This week I resumed chemotherapy! So fun! Sarcasm aside, I do feel good about this in that the next step is underway. It is a strange feeling, having a needle plunged into your abdomen. The hepatic artery infusion system essentially is a temperature-sensitive reservoir. It has a spring-activated release that infuses über-potent chemotherapy into the blood supply to my liver, thereby theoretically zapping all the residual cancer cells not paying rent in there.

All things equal, this little bulge in my abdominal wall will stay with me for at least two years, as an insurance policy. I will also be getting some more old-fashioned systemic chemotherapy in my bloodstream as well. Indeed, the overall landscape that is my torso has changed a lot over the past few months, but given the stakes, I am not terribly concerned about how my poolside photos will turn out.

Beyond these updates, I wanted to briefly talk about the “housekeeping” involved with being a cancer patient. The things I expected to be informed about were medications, side effects, surgical techniques, etc. But nobody will proactively tell you about how to file for Leave of Absence. How to negotiate short-term disability and long-term disability policies. How to reap Social Security benefits. How to create a trust and will. How to make sure you don’t lose health insurance!

Not to toot my own horn, but when people look at my CV and ask how I was able to attend a top-tier college/medical school/training program, I often say, “I am really good at paperwork.” This is meant to draw a giggle or two but it is in fact the truth. During this cancer journey I have managed to keep my family financially intact and insured, mostly because I have spent at least some time every day since the infamous day of June 2 making a phone call, sending an email, or writing a letter to somebody in an insurance office in the middle of the country. At least half of these communications are redundant, but I always assume that nobody talks to each other within these offices.

If you are reading this, I probably know you and like you, and as such, I hope beyond all hope that you never have to go through this. But at a minimum please do the following:

1) get disability insurance

2) get life insurance

3) figure out where the hell all your money is and who gets it in case you get eaten by a shark or something.

I love and dearly miss being a practicing anesthesiologist. But I am utterly relieved that I can hang out at home sucking down chemotherapy and not be forced to take care of others in an operating room when I am not 100% because I can’t otherwise pay my mortgage or make an egregious Costco order.

Please reach out to me if you ever have questions about this!

~ Sachin