.dropcap {float:left; color:#4791d2; font-size:75px; line-height:60px; padding-top:4px; padding-right:8px; padding-left:3px; font-family:Georgia}

Google+ Followers


Sunday, September 25, 2016

Vast Majority of Thyroid Cancers Are Best Left Alone │ Acupuncture Proven Superior to Morphine in One-Year Emergency Department Setting

It may have been nearer to 11:00 p.m. than 11:30 p.m. when I got to bed last night, but I cannot even conjecture what time it was when my first break in solid sleep arrived and I sought the bathroom.

I started my day well before 7:00 a.m. ─ and had to delay going downstairs for my hot beverage because Pote and his girlfriend decided to get up.

Fortunately, he was quickly to leave with her, driving her off to somewhere in his older brother Tho's car.

He was back alone, soon enough; but by about 8:30 a.m. he had left to catch his bus to work.

I finally completed and published the post I've been working on since Tuesday at my Siam-Longings website:  Thailand Architecture.

I wanted to get in a beer hike to the government liquor store about two miles distant at 108th Avenue & King George Boulevard here in Whalley, but I was too depleted after my work on that post.

There was no choice but to seek rest in bed and hope that my strained eyes, aching back, and sore butt had eased up, and that I felt more restored overall.

I was probably in bed well over an hour before rising anew.

My younger brother Mark ─ who had come home earlier after having spent the night at his girlfriend Bev's residence ─ obligingly took off for the remainder of the afternoon; and Tho also was to depart the premises.  I was alone to begin readying for my four-mile round-trip haul.

And a good thing, too ─ I've been wearing a pair of very loose denim jeans that resemble something an old farmer might wear.  I refer to them as my "grandpa pants."

It is very difficult for me to decide just what to wear with them.

Yesterday it had been mainly overcast, but the cloud today had yielded to considerable amounts of sunshine by the start of the afternoon.

It was going to be too warm for a jacket.  I eventually settled upon a blue denim shirt and an unbuttoned denim vest.

I wonder why it is that the liquor store seems busier on Sundays that on weekdays?  

There had been a woman loitering outside the liquor store ─ she looked South Asian, and was dressed in dark clothes.  She also looked to be maybe in her 30s, and was trim enough.

When I exited the liquor store with my two dozen cans of beer split up between the two packs I use for this task, I heard her calling out to me ─ I had set off in a direction opposite to where she was.

I was in no mood to be solicited for anything, and did not have a cent in change on me anyway.  So I never looked back and resolutely carried on as if I was unaware that she was speaking out to me.

She never pursued.

That was the sole incident of my trip.  In all, I walked slowly to the liquor store and back home again, and it took me just over 1½ hours.  I hope my shaven head benefited from what sunshine I was exposed to.

It is presently 4:12 p.m., and I am still home alone.


I hope that by now you have been made aware that most breast and prostate cancers are best left alone ─ medical science is becoming too efficient at detecting the smallest lumps and tumours that most likely will never become a problem.

It is the surgeries that wreak havoc.

Well, it appears that the same unnecessary fast action has been going on for years with thyroid cancers.

Remember, surgeons only get paid if they perform surgeries.  But the consequences for patients who have had an unnecessary surgery or treatment can be life-long and of great impact.

The following is from a study identifying over-treatment of supposed thyroid cancers:
It’s important to bear in mind that the vast majority of patients who received a diagnosis of thyroid cancer in the countries we studied underwent total thyroidectomy, and a high proportion also received other harmful treatments (neck lymph-node dissection and radiotherapy) — practices recently discouraged in the guidelines of the American Thyroid Association.  Furthermore, studies from Japan have shown that immediate surgery and watchful waiting are equally effective in averting deaths from thyroid cancer:  only a small minority (3.5%) of the 1235 patients with papillary microcarcinomas who were followed for an average of 75 months had clinical progression of disease, and none died.
It is no simple matter to live one's life without a whole functioning thyroid ─ let a surgeon meddle with it, or subject it to things like radiation, and life will never be the same.

Here are a couple of reports on that study:


No matter what treatment the thyroid is subjected to, there will be damage to it.  And it may even cease functioning without that being the intention.

As that study said, "immediate surgery and watchful waiting are equally effective in averting deaths from thyroid cancer."

So why have surgery or any sort of treatment just because a physician sees an opportunity to make some easy cash?


Can you believe this?

A study set within a hospital emergency department over the course of a year, and involving 300 patients, revealed that acupuncture delivered faster great pain relief than did morphine ─ and with significantly less side-effects.

Not only that, but acupuncture was effective in more of the patients that it was administered to than was morphine.    

You will have to read about this study for yourself:


What surprises me is that morphine took longer to take effect ─ I thought that stuff was practically instantaneous when delivered intravenously?


