Selling Us Short With Long COVID

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

After four years of diligently following CDC guidelines to avoid COVID-19 like the plague, it finally caught up with me. And, like my doctors presumed, I now have Long COVID.

That being said, two months into what I was assured would be worse than a living death, I have to shake my head at how colossally the powers that be underestimate the toughness of women in pain.

After my partner John and I had to cancel a 2020 dream trip to Iceland due to my cancer and the COVID shutdown, we bunkered down because my doctors said I had no wiggle room with chemotherapy – and that likely saved my life.

When I had remission from cancer a second time in 2022, those same doctors shared that while the COVID virus might no longer end me, I’d surely get Long COVID, which would leave me barely able to breathe or move for the rest of my life. This was backed up by many articles and programs that I devoured. I felt doomed.

These were some of my darkest, most dire years – which says a hell of a lot. Already isolated for 44 years from profound disability caused by Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, I felt ever more the odd one out, still wearing a mask and saying no to virtually every invitation.

But with time, the expert prognosis wasn’t adding up – as I watched most of my friends with pain and other chronic illnesses get COVID, only to recover and return to their baseline of “normal.”

Iceland was still beckoning – it’s glaciers, waterfalls, active volcanoes, charming capital city, unique horses and white nights. Come spring this year, my desire trumped all else. I yearned to be amongst the living again, so John and I booked a trip for early June.

We followed the recommended CDC guidelines for travelers, only to land in Iceland sick as dogs. So much for playing by the rules!

Being out of country, we didn’t have any COVID tests, and because we weren’t on our deathbeds as promised, we assumed we’d picked up a run-of-the-mill flu bug.

Flinging off our high temps, chills and fatigue (to name just a few of our symptoms), there was no staying in bed slurping chicken broth and taking Tylenol for us. We muscled on through our trip – and fell in love with this other-worldly land.

Testing Positive

A couple days after our return, John took what I considered a pointless COVID test – and I was floored when he shouted that we’d joined the ranks of the infected by testing positive. More surprising, on day ten of what was supposed to be a worse-than-death sentence, I was functioning fairly well. I could breathe fine and was swimming most of my laps. No hospital, no ventilator, no ICU, no death certificate.

Yes, I’ll give the docs a point or two, if you’re keeping score at home. Eight weeks post-infection, I’ve developed the aforementioned Long COVID, which has triggered my chronic fatigue syndrome, accompanied by a litany of life-compromising symptoms that ebb and flow.

Sometimes I feel fine and other times I uncharacteristically fall asleep from post-exertion malaise. I’m burdened by debilitating migraines and dizziness, and am still hoarse and wonder when I’ll be able to sing clearly again. Still, unless something changes drastically, long-hauling didn’t come as advertised.   

So now I’ve moved from fear of the worst to hope for better days ahead. But with that hope, I’m still mightily pissed off.

I’m livid that doctors and researchers put me into a catastrophic, doomsday mindset during the pandemic. The picture they painted for people like me -- with high-impact chronic illness and a cancer diagnosis -- was black as ink, with no exceptions.

I lived accordingly with terror, dread, fear, high-anxiety and isolation-induced depression. Missed holiday events, get-togethers and no traveling rounded out the experience.

Not being around people, while going through cancer twice, was the apex of these dark years. That inhumanity strained my ability to heal when I needed it most.

Humans are social creatures and inclusion is how we’ve evolved so that we can feel safe, contented and well. Without connection, our mental health suffers, which is just as important as our physical health.

I’m now critically reassessing the necessity of my “bunkering years.” Were they needed? Or did I spend four and a half years of my hard-fought-for life alone for no damn good reason?

CYNTHIA GREETS A FRIEND IN ICELAND

I recently met two lovely women, both with pain and autoimmune issues, who recovered from Long COVID in less than a year, no worse for the wear. I wonder why none of the experts told me that recovery was a possibility, even a likely one. Why was I only given the worst-case scenario? Safe to say if I’d had the facts, I would have poked my head out of the hole far sooner than I did. And when you’re still in the red zone with cancer, every day, every outing COUNTS.

While it’s super hard to watch friends and family recover quickly from COVID, while I trudge on sick and with no end in sight, we with high-impact pain know our lot is always a ton more challenging than normies. That’s money in the bank, a sure bet. Luckily, we’re experts at suffering and coming out the other side.  

But let’s not bury the lead. I’m freer than I’ve been in years. These days I’m doing less mask wearing, so bring on the intimate get-togethers in a cramped, under-ventilated house (ok, ok, maybe after the summer surge next to an open window.) Hugging, kissing and touching those near and dear are back on my to-do list.

Before COVID, John would joke: “I always know when Cynth’s worked a room – because everyone’s got lipstick on their face.” Going forward, look out for the high-gloss and ruby red.       

Whoa, Nelly! Let me be clear. How one takes on COVID is an individual experience – and I respect everyone’s choice. I know women in pain who’ve never put a mask on or vaccinated, and others who plan to mask-up for the rest of their lives while counting the days till the next booster.

We all need to do what makes us feel safe. And, like me, sometimes our choices change with time and information.       

My smile has a deeper meaning these days. Exiting my Y just after our return from Iceland, a friend I adore at the front desk, Solange, excitedly commented, “You look much better, Cynthia!”

I had to laugh, while sharing that I was still getting over COVID. When she quizzically stared, it then hit me. I wasn’t wearing a mask!

A moment of wow struck us both. I’ve known this woman for two years and we’ve shared countless conversations, but that was the first time she’d ever seen my face.              

Women in pain, we’re tougher than the rest. The doctors, the researchers, the experts, the “know-it-alls” always seem to sell us short, either under-protecting because they think we make a mountain out of molehill – or over-protecting because they don’t think we know what’s in our own best interest.

Screw ‘em. They don’t get us, never will. And a once-in-a-century pandemic isn’t going to knock us out. That’s something to smile about.   

Cynthia Toussaint is the founder and spokesperson at For Grace, a non-profit dedicated to bettering the lives of women in pain. She has lived with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) and multiple co-morbidities for over four decades, and has been battling cancer since 2020. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.” 

