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Saturday, February 18, 2017

Parotid Duct Obstruction Treatment: Day Nine │ Lupron: Ruining the Lives of Men with Prostate Cancer and Kids with Precocious Puberty

It was 10:59 p.m. when I had finally settled into bed last evening. I never had taken an Advil despite the nigh brutal treatment I had received late in the morning yesterday when an ENT specialist manually expressed every possible amount of pus that he could from the great swelling that arose after an obstruction of my main left parotid gland.

An abscess had formed, and it had finally broken open this past Wednesday/Thursday night while I was in bed.

But I had felt quite beaten up all day long following the doctor's office punishment.

I didn't seem to sweat too much overnight ─ my bedding wasn't as clammy as it has commonly been.

I had a 10:00 a.m. ertapenem IV drip scheduled for this morning at the Jim Pattison Outpatient Care and Surgery Centre, so when I checked the time just ahead of 8:00 a.m., I decided to rise  First up would be a good face-soaking in the bathtub to try and wash off the dried blood and plasma caked to my face and beard.

Then groomed as best as I am able, I went downstairs to make an instant coffee.

The day outside seemed lightly overcast, with some extremely weak sunshine, but it seemed a bit chilly.

I had it in mind that I would likely be walking to my appointment ─ Jim Pattison is just over a mile from where I live. Normally my youngest step-son Poté would have driven me, but he was sacked out in bed. Still, that did not necessarily mean that he did not have an alarm set.

My younger brother Mark emerged from his bedroom around 9:00 a.m., and set about doing a load of laundry; and then he fixed himself a coffee while he enjoyed the Saturday edition of The Vancouver Sun.  

Soon it was approaching 9:30 a.m., so I started preparing for the hike. Mark would have driven me, but I did not wish to inconvenience him ─ after all, it was not as if it was pouring rain, or the ground covered with inches of snow and ice.

It was 9:34 a.m. when I slipped away unnoticed.

And I barely made it on time ─ that last third of a mile was one fast walk!

When my time at Jim Pattison arrived to be treated, the attending nurse did some mopping up of the wound, including trimming a length from the antibiotic ribbon that the ENT specialist had packed into the infection cavity yesterday.

She wondered on the sense of stuffing the cavity like that, for I do not see the guy again until Tuesday. To her thinking, having the cavity stuffed will impede its easy drainage.

And she finished up by actually expressing some pus from the site anyway. I wasn't expecting anything like that again, but at least it was not the long torturous process I experienced yesterday.

She even gave me about four packets of sterile pads and a roll of an adhesive bandage to use to keep the pads in place. I had said that I hoped to trim my beard down over the weekend until it was only a couple of days' worth of stubble, so she felt that I should have the extra material to re-dress the infection site.

The walk home after the antibiotic IV drip was finished was less harrowing than the urgent earlier walk to the clinic, but the nippy air was certainly apparent ─ I wore a denim jacket.

Poté was still asleep when I got home. He was not to rise until into the noon-hour.

I fixed myself my first meal of the day ─ nothing that requires too much chewing, for I can barely put my finger between my teeth, my bite has become so restricted at the temporomandibular joint. I probably should mention this tomorrow when I go for my next IV drip at 10:00 a.m. ─ is this limitation of jaw-opening commonplace for something like my infection, and will all become normal in due course?

It is 1:23 p.m. as I type this, and I have finished eating. But the action of working my jaws has caused what appears to be clear liquid to be dripping down my beard from the covered wound. I think I am just going to take a break and see if I can maybe drift off into a nap.


I was deep into a beautiful sound nap when my cellphone rang about 3:08 p.m. It was my wife Jack checking up on me from Vancouver.

So that was that! It would take too long to return to sleep, even though I wanted it. Instead, I went downstairs to make my day's second instant coffee.

I noticed that one of my two step-sons left a largish can of some kind of Campbell's soup in front of my computer. I took that downstairs and put it into a cupboard ─ I will not knowingly ingest anything of Campbell's (nor any other soup company's product). Campbell uses bisphenol A (BPA) in the linings of their cans ─ an endocrine-disrupting chemical that mimics estrogen, and which can cause cancer and who-knows-what-else, besides robbing men of their fertility and even adversely affecting their masculinity by reducing overall testosterone levels.

