CANCER ... there’s hope
By Richard and Annette Bloch
Copyright 1982 R. A. Bloch Cancer Foundation, Inc.
Published by R.A. Bloch Cancer Foundation, Inc. at Smashwords
R. A. Bloch Cancer Foundation, Inc
A
not-for-profit corporation
The Cancer Hot Line
One H&R
Block Way
Kansas City, Missouri
64105
816-854-5050
800-433-0464
BlochCancer.org
hotline@blochcancer.org
First printing - April 1982
Second printing -
March 1983
Third printing - April 1987
Fourth printing -
December 1988
Fifth printing - November 1990
Sixth printing -
October 1993
Seventh printing - March 1996
Eighth printing -
April 2004
eBook version November 2011 by Mike Lyon
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you
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Dedication
This book is dedicated to our three daughters, Barbara, Nancy and Linda, whose love, support and devotion gave me the will and the desire to live.
This book is available to you without charge with the belief that it offers you methods to improve the quality of your life and increase your chances of successfully fighting cancer. After you have read the book, please give it to another cancer patient. If you are unable to do this, please give it to a library or minister so that they may loan it to someone it can help. We would appreciate hearing your feelings after you read this book. Drop us a note. We care about you!
-- Richard and Annette Bloch
Table of Contents
Starting down the road to recovery
The ups and downs of treatment
Establishing the treatment panel
Organizing the Cancer Management Center
National Cancer Institute Designated Comprehensive Cancer Centers
Glossary of terms in lay language
Preface
In 1978, Richard Bloch, co-founder and honorary chairman of the board of H&R Block, Inc., contracted cancer. With the help of his wife, Annette, and the doctors who said he could lick the disease, and with a stubborn determination to survive, Bloch waged a bitter, painful, two-year war on the insidious disease.
Today, he is cured.
So dramatic was his fight and recovery that Bloch and his wife have decided to spend their lives helping to convince others that they too can cope with cancer.
The purpose of this book is to advise cancer patients, their relatives and friends what could be involved and what some of their options are. It is also to advise doctors and other professionals what reactions there could be to statements or treatments. The more knowledge we have about this dreaded disease, the better we can help ourselves and others cope.
Where to find answers
If you have questions concerning a specific type of cancer or where to get treatment, call the Cancer Information Service, a free service of the National Cancer Institute, on their toll-free number: 1-800-4-CANCER.
By calling this number, you will automatically be routed to your local Cancer Information Service. If there is no Cancer Information Service in your area, it will automatically connect you with the National Cancer Information Service lines in Rockville, Maryland.
Request the state-of-the-art therapy for your type and stage of cancer. Also, request all current open protocols from everywhere in the United States for your specific type and stage of cancer. This will give you peace of mind knowing your doctor is giving you the best possible treatment. If you have any questions, ask your doctor.
Understanding what lies ahead
On March 28, 1978, the doctor told me that I had a malignancy. My lung cancer was inoperable. I should get my estate in order.
Two years later, the doctors told me I was totally cured. I have no more chance of a recurrence of lung cancer than anyone else on the street.
This book is being written for the benefit of any individual who has been diagnosed as having cancer or who has a friend or relative who has cancer. It will attempt to explain different stages and treatments of the disease as seen through the eyes of one who has gone through it.
It is not a series of medical stories. Everything in it is from personal experience. These are my feelings about, or my understanding of, what was happening.
It is my hope that there is something here that everyone will be able to relate to. Nothing is intended to be used as a comparison, because every case of cancer is different. Not only are there different types of cancers, but they are in different places, happening to people of different. ages, of different backgrounds and of different strengths and weaknesses. Each case of cancer is as unique as a fingerprint.
The reader should be able to better understand and empathize with what the person with a malignancy is going through and what that person can do to help himself. It is to show how important is good medical attention, how vital is prompt action, and how fundamental is a positive mental attitude.
Cancer is the uncontrolled growth of cells. Cancer cells are extremely small. One million cancer cells would be the size of the head of a pin. One billion, that is 1,000 million, would be the size of a small marble. These cells are weaker than healthy cells, but gain their strength because they multiply so readily.