Drugmakers Are Abandoning Cheap Generics

By Arthur Allen, KFF Health News

On Nov. 22, three FDA inspectors arrived at the sprawling Intas Pharmaceuticals plant south of Ahmedabad, India, and found hundreds of trash bags full of shredded documents tossed into a garbage truck.

Over the next 10 days, the inspectors assessed what looked like a systematic effort to conceal quality problems at the plant, which provided more than half of the U.S. supply of generic cisplatin and carboplatin, two cheap drugs used to treat as many as 500,000 new cancer cases every year.

Seven months later, doctors and their patients are facing the unimaginable: In California, Virginia, and everywhere in between, they are being forced into grim contemplation of untested rationing plans for breast, cervical, bladder, ovarian, lung, testicular, and other cancers. Their decisions are likely to result in preventable deaths.

Cisplatin and carboplatin are among scores of drugs in shortage, including 12 other cancer drugs, attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder pills, blood thinners, antibiotics and opioids. Covid-hangover supply chain issues and limited FDA oversight are part of the problem, but the main cause, experts agree, is the underlying weakness of the generic drug industry.

Made mostly overseas, these old but crucial drugs are often sold at a loss or for little profit. Domestic manufacturers have little interest in making them, setting their sights instead on high-priced drugs with plump profit margins.

The problem isn’t new, and that’s particularly infuriating to many clinicians. President Joe Biden, whose son Beau died of an aggressive brain cancer, has focused his Cancer Moonshot on discovering cures — undoubtedly expensive ones. Indeed, existing brand-name cancer drugs often cost tens of thousands of dollars a year.

But what about the thousands of patients today who can’t get a drug like cisplatin, approved by the FDA in 1978 and costing as little as $6 a dose?

“It’s just insane,” said Mark Ratain, a cancer doctor and pharmacologist at the University of Chicago. “Your roof is caving in, but you want to build a basketball court in the backyard because your wife is pregnant with twin boys and you want them to be NBA stars when they grow up?”

“It’s just a travesty that this is the level of health care in the United States of America right now,” said Stephen Divers, an oncologist in Hot Springs, Arkansas, who in recent weeks has had to delay or change treatment for numerous bladder, breast, and ovarian cancer patients because his clinic cannot find enough cisplatin and carboplatin.

Results from a survey of academic cancer centers released June 7 found 93% couldn’t find enough carboplatin and 70% had cisplatin shortages.

“All day, in between patients, we hold staff meetings trying to figure this out,” said Bonny Moore, an oncologist in Fredericksburg, Virginia. “It’s the most nauseous I’ve ever felt. Our office stayed open during covid; we never had to stop treating patients. We got them vaccinated, kept them safe, and now I can’t get them a $10 drug.”

The 10 cancer clinicians KFF Health News interviewed for this story said that, given current shortages, they prioritize patients who can be cured over later-stage patients, in whom the drugs generally can only slow the disease, and for whom alternatives — though sometimes less effective and often with more side effects — are available. But some doctors are even rationing doses intended to cure.

Isabella McDonald, then a junior at Utah Valley University, was diagnosed in April with a rare, often fatal bone cancer, whose sole treatment for young adults includes the drug methotrexate. When Isabella’s second cycle of treatment began June 5, clinicians advised that she would be getting less than the full dose because of a methotrexate shortage, said her father, Brent.

“They don’t think it will have a negative impact on her treatment, but as far as I am aware, there isn’t any scientific basis to make that conclusion,” he said. “As you can imagine, when they gave us such low odds of her beating this cancer, it feels like we want to give it everything we can and not something short of the standard.”

Brent McDonald stressed that he didn’t blame the staffers at Intermountain Health who take care of Isabella. The family — his other daughter, Cate, made a TikTok video about her sister’s plight — were simply stunned at such a basic flaw in the health care system.

At Moore’s practice, in Virginia, clinicians gave 60% of the optimal dose of carboplatin to some uterine cancer patients during the week of May 16, then shifted to 80% after a small shipment came in the following week. The doctors had to omit carboplatin from normal combination treatments for patients with recurrent disease, she said.

ISABELLA MCDONALD AND HER FATHER, BRENT

On June 2, Moore and her colleagues were glued to their drug distributor’s website, anxious as teenagers waiting for Taylor Swift tickets to go on sale — only with mortal consequences at stake.

She later emailed KFF Health News: “Carboplatin did NOT come back in stock today. Neither did cisplatin.”

Doses remained at 80%, she said. Things hadn’t changed 10 days later.

Generics Manufacturers Are Pulling Out

The causes of shortages are well established. Everyone wants to pay less, and the middlemen who procure and distribute generics keep driving down wholesale prices. The average net price of generic drugs fell by more than half between 2016 and 2022, according to research by Anthony Sardella, a business professor at Washington University in St. Louis.

As generics manufacturers compete to win sales contracts with the big buyers, including wholesale purchasers Vizient and Premier, their profits sink. Some are going out of business. Akorn, which made 75 common generics, went bankrupt and closed in February.

Israeli generics giant Teva, which has a portfolio of 3,600 medicines, announced May 18 it was shifting to brand-name drugs and “high-value generics.” Teva notified the FDA earlier that month that it was discontinuing production of oxycodone tablets, a move that could exacerbate shortages of opioid pain medication.   

Lannett Co., with about 120 generics, announced a Chapter 11 reorganization amid declining revenue. Other companies are in trouble too, said David Gaugh, interim CEO of the Association for Accessible Medicines, the leading generics trade group.

The generics industry used to lose money on about a third of the drugs it produced, but now it’s more like half, Gaugh said. So when a company stops making a drug, others do not necessarily step up, he said.

Officials at Fresenius Kabi and Pfizer said they have increased their carboplatin production since March, but not enough to end the shortage. On June 2, FDA Commissioner Robert Califf announced the agency had given emergency authorization for Chinese-made cisplatin to enter the U.S. market, but the impact of the move wasn’t immediately clear.

