Honk if you’ve got an onc. And vet that onc.

Remember when cancer used to be hush-hush?  In my town, as a kid in the 60s and 70s, it was like a bolt from the blue,  a rare and terrible curse that descended bizarrely upon a neighbor or  acquaintance of my grandmother’s.  When it needed to be mentioned, she’d whisper the word — eyebrows arched, glance meaningful — to her older friends over coffee. The disease whose name was a death sentence. The very, very rare and terrible disease whose name we dare not speak aloud.

Today, however,  everyone has an Onc.  It feels like that, anyway.

My sister-in-law (breast cancer) and I (NET/carcinoid) regularly ask each other — along with ‘how are the kids’ and ‘how’s yoga class going’ — the question,  ‘So what’s your Onc saying lately?’  Her two sisters (melanoma and thyroid) and mother (multiple myeloma) have Oncs. My 20-year-old niece (ovarian) has an Onc, and my friend’s 30-year-old son (spinal cord tumor) has an Onc now, too.  He’s in the hospital right now.  My doctor friend has one (esophogeal). My sister’s mother-in-law (cervical) and another friend (breast) are in the middle of their chemo/radiation ordeals.  Another friend (colon) certainly has one.

I could go on and on. But you know the score. You have your own list of friends and family with Oncs, and perhaps (probably, if you are reading this), you have an Onc yourself.

Most of them are great.  Caring, compassionate docs helping us through what can be brutal hellish treatments — and then caring for us ever after, making sure we stay healthy, stay in remission.   My doctor-friend’s wife, an RN with a very black sense of humor, calls the evil triumvirate of  chemo/radiation/surgery, the time of  ‘poisoning/burning/maiming’ —  not the most upbeat of phrases — but this evil triumvirate (presided over by our oncologists)  saves lives.

Therefore, it takes a special kind of doctor,  to be an Onc. To have passion for being up-to-date on the research.  On all the new drugs, new combos, new trials.  To have extraordinary COMpassion for patients. To be driven by the humanity of each individual, know how to customize state-of-the-art treatment. To truly listen, truly care.

But let’s face it.  Oncologists are also in business to make a living.  As a professional told me once, “Oncologists don’t make money by holding your hand, sweetheart.  They make money by selling you chemo.”  (Sorry, that puts it bluntly, but there it is!)

And so. Occasionally, we may come across Oncs who may be driven, more than they should be, shall we say, by the profit motive. It has happened.  It is, hopefully, as rare and bolt-from-the-bluish as cancer itself used to be in my childhood.  But hell, we all know it has happened.

I’ve heard of Oncs who’ve prescribed protocols years out of date, because they liked their relationship with a drug  provider more than the best protocol for their patient. There have been cases where too much chemo was prescribed — too many tests, too many scans, too many drugs — to help pay off machines, malpractice bills.  (My surgeon actually warned me against falling into the ‘don’t-be-over-scanned-and-overtested’  trap!)  And of course, big pharma’s long arm of influence distorts the practice of medicine in our world wherever it can.

Surprise! (not).

So. Anyhow.  I am not trying to disrespect our Oncs. Now that we all seem to have one :-).  But now that cancer has spread (in its cancerous manner of growth) to encompass such a much larger swath of society, there are suddenly so many oncs out there.  I am sure most of them are great, caring, wonderful compassionate professionals.  But what I’m saying, is let’s not just trust blindly that they are.   Let’s do our homework, too. Let’s play an active partnership role  and help set the best direction for ourselves.

I love my oncs, by the way — my guy down at Moores Cancer in San Diego, and my other guy, up at Cedars Sinai in LA. Love them dearly. Have actual crushes. Feel heard, cared for. Know I can call them anytime.  But finding them took a bit of effort. I kissed a few proverbial frogs.

I want you to make sure you avoid the frogs. Make sure your Onc is a great one.  Ask questions. Go online and view ratings.  (There are some sites, like  healthgrades.com, vitals.com, ratemds.com.   You can check hospitals, too.  Read docs’  CVs, if they’re posted.  Check out if they’ve written papers, won grants,  or done research specific to your kind of cancer.  That kind of thing.

Cancer, today, is anything but hush-hush. Access to information is healing in and of itself.  Go forth and search it! And I hope you love your Onc!