There are six possible fundamental treatments or therapies used to cure cancer. They may be used individually or in any combination. They are:
* Surgery. The simple act of cutting out the tumor.
* Radiation therapy. Killing cancer cells with X rays.
* Chemotherapy. The use of chemicals to kill cancer cells.
* Immunization therapy. The use of chemicals to activate the body’s own immune system to kill cancer cells.
* Heat therapy. Killing cancer cells by localized heat.
* Psychotherapy. The controlled use of the mind to kill cancer cells and stir up the immune system to kill cancer cells.
Surgery, radiation and heat therapy are localized approaches. They deal with a specific locale of cancer and are effective against large masses. On the other hand, chemotherapy, immunization therapy and psychotherapy are systemic approaches. That is, they go throughout the entire system. They are possibly less effective against a large localized mass, but will destroy cancer cells in small quantities throughout the body. For this reason, it is generally best to use one or more of the localized treatments to eliminate the mass and then follow up with one or more of the systemic therapies to ensure that all traces of cancer have been destroyed.
Since cancer multiplies geometrically (one cancer cell divides into two, two divide into four, four into eight, and so on), it is obvious why it is so important to discover it as early as possible and then treat it immediately. Don’t ever look back and criticize yourself because you didn’t discover it earlier. Once it is discovered, it is important to treat it properly and promptly. One day’s delay could mean the difference between life and death.
Radiation and certain chemicals can be given to the body only in limited amounts. Certain kinds of surgery cannot be repeated. For example, you can only remove one lung one time; you cannot have the second lung removed and live. Therefore, it is often critical that the cancer be totally cured the first time, as there is no hope of successfully treating certain kinds of recurrences. An interesting related example was explained to me by a doctor. They found that a certain type of leukemia always went into remission on its own. It then recurred and was fatal. But by taking bone marrow from the patient during this universal remission, freezing it and then injecting it back into the same patient when the leukemia recurred, the doctors usually cured the patient.
In my personal case, I attribute my recovery to five factors:
* The total support and devotion of my wife and my children; they gave me the will to fight.
* Finding the right teams of doctors. I must be grateful, not only to the doctors who properly treated me, but to all those who devoted themselves to discovering the treatments that were used on me.
* Positive mental attitude. Once the initial shock was over, I knew I had to make it and would do anything to accomplish this.
* Luck. The fact that the tumor formed around a nerve drove me to seek additional opinions.
* Faith in God. My prayers and the prayers of so many others which meant so much to me had to be a factor.
First Recognition
My bout with cancer started the first week of November 1977. We had rented a villa in Acapulco for five weeks. It was during our first week there that I noticed the signs of an oncoming stiff neck. I attributed this to either the vigor of playing platform tennis every morning or to the window air-conditioner in our bedroom.
I never mentioned it to my wife; I assumed that it would be gone within a week. On the contrary, it did not disappear, and it gradually increased over our five-week stay.
On my return to Kansas City, I called my family doctor and made an appointment to see him the next morning. He took an X ray of my shoulder and said it was strictly a muscular problem.
I told him how relieved I was. But, for some reason, this pain in my shoulder reminded me of a pain that my uncle complained about before he died of cancer. Told this, the doctor took three more X rays of my shoulder and said he could guarantee that it wasn’t cancer. He also said the soreness should be gone within thirty days. This was December 15. It also was the first time I told my wife about my problem.
We went to Florida for the month of January. The pain was still there. It got worse and started slipping down my arm. On my return to Kansas City, I made an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon in the same building as my physician. He immediately sent for the X rays that had been taken. He said they had X-rayed the wrong part of my body. He took four X rays of my neck and showed me that the problem was arthritis in my neck that was rubbing a nerve causing the pain in my shoulder and arm. This made a great deal of sense, and I told him that I had been worried about cancer. He too reassured me that my fears were unfounded and that the pain should go away in another month.
We returned to Florida. But instead of disappearing, the pain increased to the point where my arm began tingling and was partly numb. Often I was unable to grip with my right hand.
Again, returning to Kansas City on March 27, 1978, I called another orthopedic surgeon. He had been highly recommended. At this point I wanted to determine the cause of my pain. Immediately on explaining my problem, he said that he was not the man for me to see. He recommended that I go to a neurosurgeon. I gave him a brief explanation on the phone and hoped that he would see me that week. Instead, the neurosurgeon said he wanted to see me within the hour at the emergency room at Research Hospital.