Cisplatin and carboplatin are made in special production lines under sterile conditions, and expanding or changing the lines requires FDA approval. Bargain-basement prices have pushed production overseas, where it’s harder for the FDA to track quality standards. The Intas plant inspection was a relative rarity in India, where the FDA in 2022 reportedly inspected only 3% of sites that make drugs for the U.S. market.

Sardella, the Washington University professor, testified last month that a quarter of all U.S. drug prescriptions are filled by companies that received FDA warning letters in the past 26 months. And pharmaceutical industry product recalls are at their highest level in 18 years, reflecting fragile supply conditions. The FDA listed 137 drugs in shortage as of June 13, including many essential medicines made by few companies.

Intas voluntarily shut down its Ahmedabad plant after the FDA inspection, and the agency posted its shocking inspection report in January. Accord Healthcare, the U.S. subsidiary of Intas, said in mid-June it had no date for restarting production.

Asked why it waited two months after its inspection to announce the cisplatin shortage, given that Intas supplied more than half the U.S. market for the drug, the FDA said via email that it doesn’t list a drug in shortage until it has “confirmed that overall market demand is not being met.”

Prices for carboplatin, cisplatin, and other drugs have skyrocketed on the so-called gray market, where speculators sell medicines they snapped up in anticipation of shortages. A 600-milligram bottle of carboplatin, normally available for $30, was going for $185 in early May and $345 a week later, said Richard Scanlon, the pharmacist at Moore’s clinic.

“It’s hard to have these conversations with patients — ‘I have your dose for this cycle, but not sure about next cycle,’” said Mark Einstein, chair of the Department of Obstetrics, Gynecology and Reproductive Health at Rutgers New Jersey Medical School.

Should Government Step In?

Despite a drug shortage task force and numerous congressional hearings, progress has been slow at best. The 2020 CARES Act gave the FDA the power to require companies to have contingency plans enabling them to respond to shortages, but the agency has not yet implemented guidance to enforce the provisions.

As a result, neither Accord nor other cisplatin makers had a response plan in place when Intas’ plant was shut down, said Soumi Saha, senior vice president of government affairs for Premier, which arranges wholesale drug purchases for more than 4,400 hospitals and health systems.

Premier understood in December that the shutdown endangered the U.S. supply of cisplatin and carboplatin, but it also didn’t issue an immediate alarm, she said. “It’s a fine balance,” she said. “You don’t want to create panic-buying or hoarding.”

More lasting solutions are under discussion. Sardella and others have proposed government subsidies to get U.S. generics plants running full time. Their capacity is now half-idle. If federal agencies like the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services paid more for more safely and efficiently produced drugs, it would promote a more stable supply chain, he said.

“At a certain point the system needs to recognize there’s a high cost to low-cost drugs,” said Allan Coukell, senior vice president for public policy at Civica Rx, a nonprofit funded by health systems, foundations, and the federal government that provides about 80 drugs to hospitals in its network. Civica is building a $140 million factory near Petersburg, Virginia, that will produce dozens more, Coukell said.

Ratain and his University of Chicago colleague Satyajit Kosuri recently called for the creation of a strategic inventory buffer for generic medications, something like the Strategic Petroleum Reserve, set up in 1975 in response to the OPEC oil crisis.

In fact, Ratain reckons, selling a quarter-million barrels of oil would probably generate enough cash to make and store two years’ worth of carboplatin and cisplatin.

“It would almost literally be a drop in the bucket.”

KFF Health News is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues.

Painfully Stepping Over the Line

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

For decades, people have described me as indefatigable, super-human strong and the ultimate survivor. Or the one filled with surprises and miracles. Well-intended compliments that have moved me and, during dark times, spurred me on. But now these tributes vex me because I don’t know if I can live up to them.

Maybe I’m just tired of fighting the impossible.

My latest cascade of battles began in 2019, after getting a breast cancer diagnosis and not knowing whether I’d choose treatment due to Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS). While pushing back on my oncologist’s recommendations, she pulled out all stops in an effort to convince me to fight for my life. She asked, “Can you imagine yourself not doing treatment and regretting it?”

I furrowed my brow and replied, “I’m more concerned that I’ll do treatment and regret living with the damage afterward.”

I was terrified that cancer care, in all its cutting, burning and poisoning glory, would ignite a red-hot mess of CRPS, sending me back to my bedridden days and zeroing out any quality of life I’d clawed back over the decades.

I drew the line. To move forward with treatment, I had to have a life worth living at the other end.

I chose to only do chemo and miraculously lucked out, cancer and pain-wise. When my cancer returned a year and a half later, it appeared I’d skated by again, until I didn’t. While the immunotherapy knocked the tumor out in short order, little did I know that with each infusion my immune system was amping up to push me over the line, but in a way far worse than I could have imagined.

By mid-March, my lap swimming, my go-to for health and freedom, became a painful hell. I couldn’t push off during flip-turns, one leg barely kicked and my neck screamed in agony each time I turned for a breath. I had no choice but to quit.

Soon walking was near impossible: slow, labored and almost shuffling. My knees swelled to the point they wouldn’t allow me to get up from a chair or couch. Frantically, my partner, John, got a raised seat so I could use the toilet. I started losing weight because the pain in my jaw made eating torturous.

Screaming often through the days and nights, I felt hatchets and icepicks throughout my body, grinding glass replaced my joints. When I could sleep, I woke often with fever and chills.                   

After scads of labs, internet research and clinical assessments, I’ve learned that I’m the proud owner of a brand, spankin’ new disease: Reactive Inflammatory Arthritis. I’m now living the experience I feared most, the place where I told myself I couldn’t, wouldn’t go. I’ve stepped over the line, terrified it’s a one way ticket.      

To dampen the inflammation and stabbing pain, hell, just to get me moving, my doctors put me on low-dose naltrexone and prednisone (the latter I swore up and down I’d never revisit.) For that blessed comfort, the cost is mighty. I’m zonked out and joyless while insomnia, constant dizziness and the constipation-diarrhea seesaw zap my quality of life.

With the drug relief, I’m mercifully dipping into a warm therapy pool where I can move, walk and swim some, offering vague hope of recovery. But I see the troubled look in the eyes of my Y friends, the wish that their feisty, frothy friend would reemerge. I can’t help but wonder if they’re playing witness to my slow down and out.         