The chemical is in lots of food products besides can linings ─ it is also used to line food cartons and boxes, and those packages of popcorn that people microwave to pop the corn are heavy contributors of BPA in the diets of the duped. Nothing draws out the toxin into something like popcorn like harsh steam and heat will.

Sure, Campbell nearly a year ago proclaimed to rid their can linings of BPA by "mid-2017," but they have lied and lied in the past about their wholesomeness. And as this lengthy September 18, 2012, article at Forbes.com shows, that promise to stop using BPA is one of their long-standing favourites: Campbell's Big Fat Green BPA Lie -- and the Sustainability Activists who Enabled It.

I believe that I can honestly state that I will never in my life buy anyone's canned food product.

Well, no photos of myself today. I could have taken one this morning (when I was first cleaning up after getting out of bed) of the antibiotic ribbon sticking a couple of inches out of the infection cavity on my left cheek, but there are better things to look at.

In fact, Google sent me notice today that it had created a collage of my wife Jack's photos from this day five years ago:

The photos were taken at some special occasion at the Thai Buddhist temple (Wat Budhapanyanantarama) in Burnaby ─ the temple is at 4796 Canada Way. It has no website that I am aware of, but this is its Facebook page.

These are the four original photos:

That is me standing beside the head monk in the final photo, while my wife Jack is kneeling.

Happier times? I suppose.


One treatment for men with prostate cancer is androgen deprivation therapy (ADT); and one of the drugs used for such therapy is Lupron.

Note that Lupron "treats only the symptoms of prostate cancer and does not treat the cancer itself."

But it has an enormous list of side effects:
In that second webpage, don't be afraid to scroll down to the section for healthcare professionals ─ it gives details that it does not offer in the first section to the consumer, including percentages for people who suffer side effects. Remember, 10% means that one out of every 10 people will suffer that side effect ─ and these reported side effects are just those that have been submitted and recorded, of course.

That second webpage also mentioned something else about the use of Lupron ─ it is used to treat early-onset or precocious puberty in children. And we're talking about kids as young as five years old!

So...any problems crop up yet?

Well, duh!!! Of course!

See this comprehensive report at Kaiser Health News:


The same article is also available at STATnews.com and PBS.org, should it become unavailable at the source I cited.

The horror stories are out there. Unfortunately for Americans, their FDA is doing precisely what it does best in situations like this ─ spending years and years supposedly reviewing these disasters, but of course never seeing any actual cause to express open concern about the precious drug.

Big Pharma mightn't like it, I suppose.


I am going to close for the day with this journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting my little space in a house located on Ninth Street, and one or two houses up from Third Avenue.

My main mailing address was my mother Irene Dorosh's home out in Surrey; the little house she shared with her husband Alex is now gone, but its address was 12106 - 90th Avenue. To hike there in the Kennedy heights area of Surrey from my room would take about 1½ hours of fast-paced trekking.

I was planning such a hike for this day.

The evening prior to this entry, I had gone to bed at 8:30 p.m.
WEDNESDAY, February 18, 1976

I've been cold all night, sleeping poorly; after a stretch of wakefulness, I looked and saw it to be 2:45 a.m.; unable to get to sleep with any ease, I arose at 3:00 a.m.

I'll leave here for mom's at 5:30 a.m.

'Twas windy. I arrived in good time, noting no foot trouble.

As Thursday, pancakes (buckwheat) constituted the great part of my diet today; I first though scaled myself, finding an easy 184 lbs registered.

I've eaten a lot since my granola Saturday, but believe it or not, that was all I passed today! What a length of intestine I must have!

No mail today.

Phyllis dropped by about 2:20 p.m. for 45 minutes or so.

Mom learned yesterday she has high blood pressure; the poor thing has a harder time than I at losing weight.

I came here very easy minded for once; no hate, anger, and bitterness.

My foot was really no problem, though running is out.

I saw David come down 5th St to Royal, but he failed to recognize me; I don't know if he did after crossing, however, for I didn't look; we were directly opposite each other.

Still no $50 incentive cheque; I'll look into it tomorrow. 

But I did have a letter from dad; he suggested I visit on Sunday at the end of the month; he's apparently sometime seen Art, who believed I may have moved.