My wife and I met him there. He asked me to turn my head back and forth, and he promptly assured me it was not arthritis. He asked me how much I smoked. I said I didn’t like that question; I knew full well that it meant that all my previous fears could be correct.
I am grateful to this man. He was the first doctor to recognize the problem, and he acted speedily to verify it. He arranged for me to be at another hospital at seven-thirty the next morning, to take an electronic test of my right arm to determine the extent and location of the nerve damage, and to do a chest X ray. That X ray revealed a large mass in my right shoulder on the upper part of my lung; it appeared to be very serious. Immediately a bone scan of my entire body was taken, and it indicated that I had a tumor. A biopsy was scheduled for the next morning to determine whether it was malignant.
While I was under a general anesthetic, my wife and three daughters sat patiently, not really believing what was happening. After the biopsy, while I was in the recovery room, the surgeon and his assistant came to the waiting room to tell the results to my family. He was quite blunt; he came right out and told my wife and daughters that I had lung cancer, that it was very serious, and that there was possibly, at the most, a thirty percent chance of recovery.
What a cruel and unnecessary way to break the news. Honesty is important, but there are less cruel ways of getting the message across. My family wept with anguish and disbelief. They composed themselves and started discussing with my brother Henry and his wife what possible alternatives there were.
Meanwhile, when I regained consciousness in the recovery room, the surgeon was there. His words to me were, “It is malignant. It is inoperable. If I were you, I would get my estate in order.”
I asked if there was any treatment other than surgery possible. He answered that they could give me radiation therapy, but it would not do me any good and only make me sicker. I asked whether there was anywhere else I could go, and he said he would send me anywhere I wanted to go, but no one knew any more than he did.
At this point, they wheeled me out of the recovery room. My wife was standing there waiting for me. We looked at each other. I broke down and cried. My wife, by this time, had regained her strength and told me, “We are going to lick this thing together.”
My feelings at that moment were of total disbelief. The doctors had to be talking about someone else. I was a healthy, happy, fifty-two-year-old man, and things like this always happened to the other guy. My wife and I had been married thirty-one years, had three wonderful daughters, two sons-in-law, four grandchildren, and a successful business. All in all, I had just too much to live for. I wanted to know more, but I didn’t know what or whom to ask.
I did not even know what this disease called cancer really was. My mind was so blown that I could not recall that I had ever known anyone who had cancer. I had momentarily forgotten that my uncle had died from it, and less than eight years before we had watched my wife’s sister painfully die from it. We wanted help, but we didn’t know where to turn.
That night, a friend, Buddy Greenbaum, whose wife had recently been a victim of cancer, called. He had just heard about my problem and, without even asking me, had called his wife’s doctor in Houston. He told him about me, and the doctor said he would wait at his home for my immediate call.
I called the Houston physician. This was Wednesday night. He told me to come to Houston on a plane Thursday and start tests Friday at 8 A.M. I said that I would prefer waiting until Monday, as I had some personal and business affairs to attend to. The doctor informed me that the clinic was closed over the weekend. Since time was of the essence, if I was not in Houston Thursday night, the doctor said, he would not treat me.
Thursday morning at six-thirty I was in my beautiful office for possibly—no, probably, according to the doctor—my last time. I loved my office, not only because of what it was, but what it represented. Physically, it was very contemporary, done in shades of brown, rust, orange and chrome. The accessories were mementos from various trips to the Near East and Far East.
My office represented something that had been built from scratch. My brother Henry and I had started a business from our imagination. We had over 8,000 offices around the world preparing income tax returns. I thought of all the people along the way who had helped us and had become extremely successful. I thought of all the individuals we had helped. That’s what my office represented, and I was leaving it to catch a flight for Houston that afternoon.
I had come to the office to get my papers in order, but I just sat and stared and thought. My entire wonderful life passed before me. I had enjoyed every minute of it and tried to help everyone I met along the way. I had no regrets. I was not afraid to die. I just hated to leave when I was having such a great time.