In my darkest hours, when the arthritic pain makes me question whether I can survive another five minutes, I rock with anger that my tumor’s gone. That was my ticket out. The jokes on me as I live the cancer-free dream. Cue the laugh track. I’m not living and free is nowhere to be found.

When my better angels reappear, I remember why I fought twice, tooth and nail, to see another day. I want to live, to love, and to see the beauty all around me. I want to continue to be a force for good.

Ahh, but that pesky line. I’ve got to get back over it. Or do I? When I got sick 40 years ago, I swore I wouldn’t live on if I couldn’t continue my showbiz career. I was utterly convinced life wouldn’t be worth a damn without it. Yet, here I am, staring down that line again. Maybe, MAYBE there’s some wiggle room one more time.     

I imagine all of us who’ve lived with high-impact pain over the long haul have drawn that line. Then later, took out an eraser and drew it again, renegotiating the terms. At another time, when we drop below, we grasp and beg as we slowly, savagely eek back over. Or not. It’s ever changing, tied to the whims of fate and will.

Maybe the line just gives us an illusion of control. Maybe it’s a frenemy, something that keeps us company whether we’re above or below.

This I know. I’m scared and tired while I stare down my new mountain. I’ve lost cherished independence, that may or may not return, requiring John to be on call at all times. We’re two generations removed since the last time I had to fudge the line, and what if my cancer returns? How many more comebacks can I stage?

Last night, I spewed anger with a close girlfriend, bristling that my impossibles never quell, despite being a good person. At that moment, something awoke in me. I was surprised to feel that old spark in my belly – which has me thinking that anger is serving me well right now.

It was so powerful when Heather commented, “I wouldn’t bet against you.”

I’ve learned that the best way to predict the future is by looking at the past. By that yardstick, I’ve always toed the line, come hell or high water. But like every other climb, I’ll decide what’s good enough, in my time, in my space.

Maybe I can live with that. 

Cynthia Toussaint is the founder and spokesperson at For Grace, a non-profit dedicated to bettering the lives of women in pain. She has lived with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome and 19 comorbidities for four decades, and has been battling cancer since 2020. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.”

COVID Vaccine Anxiety: What If You Are Immunocompromised?

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

In the midst of our once-in-a-century pandemic, it’s my deep belief that we all have a responsibility to get the COVID vaccine in hopes of extracting ourselves and each other from this crisis. We’re in this together, and if we do our part, we’ll get out of these dire straits faster and with fewer deaths.

That being said, there’s no doubt that getting a full dose is a rockier, less certain road for those of us who are immunocompromised, whether by current treatment (organ transplant, chemotherapy, etc.), wrangling with years of severe chronic illness, or both.

It disturbs and angers me that we were left out of the vaccine trials, but we can’t fight or fix that familiar marginalization now. We also can’t use that as an excuse to sit on the sidelines.

Courage remains our best ally.

Before my first vaccine, I was facing surgery for cancer and was frantic to get dosed as older folk at my swimming hole were already going mask-less. I couldn’t afford to be left behind because my upcoming treatment was dangerous and I was labeled “highest risk” for severe COVID – this due to being immunocompromised from four decades of high-impact pain and five months of chemotherapy.

With that first poke, I was relieved to initially go relatively unscathed, side-effect wise, with only a headache and “COVID arm.” But that arm soon went to hell. For four days I couldn’t move it without shrieking. I imagined this would be the feeling of a bullet piercing my skin, something I’ve heard from other immunocompromised sisters. More bizarre, after my COVID arm eased, it returned a week later with the damp weather.

When my second vaccine date approached, I was anxious, feeling like a guinea pig because even healthy people were getting pretty darn sick with this bookend dose. It spooked me to see the fear in the eyes of my 40-year partner and caregiver after he got his. John rarely gets sick, but his two-day bout with crippling fatigue reduced him to someone struggling to take care of himself, let alone being there fulltime for me.

But I persisted.

Just after receiving that dose, I posted my concern on Facebook, and someone was kind enough to share a National Public Radio article about immunocompromised people and the vaccine. The article supported my firm belief that everyone needs to be vaccinated, while pointing out that as a result of not being part of the study group, its efficacy was not entirely known.

Additionally, researchers urged us to work with our doctors to time treatment with the vaccine for safety and effectiveness – as immune deficiency can compromise potency. I was troubled that my doctor hadn’t weighed these considerations when urging me to get the vaccine pronto.

I had one bone to pick with the article. It mentioned that enough immunocompromised folk had been vaccinated to gain assurance that it would not ignite a flare, stating that side-effects often resembled auto-immune symptoms. I was dubious as most everyone I know with pain had flared significantly.

Still, I’d made my decision. I threw caution to the wind and gingerly decided that I’d respond like a healthy person. I was only going to be sick for a couple of days.

Side Effects From Second Dose

At first I was on track with just a few symptoms, including that familiar headache and low-grade COVID arm. But by the first night, I was quite ill. High fever, chills, fatigue and muscle aches. While those symptoms can be part of a bad reaction for a healthy person, my illness lasted longer than what would be expected. In fact, I was sick for almost a week.

And oddly, mid-week after my fever broke, I woke in the night super-hot, sweaty and chilled again. I suspect I was having a vaccine relapse, something I’ve not heard from others. It didn’t come as a surprise that my CRPS flared badly that week too.  

What threw me for a loop was having many of my long-gone, chemo side-effects return. I had severe spatial difficulties, causing me to run into walls and spill glasses of juice. More unpleasant reminders of those wretched days included distorted eyesight and hearing, a bladder infection, my heart beating too hard, neuropathy, anemia and painful joints and muscles. In fact, one day my hamstring (the original site of my CRPS injury) sprung out of place and I screamed bloody murder until it popped back, allowing me to move.

While those troubles have mostly resolved, my worst two chemo redux symptoms are hanging on a bit longer. Today, five weeks after that shot, I’m still having a hard time holding my back up straight without pain, something unsettling for this former ballerina who prides herself on proper posture.

