. Would she benefit from this? Would finding early stage breast cancer
help her? That is, in the face of her high risk of dying from ovarian cancer,
what could be gained by finding and treating mammographically detected early
breast cancer? Yet, at the same time, I had no way of knowing if she might die
of a breast cancer not detected by screening—especially since her ovarian
cancer was under control.
What constitutes appropriate primary prevention measures for
patients with recurrent or metastatic disease represents a major dilemma,
especially given that a growing number of these patients are now living with
cancer as a chronic disease thanks to targeted treatments and immunotherapy,
whether through the utilization of mammography or colonoscopy, or the use of
medications to prevent heart disease. In
the most extreme example of this, Russell looked at the records of 203 patients
referred to palliative care for a life-limiting illness (almost 70% with
cancer) [1]. Among this group, almost one in four
were taking a lipid-lowering drug, and for 40%, it was being taken as primary
prevention.
Although I could not be guided by data, there was still a
patient in this room, waiting for my opinion. “Well, I don’t know if getting a
mammogram makes sense for you,” I told her. “Your ovarian cancer is quite
serious, even if it is under control right now, and more likely than not, it
will be the thing that you eventually die from. Still, ‘eventually’ could mean
months, but it could mean years, and I have no way to tell which it is. So, let
me ask you—if we found something on the mammogram, would you want to pursue
it?”
She looked at me at first, obviously giving it some thought.
“Yes,” she said. “I would want something done. But more than that, mammograms
are something I’ve done for decades. They are part of my annual routine, and forgoing
it to me would mean giving up on any hope I might live for a long time. And I’m
not about to give up.”
It was my turn to contemplate her response. A part of me
understood what she was saying and wanted to support her. Yet, there was
another part of me who felt that mammography would be a waste of her time. I
was tempted to tell her so, to tell her to seize this and every day to its
fullest, and to live. Screening in the face of her diagnosis made no sense. But
I didn’t say that. Instead, I told her I understood, and then gave her
permission to proceed with her mammogram (though, quite frankly, she neither
needed nor asked for it!).
Ultimately, I had to remember that I was not her counsellor,
priest, or parent. I was her doctor, and my job was to give my opinion, even if
it could not be backed by any data, and then to respect hers. After all, there
was only one person in the room walking this road of cancer, and it was my job
to make that road easier.
Reference:
1. Russell BJ, et al. Intern Med 2014; 44:177
*Patient name changed to protect privacy.
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