I opened a desk drawer and took out a Christmas card that my daughter Barbara wrote for me in 1976. In part it said:
...And then I pictured you at play—a 50-year–old little boy with a mischievous gleam in your eye as you sailed the boat toward the beach to ride the waves.
You take such delight in everything you do!
And I said Thank God for your spirit.
And I thought about the determination with which you do everything—sometimes bordering on stubbornness!—but displaying a stamina that I must admire.
And I said Thank God for your strength...In standing firm you stand so tall.
And I thought about how you have conveyed to me the importance of giving ...not by words, but by setting an example. I was so proud that you donated to Breakthrough House. Not only was it a substantial and needed gift, but it was acknowledgment and approval of something I was doing. That gesture meant more to me than you know. And I thanked God for your generosity.
After reading the card, I knew I had to make it. I would not quit. I would fight this with Annette until we beat it. If Houston did not turn out to be the right place, we would keep looking. I needed my family, and they needed me too much to throw in the towel.
That evening we checked into the Anderson-Mayfair Hotel, carrying our X rays, slides, and numerous reports. We had come for an indefinite period. The feeling of not knowing whether we’d be leaving in a day, a week, a month, or never, was very difficult.
Early the next morning we went to the clinic to register me as an outpatient. From the time we saw the sign M. D. Anderson Tumor Clinic, we felt good. In the indoctrination, we were shown a film on what we could expect, and when we realized that this institution every day treated 1,200 patients who suffered from some form of cancer, we knew we were in the right hands.
In addition to this confidence, the cheerful attitude of all personnel did a great deal to allay the fear and terror of hearing the word cancer. Later on, we would learn that a substantial share of the cure of cancer comes in the waiting room, talking with other patients who have been cured or are being treated.
After the orientation, we met the doctor, who was a professor of medicine and head of the section of immunization therapy. He explained that I would be given numerous tests on Friday. The clinic would be closed on Saturday and Sunday, during which time the results of the tests would be analyzed. He would meet with me Monday morning.
It was to be one of the most thorough and exhausting days of examinations I’ve ever been through, including brain scan, liver scan and tomograms, and culminating in a very painful bone-marrow test. At the time, I was willing to let them do anything they wanted, because I felt that each test they gave me meant a slight chance of survival over the prospect of doom that had been forecast in Kansas City.
I finished the tests at 5 P.M. We had the weekend to ourselves. When death is knocking on your door, what do you do? Where do you go? We had no desire to face family and friends in our depressed state of mind. This would merely have evoked sympathy and would have caused unnecessary suffering on both sides. We decided then to run away to a little apartment we had in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. It was quite a weekend. My wife and I were deeply immersed in our thoughts and questions, many of which went unspoken. We sat alone and silent for long periods of time.
Our mutual love was a little speed boat named “After Taxes.” The first morning we went to a store and got some wine and cheese and packed a picnic lunch. We went out on the boat, no goal, just cruising around and thinking and trying to talk.
We thought of all the trips we had taken together. Annette thought that she had never done anything without me. If she didn’t have me, she’d never want to come down here. Here we were, both young, and we had the most incredible family. The three fabulous daughters, two sons-in-law and one on the way, and four grandchildren. We loved to travel with our children. If something happened to me, this all would stop.
And here we were facing death. On our cruise to nowhere this Saturday, we found a tiny island, no more than fifty feet across. It was in the middle of the city, where the New River bends away from the Inter-coastal Waterway, but at least 150 feet from the nearest shore. A lot of birds were there. The sand was white. We saw this and, on the spur of the moment, beached the boat.
We got out of the boat and sat there and just started talking. We couldn’t believe this was happening. Was it real? This didn’t happen to people we know. We decided then and there that we had to beat it. We talked about how much we loved each other. I had to get well.
Annette sensed my fear. I really love life and have always enjoyed every minute of it. I’ve always seen the good in others. Annette kids me that I have never found the hole in the doughnut. I wasn’t ready for this life to stop. We looked at each other and knew that I had to make it. We just had to lick it. Annette picked up a stick and drew a big heart in the sand the way kids do. She put our initials in it and the date, and scribbled, “We Shall Return.” We drank some wine and talked. We got back into the boat, drove off and anchored out in the water where we wouldn’t see people. We talked some more. But a lot of the time we didn’t say a word. We sat and thought.