Perhaps worse, my food tastes a bit like there’s chemo in it. I can get through meals without needing a barf bag, but recently gagged on my water for the first time, post-chemo. At times it’s difficult to touch my tongue to my teeth and to breathe in, due to the rancid taste. 

Despite it all, I’m on the mend and ecstatic that I’m fully vaccinated. It feels damn awesome to know that I made the best self-care decision and the best one for the world. When I get news of friends dying from COVID or see photos of people in the ICU, intubated and at the edge, this is a no brainer. The vaccine is far less dangerous than the virus, and everyone has to pull their weight.

Before rolling up your sleeve though, I advise that, if you are immunocompromised, be prepared to have a longer, more severe adverse reaction. Many of my sisters in pain did, and I had a much tougher road due to chemo. So, stock up your pantry, prep some meals, make accommodations for work and kids and be prepared to bunker down for a spell. Also, I think you’d be wise to have a discussion with your doctor to determine best timing to minimize suffering and optimize efficacy. 

Let’s keep this in mind. We, the mighty immunocompromised, are tougher than the rest. We’re independent, having learned through the most rugged of knocks how to care for ourselves. We also tend to think of others – as we know going it alone is a one-way ticket to malady.  As such, we know the importance of keeping our loved ones and communities healthy.

We can do this. The decision to get the vaccine is about being kind to ourselves and to each other. And in my book, that’s what life is only and all about.              

Cynthia Toussaint is the founder and spokesperson at For Grace, a non-profit dedicated to bettering the lives of women in pain. She has had Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) and 19 co-morbidities for nearly four decades. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.” 

My Cancer Is Back: Facing Surgery With CRPS

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

After hearing the worst words of my life, “Your cancer has grown back,” I felt hopeless and hated the world. Worse, I had to tell my longtime partner and caregiver, John, the grim news. How could we pull up our frayed boot straps again and survive yet another impossible health crisis?

Since getting Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) four decades ago, people often use words like “fighter,” “pain warrior” and “super human” to describe me. The most recent catch phrase is, “Cynth, you got this!”

I’ve come to detest this perceived awesomeness. I don’t want to be an uber-person. I never did. I’m tired. I’m so, so tired. And I long for a slice of vanilla-flavored normal.

As the owner of CRPS and 19 comorbidities, I could not afford the diagnosis of triple negative breast cancer, the most aggressive form. But that’s what was delivered, since luck has never been this lady’s lot.

Without consulting me, the universe long ago decided that I’m supposed to slay every dragon while surviving never ending illness and trauma. This latest hell-news has filled me with anger, rage and major depression.

So much so, that for the first time ever, I’m isolating. This social butterfly has returned to her cocoon, unable to feel joy.

I can’t sleep as I’m plagued by night terrors. Each afternoon, my body trembles uncontrollably. Once heavenly activities, like meditation, exercising and eating, are now chores.

John massages my taut muscle tension through the days and nights – and my IBS has gone haywire. My bubbly spirit is absent and what’s left is demoralized.

And not so long ago, I thought I had this thing licked.

Early last year, after six months of weighing my impossible-with-CRPS treatment options, I started aggressive chemotherapy knowing that this regimen could leave me with a life not worth living. The dream was that my pain would stay in check and I’d achieve a Clinical Complete Response (cancer that cannot be seen with imaging). I’m certain chemotherapy almost ended me, as I was left with virtually no immune system. As a bonus, this was during COVID. 

I was coined a “super responder” when I miraculously accomplished a complete response. At that point, the odds were strongly in my favor that the cancer was gone. But the only way to be sure was to do the follow-up standard of care surgery, which I chose to forego because, with CRPS, surgery is, well, not an option.

The doctors were floored by how well I did, and every indicator leaned toward a clean pathology report. I was ready to move on with my life, one that I felt I’d earned by doing everything right (diet, exercise, stress management, good sleep – the whole kit and caboodle!) One doctor commented, “Don’t even look at the survival numbers. They don’t apply to you anymore.”   

True to form, things went as far south as possible. Because I’m one of the unlucky ones who’s cancer stem cells never went away, my malignancy is growing back. This is not a “recurrence,” but a “persistence” because the chemo didn’t hold.

And now that my complete response is gone, I’ll never have my prior odds. John has lamented for years, “You NEVER get a break!” and I’m finally seeing it his way.

For a chance of survival, I must now have – ta daaa!! – surgery. The doctors tell me my best shot is to do a lumpectomy with follow-up radiation or a stand-alone mastectomy.

Tragically, radiation is off the table as it often causes neuropathic pain. In fact, a radiologist who I respect told me flat out, “I can’t ethically do it to you.” And during a recent visit with my surgeon, she strongly advised that, due to CRPS, I’m not a candidate for a mastectomy, let alone reconstructive surgery. Wow.

Finding a New Care Team

Adding insult to injury, out of nowhere, my lead oncologist dropped me! She did so due to questionable guidance (something I can’t detail here) and is fearful of litigation, which doesn’t make it hurt less. This woman had become my hero and I trusted her with my heart and life. Her betrayal has been soul-crushing and created a crisis of faith. I don’t know who or what to believe in anymore.

But through the shadows, I’m quietly planning my next move – and will take on Round Two one slow... step… at… a... time. I’m assembling a new-and-improved care team to up my odds, including an oncologist, acupuncturist, physical therapist, pain specialist and psychologist. I’ve sweetened the pot with an EMDR (an effective technique for trauma release) practitioner who specializes in people with CRPS. Heck, I’ve even lined up the use of a heated pool in these COVID shutdown days.    

I’m going to have a lumpectomy, a word I can still barely say, let alone write. The scariest part is that my surgeon will also remove a possibly involved lymph node in a nerve rich area, ripe for ample, new pain. My new oncologist is concerned that due to a surgery-induced CRPS flare, my arm may freeze up and become a non-functional torture machine.

Even if the surgery mercifully works without condemning me back to bed, this wouldn’t flip me a “get-out-of-jail-free” card. Because I can only do the “minor” surgery without radiation, my odds of a quick recurrence remain high. This means I’ll be on the prowl for some off-the-grid insurance, perhaps low-dose chemo or an immunotherapy clinical trial. But neither can measure up to the standard of care radiation.