My afternoon is running out, so I am going to close now with this 41-year-old entry from my journal back when I was 25 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

The small unit was being rented in a house located on Ninth Street at Third Avenue.

I had retired to bed the evening before at 8:00 p.m., but I had to ignore the knocking of an older friend ─ Art Smith ─ just 10 minutes before.

I knew that he was most likely just seeking me to take back to his home to drink with, and I was trying to avoid late and wasteful hours.  In fact, I had recently begun rising extremely early in the morning to get a good leap into the new day. 

On my agenda was a visit to my mother Irene Dorosh's home in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey.  Although the house now does not exist, its address used to be 12106 - 90th Avenue.  It was my main mailing address.

I used to hike directly there ─ at a good clip, it would take about 1½ hours.

But of late, I was taking a far more arduous route.  I would follow the King George Highway all the way to Newton, and then I would turn right on 72nd Avenue (Newton Road) in order to access the railway tracks a short ways along.

Once I got to the railway tracks, I would turn right onto them, and then follow them until I could access the Surrey terminus of 90th Avenue at Holt Road.  My mother lived just a short distance down 90th Avenue, on the right-hand side.
THURSDAY, September 25, 1975

Art returned last night and rapped on my window toward 11:00 p.m., I believe; but I didn't arise till 3:30 a.m. 

I am leaving here for mom's at 5:30 a.m.

Due to the relative lateness, and because I felt my regular run would be too demanding, I began jogging shortly after starting the bridge and didn't stop till I made the stop sign part way up the King George hill.  

Then from about Fuller's I jogged to the Surrey Drive-in.

Outside of Newton I saw a dead small black dog in the grass.

At the pedestrian crossing of the tracks by the electrical sub-station near 122 St some school girls passed, one of them flirtingly saying something like "look at the body;" I was in my T-shirt.  Somewhat gratifying it was, but I evinced no comprehension.

I didn't plan to stuff too much, but did eat a good deal.

In the mail came the perfume I ordered for Cathy.  She phoned while mom was incapacitated, so I had my ear well bent by the cutie.  Seems I have to buy Bill a Christmas gift, while mom does me.

I have run more than I should have; the front inside muscle of my right leg is plainly indicating that it has been bruised by my shin.  This will curb my running for a while, I guess.  Jeepers, it took me at most 1 hour 40 minutes to make Newton Road.  Slightly less, I believe.

Coming home, Alex honked at me just before I finished crossing the bridge.

The day was cloudy till the early afternoon.

I plan to bed at 9:00 p.m.

I didn't see Bill's car.     
I'm now unsure, but "my regular run" may have been the 11 laps I sometimes ran at New Westminster Secondary School's track.  Perhaps I did not want to add that effort on top of what I was thereafter about to undertake.

So I commenced running once I started over the Pattullo Bridge, and carried along until I reached some stop sign a short distance up the hill leading towards Whalley.

I now have no memory of what or where "Fuller's" was, so saying that I ran from there to where the Surrey Drive-In theatre used to be isn't telling me very much anymore.  However, the Surrey Drive-In was beyond 80th Avenue on the right-hand side of the highway as one approached Newton.

B.C. Hydro had not yet usurped all of the territory they now occupy ─ I believe that 122nd Street used to extend all the way through to 88th Avenue, although the railway tracks did interrupt the street.  It was not possible to drive over the railway tracks ─ the street abruptly ended on each side of the tracks and only pedestrians could move from one section of the street to the other.

I do not remember that incident with the teen girls ─ it would have been very flattering.  But even though I was 25, I would have been painfully shy of them ─ that was why I did not display having heard the compliment.     

Once I was at my mother's home, the perfume that arrived were small counterfeit big-name samplers ─ I had mail-ordered them for my younger brother Mark's girlfriend, Catherine Jeanette Gunther. Her birthday had been September 22nd, but fortunately I had also gotten her some sort of special skillet, and a Western Lottery ticket.

The perfume would be a late treat for her.

Apparently she and my mother had struck upon the idea of drawing names so that each of us would only need to be concerned with one person for Christmas gift-giving.  I had been assigned the name of my old friend William Alan Gill.

Bill also lived in New Westminster, and had a bachelor suite fairly near to my room. I may have mentioned not seeing his car when I was returning to my room because it had been in a repair shop for an extended while, and he was supposed to have gotten it back earlier in the week.

So maybe he did or did not get it back ─ he just may have not been home.

I took the direct route from my mother's home to get back to New Westminster ─ I had traveled far enough afoot for the day.  While nearly across the Pattullo Bridge, my mother's husband Alex saw and honked at me as he came from the New Westminster side and headed over to Surrey and home.

And so went my day exactly 41 years ago.
Post a Comment