If I lived in New Zealand, I’d be dead.
That’s the lead my editor wanted me to write, and I have to admit it’s great. Alas (for this column, at least), it’s not exactly true. But neither is it false. And the ways in which it’s partly true matter greatly, not just to me or to New Zealanders but to anyone who might get cancer or care about someone who does.
The American health-care system may be a crazy mess, but it is the prime mover in the global ecology of medical treatment, creating the world’s biggest market for new drugs and devices. Even as we argue about whether or how our health-care system should change, most Americans take for granted our access to the best available cancer treatments—including the one that arguably saved my life.
In mid-July 2007, after a routine mammogram, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. As cancer diagnoses go, mine wasn’t particularly scary. The affected area was small, and the surgeon seemed to think that a lumpectomy followed by radiation would eradicate the cancerous tissue. Surgery was scheduled for late August, allowing me to complete a planned move from Dallas to Los Angeles.
Two days before the surgery, I went in for magnetic resonance imaging; the MRI would be used to place wires marking the cancer hot spot. On the day of my surgery, I showed up at the UCLA radiology department expecting a routine procedure to insert the wires. Instead, I got news that turned me cold and shaky. The scan had detected a large, completely distinct hot spot in another area of the breast. My prognosis had suddenly become less cheery.
The post-surgery pathology report wasn’t reassuring. Although the tumor was indeed tiny—just seven millimeters across—cancer cells were all over the place; they had invaded my lymphovascular system and extended beyond the margins of both areas of surgically removed tissue. All six of the excised lymph nodes were malignant, a bad sign. The cancer also tested positive for a genetic trait called HER2, found in 20 to 25 percent of breast-cancer patients, which marked the cancer as particularly aggressive. Given the details of my case, with more surgery, traditional chemotherapy, and radiation, I had only a 50 percent chance of surviving.
I was lucky, however. Those were no longer the only treatment options. Adding the biological drug Herceptin, approved by the FDA in 2006 for use in early-stage cancers like mine, could increase my survival odds from a coin flip to 95 percent.
Starting in the late 1990s, oncologists had used Herceptin to extend the lives of patients whose HER2-positive cancers were advanced and metastatic, buying them months, and in some cases years, of life. Then, in May 2005, reports of clinical trials on patients with early-stage HER2-positive breast cancer electrified the American Society of Clinical Oncology’s annual meeting. Herceptin halved the chances of cancer recurrence: from one in six to one in 12 after two years. No one knew what would happen after five or 10 years, but the preliminary results were, to quote a New England Journal of Medicine editorial, “stunning.”
For breast cancer that hasn’t spread elsewhere in the body, Herceptin offers the possibility of a cure. It enhances chemotherapy, encourages the immune system to attack cancer cells, and hinders those cells from reproducing. A year of the drug, with one dose every three weeks (or, for some patients, along with weekly chemotherapy), is now the international standard of care for patients with cancers like mine. So, along with chemotherapy, another round of surgery, and seven and a half weeks of daily radiation, that’s what I got. The Herceptin treatments cost my insurer about $60,000. A year later, I have no evidence of disease and, though it’s still early, I have hope of staying that way indefinitely.
Not everyone in similarly rich countries is so lucky—something to remember the next time you hear a call to “tame runaway medical spending.” Consider New Zealand. There, a government agency called Pharmac evaluates the efficacy of new drugs, decides which drugs are cost-effective, and negotiates the prices to be paid by the national health-care system. These functions are separate in most countries, but thanks to this integrated approach, Pharmac has indeed tamed the national drug budget. New Zealand spent $303 per capita on drugs in 2006, compared with $843 in the United States. Unfortunately for patients, Pharmac gets those impressive results by saying no to new treatments. New Zealand “is a good tourist destination, but options for cancer treatment are not so attractive there right now,” Richard Isaacs, an oncologist in Palmerston North, on New Zealand’s North Island, told me in October.
A more centralized U.S. health-care system might reap some one-time administrative savings, but over the long term, cutting costs requires the kinds of controls that make Americans hate managed care. You have to deny patients some of the things they want, including cancer drugs that are promising but expensive. Policy wonks dream of objective technocrats (perhaps at the “independent institute to guide reviews and research on comparative effectiveness” proposed by Barack Obama) who will rationally “scrutinize new treatments for effectiveness,” as The New Republic’s Jonathan Cohn puts it. But neither science nor liberal democracy works quite so neatly.
In New Zealand, for example, Herceptin is a high-profile public issue. Until July 2007, Pharmac wouldn’t fund the drug for early-stage breast cancer. (It has covered the drug for the advanced disease since 2002.) In protest, activists filed lawsuits and sent petitions to Parliament. Pink-clad motorcycle riders circled the North Island in a “Bikers for Boobs” publicity stunt that got widespread attention. To pay for treatments, women who could do so have mortgaged their homes, dipped into their retirement savings, and held fund-raisers among their neighbors. Many have cut their treatments short to save money. “It’s not easy to sit down every three weeks and write a check out for four and a half thousand dollars,” says Chris Walsh, a breast-cancer activist who mortgaged her house to buy the drug, stopping after 15 doses rather than the usual 17.