God, to be well enough to be sick!         

So, here I am again, looking down the barrel of a gun, knowing it likely has a bullet with my name on it. Like I said, I’m tired and angry. I’m up to my ass with picking the lesser of two evils, and having to crack the code of the near impossible.

Give me a break, already! And I don’t mean this in a small way. I’m shouting out to the big, bad, ice cold universe that I hope, somewhere, somehow, has a heart.

Cynthia Toussaint is the founder and spokesperson at For Grace, a non-profit dedicated to bettering the lives of women in pain. She has lived with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) and 19 co-morbidities for nearly four decades, and became a cancer survivor in 2020. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.” 

Topical Gel Shows Promise as Treatment for Neuropathic Pain

By Pat Anson, PNN Editor

An experimental gel developed to prevent skin damage caused by aging and ultraviolet light is showing promise as a treatment for chronic neuropathic pain, according to research underway in Australia.

The topical gel – known as RM191A – contains a copper-based compound that is absorbed by the skin and prevents the buildup of free radicals that cause skin damage associated with aging and skin cancer.

In a study recently published in the journal Redox Biology, RM191A was found to have potent antioxidant, anti-inflammatory and wound-healing properties in laboratory mice.

The gel is currently being evaluated in 24 patients at a Sydney hospital as a treatment for chronic nerve pain caused by surgery, chemotherapy, trauma and diabetes.  Results are expected later this month.

“Early sample uses of this topical formulation indicated it could be a significant in the management of certain types of chronic nerve pain,” says Llewellyn Casbolt, chief scientist and co-founder of Sydney-based RR MedSciences, which is developing the gel.

“In many ways, scientists see our discovery as a new class of anti-inflammatory that acts by the modulation of free radicals as well as reducing several inflammatory cytokines, providing a drug that can be therapeutically useful where the reduction of inflammation, as well as cellular and tissue healing - indeed pain relief - is also advantageous for a patient.”

The company plans to release an over-the-counter version of its gel in the next 12-18 months as a treatment for skin damage. It will take longer to get regulatory approval for the gel as a treatment for nerve pain and may require a prescription.

RR MedSciences (RRMS) plans to conduct further trials and is seeking additional partners and funding to accelerate the gel’s development.

“The management of pain, often related to conditions of inflammation or trauma that results in nerve or chronic pain is an area of great need.  Advancing the ability for people to modulate their pain, in a safe and effective manner that improves quality of life, is a core objective,” said Helena Libershal Casbolt, CEO and co-founder of RRMS.

A subsidiary of RRMS is currently selling a copper-based body cream called Blue Healer Care as a treatment for damaged skin and for relief from skin irritation and muscle soreness.

Scanxiety: My Fear of Cancer Recurrence

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

Several months back, For Grace’s conference planning committee invited our webcaster, Rich, to join the call to talk logistics about our upcoming virtual “Pain-Cancer Connection” event. Rich is a long-time cancer survivor who’s dealt with decades of chronic pain as a result of his aggressive treatment.

It soothed me to talk with him because I was in the midst of brutal chemotherapy. I could relate when Rich shared his nightmare of getting one infusion too many and lying on the floor weeping after losing much of this tongue. I also understood Rich bungie jumping off a Las Vegas building after his treatment in a quest to find something scarier than chemo.

But that ease turned to discomfort when Rich warned me, “Oh Cynthia, you don’t know yet. There’s so much anxiety that comes with cancer.”

While I’ve long been aware that if triple-negative breast cancer returns, it tends to do so more aggressively in the first year or two, Rich was my introduction to “scanxiety.” We cancer survivors live in often paralyzing fear of a recurrence, one that will likely end us. In fact, I was recently stunned to hear a breast cancer survivor speak publicly of her relief when the cancer returned. She preferred to battle the disease again rather than the anxiety.

Now after sweating bullets through my first post-remission imaging, I can’t help but wonder how much scanxiety is reinforced by our broken healthcare system’s reliance on an endless stream of patients whose wellness would pose a threat to their business model.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the cancer industry thrives on a culture of fear, intentional or not. I’m certain that’s why patients gratefully say “yes” to every treatment offered without blinking. And that’s why I was looked at like I had two heads when I questioned every proposed therapy, relied on my own research, did everything integratively and said “no” to most of my provider’s drugs, scans and (over) treatments.

Sadly, my scanxiety began the moment I attained remission. My oncology surgeon -- who’s still terrified because I didn’t go with her standard-of-care surgery, even though studies support that as a complete responder I had a better chance at surviving without it – told me to do twice weekly breast exams. She then attempted to comfort me by assuring we’d do surgery after the cancer grew back. Those hyper-vigilant exams made me so tender my coordinating nurse told me to back off.

As my initial every-three-month imaging neared, scanxiety reared its ugly head and seriously messed with my health. I stopped sleeping restoratively and was plagued by nightmares. Obsessing on the worst outcome, I started getting severe headaches while my IBS went through the roof.

My terror went into hyper-drive when I found an inflamed lymph node in my neck, the same side as my former tumor. This fright didn’t just infect the patient.  John developed body-wide hives that looked like eczema on steroids, and my close girlfriends felt like they were having nervous breakdowns.

After my breast scan was clean, I rejoiced with John about how we deliberately made all the right choices. My surgeon broke up the party when she entered the examining room voicing her concern about my neck lymph node. Due to its location being a few inches higher than my breast area and healthcare being its dysfunctional self (every department can only scan a small area of the body), I had to wait another WEEK to find out if the cancer had metastasized.

During that soul-rattling scan the imaging technician said the node was abnormal and that I’d hear from my doctor soon. While John wheeled me to the car, I lost my shit and began screaming in the parking garage. I knew “abnormal” meant I was going to die and that six grueling months of chemotherapy hadn’t helped me in the least. How could I have been so wrong?!

I continued screaming in the car until my screamer gave out, while my stomach knotted and head throbbed. Mercifully, my doctor’s call late the next day told me all was clear. That both relieved and angered me; relief because I was assured another three months on the planet, but deeply pissed off because this healthcare-induced trauma was majorly messing with my cancer-fighting terrain. I make it my priority to practice healthy life-style choices to keep my body and mind well and in harmony.