Starting down the road to recovery
Monday morning, April 3, 1978, we returned to Houston and met with my doctor. He advised us that he and several other doctors had reviewed the results of my tests and discussed my case at great length.
His exact words were: “Dick, you are a very sick boy. We are going to make you a lot sicker, but we are going to cure you. We are going to cure you so that you can work for cancer.”
Melodramatic? I guess so. But hope is the one ingredient that every human clings to. It gives us a reason to live, to fight. If I could struggle to the end of this grim path, survive the radiation and chemotherapy, I told myself, I would devote my life to helping others stricken as I was.
We were truly elated; these were the first positive words and first ray of hope we had been given. As much as we wanted to, it was difficult to fully believe, comprehend and accept.
The doctor explained that the treatments I would be receiving had never been done before in this exact sequence. I would be given two weeks of radiation therapy, immediately followed by one week of chemotherapy. I would be allowed to recuperate and regain my strength. Surgery would then remove the diseased area, and immunization therapy would follow immediately. After recuperating from this, I would receive one year of chemotherapy.
The logic behind this was explained to me. Cancer cells are extremely small. One million cancer cells are the size of the head of a pin. One billion cancer cells are the size of a small marble one centimeter in diameter. Cancer cells can be killed more easily than healthy cells. The radiation therapy that I would receive would kill precisely 72 percent of my cancer cells each day. Therefore, if I started off with 100 billion cancer cells, after the first day I would only have 28 billion left. After the tenth day, I would only have 296,000 left.
Chemotherapy, on the other hand, can do very little against a large, massive cancer, but is excellent at killing isolated, individual cancer cells. Therefore, after the two weeks of radiation, the week of chemotherapy should be extremely effective against the relatively few cancer cells left. Also, a big problem in cancer is that since the cells are so small, they tend to break off from the main tumor and lodge themselves in other parts of the body. The brain and the liver both tend to strain blood, which is why cancers so often metastasize, or spread, there. The chemotherapy before surgery was to prevent the cancer from metastasizing somewhere else while I was recuperating from radiation and lung surgery.
As for the immunization therapy, it is predicated on the belief that everyone has an immune system that constantly kills cancer cells. Through some sort of weakness, this immune system may let down and allow the cancer cells to grow. Obviously, since I did have cancer, I had a flaw in my immune system.
Research has found that people who have had tuberculosis rarely get lung cancer. On this premise, I was to be given tuberculosis after surgery to stimulate my immune system and keep me from getting lung cancer again after recovery.
The year of chemotherapy was to take away any chance of recurrence. While the odds were great that I would be completely free of cancer, the likelihood that a recurrence would be fatal made any odds too risky.
Radiation therapy
Tuesday morning my wife and I wound our way to the area in which the hospital does radiation therapy on the chest. We had to pass through the head and neck radiation department. There were sixty chairs lined up against two walls that ran the length of the room, and every chair was taken. The people were bald, shaved, with red lines painted on their heads and necks. It was like walking through Dante’s Inferno. It was like another world. They looked like people from outer space. They looked like a whole different civilization. I couldn’t look. I didn’t want to. It made my skin crawl.
This was not a comforting sight for someone like me who had no idea what to expect. I was ushered into a small auditorium with possibly twenty-five doctors in the audience. I sat on the podium with the radiologist; my X rays were displayed as my case was discussed. I had no comprehension of the meaning of the questions or answers, the terms were so technical. However, I did realize that they were formulating the best possible treatment for my individual case. I felt very good about this.
I was shown what appeared to be a magnificent X-ray machine and was told to lie on the table. It was explained that this machine was just a dummy with no internal working parts. It was used to set up my future treatments and to save time on the the expensive real equipment. The doctor took a Magic Marker, measured, and then put a dot on me. Then another dot and another dot. Then he connected the dots. What was he doing? There was no knife. Just a Magic Marker. I rolled over and he did the same thing on my back. He used a ruler and was very precise about it. He put different things on my chest, blocks and the like. He would find the right one and trace around it. The reason for this was so that each treatment would be given in the same location.