I finished reading Vihljalmur Stefansson's My Life with the Eskimo; I won't finish the anatomy text, however.

Mom said this forenoon that Roxanne Halverson tried to suicide with pills; and Georgie might come and visit awhile.

I'd thought I might go on a walk this evening, but I changed my mind.

The possibility exists mom & Phyllis may go Sunday to see Greta, who phoned, I guess, yesterday, her third call; but mom doesn't find Phyllis' driving an attractive prospect.

Monday I discovered in a Shopper flyer at mom's a new smorgasbord on Marine Drive called The Holstein; lunch is from 11:30 a.m. - 2:00 p.m. daily except Saturday and Monday for $2.75, cheaper than dear Country Boy's. If I get my money tomorrow, I'll propose we try this place out on Sunday, for that is really my only free glutting day this week, and at Country Boy's that day would necessitate an expenditure of at least $3.50 or possibly $3.99; "we" means Bill & I, of course.

I'm going to retire at 7:30 p.m.
My mother cooked everything from scratch. She would have had genuine buckwheat flour, and probably even buckwheat grains. Her pancakes were irresistible, and I could not help but eat gluttonously. The pickings back at my room were most sparse.

Phyllis is my older maternal half-sister. The trip she and my mother might make on Sunday would be to Barriere to visit my mother's Dutch friend Greta, who had been all in a tearful tither at a looming break-up with her boyfriend Kurt who had just recently discovered that Greta was 14 years older than he was, and he could not handle it.

Roxanne Halverson was my younger maternal cousin resident in Calgary; her mother was Georgina Halverson, one of my mother's sisters. Rocky was to get over her troubled teens, and has been married for decades; she and her husband recently moved from Surrey to the Chilliwack area, I believe.     

It was while I was hiking back to my room that I saw my old friend Philip David Prince. I usually tried to avoid his company, but I sure miss him in my old age! He lived in his own room there in New Westminster.

I would have been walking along Royal Avenue towards Fifth Street when I saw him coming down the latter and then crossing Royal at the intersection. I must have been right on the opposite side of Fifth Street from him, but he must not have looked left. I would be crossing Fifth Street right to where he was standing, but his light changed first and he proceeded across Royal.

Whether he looked back afterwards, I did not wish to look to see, not wanting to become entangled with my old friend.

Fifth Street no longer reaches Royal Avenue, but seems to end at Third Avenue now.  

My old friend William Alan Gill and I loved our cheap smorgasbords! Bill lived in a bachelor suite he was renting, perhaps four or so blocks from my room.

The $50 cheque I was missing was my final payment for working a day each week at a New Westminster charitable organization for possibly a couple of years. I had worked there via an employment incentives project in place between them and the government. However funding ran out, and my contract was not renewed.

The $50 was what I received for working those four or so days a month.

I also received the going social assistance rate for a Single person ss part of that package.

Concerning the letter from my father Hector, he had reportedly seen Art Smith somewhere, and Art had speculated that I may have moved. Art was an older friend of mine who was in his early 40s, but I had come to try and avoid him as much as I could because he was always trying to haul me off to his home to sit up late into the night as his drinking companion. I was trying to break from those unplanned late hours.

So anytime he came knocking, I ignored the knocks. But that was my way in general ─ if I knew not who was knocking, I was unlikely to answer.

I had mentioned weighing myself before eating at my mother's home. For most of my adult life, I have weighed in the bottom half of the 180s. But just this morning when I was cleaning up my bloody beard after getting up for the day, I wasn't any more than about 174 pounds. 

Unable to chew at all well because of how limited my jaws are at separating to accept food ─ and because of how unwell that part of my face has been ─ I have been consuming less than normal. Besides, I am unable to exercise. I have the IV needle conveniently (for the medical staff) inserted into a vein in my left forearm. It is all wrapped up, and is attached to an IV unit whenever my next antibiotic drip is scheduled. 

Thus, I am loath to attempt exercising with that peripheral venous catheter affixed into a vein ─ I don't want the needle to pull out of the vein, after all. So trying to do any strenuous exercise movements would jeopardize the set-up.

However, I have been getting these darned antibiotic drips since February 10, and I am getting my fill of being limited like this. My arms are beginning to look like some frail old man's.
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