Toxic Medicine

But the body keeps the score. After that last scan, I got a chemo-induced bladder infection from hell, one that’s still knocking me out despite a week on Cipro. With this infection that appears to be moving into my kidneys, multiple chemo side effects have re-roosted; fatigue, heavy heart throbbing, tinnitus and labored breathing. I find myself in the midst of my most recent outcome of fear-based medicine, and I remain snared in their illness-inducing, money making system.    

Deeper reflection leads me to believe that even my “innocuous” port flushes are part of this web of toxic medicine. Every seven weeks (though they push for four), I visit the infusion center where the nurses honestly seem put off, even hostile, that I’m doing well, smiling and in good spirits.

Apparently my role is to be fearful, inferior and vulnerable, and my upbeat, empowered demeanor rattles them. Rather than celebrating winning my life back or chiming in about simple pleasures like fashion and hair color, they drill me about how my post-treatment is going (what post-treatment?!) and what horrors my next scan might bring. My medical oncologist there is so buried in the fear culture, I schedule my appointments to avoid him.

Breathe.

Thankfully, I saw my saint of an integrative doctor last week who set me straight. Dr. Taw was visibly disturbed when I shared my run-ins with these healthcare providers, and was concerned that their behavior might stir things up and create cancer sparking “stagnation” in my body. Several times, he gave me his full support to stay away from these toxic people as much as possible to hold wellness. I couldn’t agree more.

Still, I am wary of my next scan. Despite every logical indicator telling me I’ll likely be A-ok, these people and their diet of fear embed me with dread. I see more than ever that this doesn’t just apply to my last year plus of cancer care; it also applies to my 38-year wrangling with high-impact pain. These western medicine devotees, while they claim to be healers, are the polar opposite for me. And their negative energy creates illness, rather than mitigating it.

Let’s not have to take a bungie jump off a building to overcome our latest medically-induced trauma. I implore you to stay away from these healthcare providers and their dysfunctional, money-based system as much as possible. To be fair, they do some good – but by a long measure, they hurt us beyond repair, again and again.  And again.

Please seek out integrative healing that is non-invasive and wellness (rather than fear) based. Your body and mind will thank you.  

Cynthia Toussaint is the founder and spokesperson at For Grace, a non-profit dedicated to bettering the lives of women in pain. She has lived with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) and 15 co-morbidities for nearly four decades, and became a cancer survivor in 2020. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.” 

Playing With Fire: Should I Have Cancer Surgery?

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

As a woman with high impact pain for 38 years, I was stunned last July to receive a triple-negative breast cancer diagnosis. Seriously, God, how much more can I endure? I felt the tumor for a year before being checked because, with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) and 15 co-morbidities, I didn’t think cancer treatment was an option.

It took me half a year before plunging into the impossible – and I started chemotherapy in January. With triple-negative cancer (the worst prognosis), the only prospect of living includes chemo. If I was responsive to the drugs, I believed I had a shot -- if pain didn’t destroy me first.

I’d done my shopping and found an oncologist willing to follow my integrative doctor’s advice for the best outcome with fewest side-effects. That meant lower and slower dosing, no Neulasta (a wicked drug that keeps your immune cells robust at the cost of intense bone pain), infusion breaks, supplements to ward off neuropathy, and acupuncture before each infusion.

I was also diligent about my healthy, cancer-fighting life style choices – a plant-based diet, daily intensive exercise, regular mindfulness meditation, removal of toxic people and excellent sleep hygiene.   

It worked! My oncologist’s dream goal of 18 infusions is one away from being in the books (most people stop at twelve) and I can’t stop smiling as my follow-up imaging is crystal clear.

Despite every western oncologist chiding me along the way for doing my chemo “less effectively” with complementary integrative therapies, I’ve had a clinical complete response. This is the hope of everyone with triple-negative.

Conversely, the only person I’ve met with this rare sub-set of breast cancer relied solely on western medicine – and her cancer has already metastasized to her brain. 

Hardest Decision

CYNTHIA TOUSSAINT

Now my oncologists insist on doing a “minor” surgery to sample tissue from the “tumor bed” and previously effected lymph nodes. If the tissue confirms a pathological complete response, as everyone expects, I’ll have a 90% plus chance of survival for the next 5-10 years. If they find any leftover cancer cells that will embed and begin to grow, we’ll continue treatment.

I can feel those of you with CRPS grimacing. Yes, of course, I want to avoid surgery at all cost, but this is my life, and the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make.

My track record with CRPS and surgery stinks to high hell. As a young woman, I was given an unnecessary LEEP procedure for cervical dysplasia, which I’ve since learned usually fixes itself. As a result of that minor surgery and cauterization, my CRPS spread, and subsequently I was unable to have a baby – which is one of the great tragedies of my life.

When I was 40, I was diagnosed for the first time with breast cancer and told that without surgery, chemotherapy and radiation, I had just a few months to live. I was terrified, but didn’t trust western medicine anymore.

After researching my diagnosis, ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS), and learning that these calcifications in the milk duct almost never become invasive, I chose to “watch and wait.” Even when my mom broke down, crying and begging, “Please, Cynthia, I just want them to take the cancer out of you!” -- I didn’t budge for fear of a CRPS blow up. The calcifications never grew and to this day I warn women about the over care of DCIS.

About a decade ago, a physical therapist wanted to try to straighten my CRPS-contracted right arm. The therapy seemed far too risky, and I only relented when she promised to work exclusively on my head, neck and back. But she cheated and yanked, breaking my right arm. I was at a level ten pain again. It took a year to get an x-ray and correct diagnosis because I was labeled a “catastrophizing” patient.

The orthopedic surgeon told me that without elbow surgery I’d never use my right arm again. In the end, I didn’t trust the medical professionals who broke my arm to “fix” it. Instead, I got into my beloved YMCA swimming pool, did mirror therapy and strengthening exercises in the surrounding area – and my arm slowly regained near-full function.

