One Pill, Two Pills, Tailored Just for You — The Cancer Revolution That’s Actually Clever
Welcome to a future where chemo might finally stop behaving like a drunk octopus wielding a chainsaw.
While rummaging through my bathroom cabinet in search of a paracetamol for a headache caused by drinking a 'low-sugar' wine that tasted like fermented soybeans, I found something that made me pause. It wasn’t a pill or potion, but a letter from my oncologist essentially saying, 'We’ll throw every known treatment at your body and hope something works.' I’m paraphrasing, of course.
Back then in my day, the approach to cancer treatment was basically the medical equivalent of launching a nuclear missile at a wasps nest. It worked, sort of, but you’d lose your eyebrows, dignity and any hope of sneezing without pulling a muscle. Fast forward to now and it turns out science has caught up; we’re finally moving away from the scorched-earth chemotherapy approach and heading towards something that sounds more like Netflix recommendations than medicine.. “personalised cancer care”.
Yes that’s right. Thanks to something called ‘genomic sequencing’, which sounds like something you’d need a Hogwarts degree to understand, cancer treatment is becoming as bespoke as a Savile Row suit. No more “you’ve got breast cancer so here’s the standard sledgehammer.” Now it’s, “Ah, you’ve got oestrogen-receptor-positive, HER2-enhanced, triple-tangoing breast cancer with a hint of BRCA2? No worries, Karen, take two of these tablets and carry on with your 10k run.”
Frankly, it’s mind-blowing. In the time it takes the NHS to answer the phone at 8am, scientists are mapping your tumour’s DNA like it’s a family tree, identifying the dodgy uncles in your genetic code who’ve been causing all the chaos.
Remember when treatment options were “chemo, radiation or sorry”? Now it’s like choosing a starter from a Michelin-star menu! Would you prefer immunotherapy that teaches your immune system kung fu, or would you like a targeted inhibitor that quietly strangles the tumour’s favourite protein?
I love that we’ve entered an era where a woman in waste management, not a Wall Street biotech mogul, can pop two pills a day, avoid chemotherapy and still run a 10k. That’s not just progress. That’s a flipping miracle.
The idea that doctors can now ‘predict’ if your cancer might come back, within two weeks of treatment starting is astonishing. In the past, the only thing oncologists could predict was that your hair would fall out faster than Prince William’s. (Sorry William!)
Then there's the ‘liquid biopsy’, a lovely euphemism for sucking a bit of DNA from your blood and using it to read your tumour’s autobiography. That’s right. No need to shove a camera into unspeakable orifices when a vial of blood will tell you not just ‘if’ there’s cancer, but ‘where’ it’s hiding, what mood it’s in and whether it prefers jazz or classical.
It’s like moving from ‘Guess Who?’ to ChatGPT for tumours.
Even the language has evolved. Nobody says “breast cancer” anymore. Now it's “molecular sub-type oestrogen-receptor positive HER2-negative with delusions of grandeur.” Treatment has become a sci-fi fantasy, except it’s real, it’s happening and, whisper it, it actually works.
Now I know it’s not perfect. Side effects still exist. Fatigue still knocks. Queasiness still lingers like your weird uncle after Christmas lunch. But compared to what we endured? These are champagne problems.
Here’s my plea to Wes Streeting, don’t let the NHS fall behind. This level of advancement needs more than enthusiasm and PowerPoint presentations. It needs investment, education, trial participation and a healthcare system that doesn’t still run on fax machines and tea breaks.
This is a future where your treatment isn’t chosen based on your postcode or whether the consultant’s had their coffee yet. It's chosen based on ‘your genes’. Imagine that.
We’re entering a world where one day, treatment could be as precise as sending nanobots dressed as Pac-Man to nibble cancer cell by cell; or a smart bomb that only explodes in the presence of your tumour’s bad breath.
It’s not sci-fi. It’s next Tuesday.
So here’s to the pill that lets you be a mum, the test that sees the future and the clever clogs in lab coats who turned cancer treatment from a cannon into a scalpel. We're finally moving in the right direction.
Just don’t let the NHS budgeteers hear about it. They’ll probably try to replace Olaparib with paracetamol and a mindfulness app.
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Chris Geiger, Author of The Cancer Survivors Club.
Daily Dose of Disbelief!
Bsky: @chrisgeiger.com
Bsky: @thecancersurvivorsclub.com
Bsky: @dailydoseofdisbelief.com
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