Fortunately, I’ve forever had the gut instinct to pass on multiple recommendations for spinal cord stimulators and intra-thecal pumps, knowing the surgeries would do far more harm than good.

So here I am again, having to decide on surgery or not. But this time the stakes are much higher.

With the exception of one surgeon I know who understands CRPS because he’s triggered it with breast surgeries, every western doctor is consistent. They’re horrified by the prospect of me not doing the standard of care surgery to confirm or rule out a complete response. When the surgeon heard my plight, he responded with, “Cynthia, this surgery could very well destroy your life.” Damn right.

In my research to glean wisdom for this impossible decision, I’ve come upon two recent, small studies. They support the protocol of post-chemo, minimally-invasive biopsy or “watch and wait” as an effective substitute for surgery to confirm a complete response. This may be the future for treating triple-negative cancer. But in 2020, taking this unproven route would leave me with the terrible anxiety of not knowing. Worse yet, I could suffer a quick recurrence.

What fire do I play with this go around? Do I potentially reignite my CRPS or my cancer embers? All I can do is go with my gut and heart, and call in the good karma chips from the universe I’m certainly owed.

Can anyone thread the CRPS-cancer needle? I guess I’m going to find out.                              

Cynthia Toussaint is the founder and spokesperson at For Grace, a non-profit dedicated to bettering the lives of women in pain. She has had Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) and 15 co-morbidities for nearly four decades. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.” 

Experimental Treatment Targets Neuropathic Pain

By Pat Anson, PNN Editor

Researchers in Denmark have developed a promising new compound to treat neuropathy that targets the hyper-sensitized nerves that cause chronic pain. The experimental compound – a peptide called Tat-P4-(C5)2 -- has only been tested in mice, but researchers hope to begin clinical trials on humans soon.

"We have developed a new way to treat chronic pain. It is a targeted treatment. That is, it does not affect the general neuronal signaling, but only affects the nerve changes that are caused by the disease," says Kenneth Lindegaard Madsen, PhD, Associate Professor at the University of Copenhagen.

"We have been working on this for more than ten years. We have taken the process all the way from understanding the biology, inventing and designing the compound to describing how it works in animals, affects their behaviour and removes the pain.”

Madsen and his colleagues recently published their findings in the journal EMBO Molecular Medicine .

The image below shows the compound Tat-P4-(C5)2 after it is injected into the spinal cord. The compound (purple) penetrates the nerve cells of the spinal cord (yellow), but not the surrounding cells (the cell nuclei are blue). The compound blocks neuropathic pain signals – the kind associated with diabetic neuropathy, shingles, phantom limb pain and chemotherapy-induced pain — from being sent to the brain.

UNIVERSITY OF COPENHAGEN

In a previous study, the researchers showed in an animal model that use of the compound can also reduce tolerance and the risk of addiction. They believe the compound will be more effective and safer than the anti‐convulsants, antidepressants and opioid medications now used to treat neuropathy.

"The compound works very efficiently, and we do not see any side effects. We can administer this peptide and obtain complete pain relief in the mouse model we have used, without the lethargic effect that characterises existing pain-relieving drugs," said Madsen.

"Now, our next step is to work towards testing the treatment on people. The goal, for us, is to develop a drug, therefore the plan is to establish a biotech company as soon as possible so we can focus on this."

Light Therapy Used to Treat Neuropathic Pain

By Pat Anson, Editor

For someone with peripheral neuropathy, even the slightest touch can cause burning, stinging or shooting pain, usually in the hands or feet.

The pain is caused when the peripheral nervous system is damaged by diabetes, shingles, chemotherapy or some other medical condition. About 8% of adults worldwide suffer from some form of neuropathy. Medications prescribed to dull the pain – such as opioids, anti-depressants or gabapentin (Neurontin) -- often prove to be ineffective, don’t last long or have unwanted side effects.

Scientists in Italy have now discovered an experimental way to treat neuropathy that provides pain relief for weeks at a time without the use of medication. In experiments on laboratory mice, researchers at the European Molecular Biology Laboratory (EMBL) in Rome identified a specific set of nerve cells in mouse skin that play a significant role in neuropathic pain.

NATURE COMMUNICATIONs

When injected with a light-sensitive chemical and then exposed to infrared light, the nerve cells pull away from the skin’s surface and stop sending pain signals. The pain-relieving effects of the light therapy appear to last for weeks.

The accompanying image shows the skin of a mouse, with the nerve cells that are responsible for sensitivity to touch highlighted in green. The neurons are primarily located around hair follicles.

The EMBL's research, first reported in the journal Nature Communications, is still in its early stages. But scientists say human skin tissue is similar to that of mice, indicating that light therapy might be effective in managing neuropathic pain in humans.

"In the end, our aim is to solve the problem of pain in both humans and animals," says Paul Heppenstall, PhD, EMBL group leader. "Of course, a lot of work needs to be done before we can do a similar study in people with neuropathic pain. That's why we're now actively looking for partners and are open for new collaborations to develop this method further, with the hope of one day using it in the clinic."

Heppenstall says light therapy works on the treated nerve cells the same way spicy food or capsaicin patches can cause nerve fibers to retract.  

"It's like eating a strong curry, which burns the nerve endings in your mouth and desensitizes them for some time," says Heppenstall. "The nice thing about our technique is that we can specifically target the small subgroup of neurons causing neuropathic pain."

There are many different types of nerve cells in skin, which respond to different sensations like vibration, cold, heat or normal pain. Researchers say those cells are not affected by the light treatment. The skin is only desensitized to a gentle touch, breeze, or tickling.

Previous attempts to develop drugs to treat neuropathic pain have mostly focused on targeting single molecules.

"We think however, that there's not one single molecule responsible, there are many," Heppenstall explains. "You might be able to succeed in blocking one or a couple, but others would take over the same function eventually. With our new illumination method, we avoid this problem altogether."

The neuropathic pain in mice was assessed with a simple touch. The mice would normally quickly withdraw their paw when it was gently touched, but after light therapy they exhibited normal reflexive response to touch. The effect of the therapy lasted for a few weeks, until the nerve endings grew back and the gentle touch caused pain again.