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IN JUNE 1990, 18-year-old high school senior Mercedes “Tata” Escano Gorre vowed in her valedictory speech that she would find a cure for cancer. Her mother Lisa, a research chemist at the Hughes Laboratory in Malibu, California, had died of cancer a few months earlier. In August 2001, Tata’s promise came true. Her paper from her doctoral dissertation on molecular mechanisms in chronic leukemia was published in the prestigious journal Science.
Tata’s work aimed to thresh out what exactly was happening with the cancer drug called Gleevec, developed in 2000.
Gleevec seemed to work very well with leukemia patients, at first. However, the drug would seem to stop working. Why?
Protein mutation
Tata eventually found that certain leukemia patients have a mutation in a certain protein that would not make the drug work, and this discovery was the basis of her paper.
At first, other researchers were skeptical, but now her discovery is widely accepted, and Tata and her adviser (Dr. Charles Sawyers) have filed a patent claim for their discovery.
But Gleevec can work with other patients. It is relatively inexpensive (just one pill a day) and has little side effects (it targets the abnormal protein and nothing else). Currently, Tata and her team are working on alternative ways to help Gleevec-resistant patients, and other researchers have found that their study could be applied to other cancers besides leukemia.
Line of scientists
Tata hails from a line of scientists. Aside from her mother, her physicist uncle and my friend Dr. Gregory Tangonan used to work in Hughes Labs. As principal research Scientist at Quest Diagnostics Nichols Institute, a huge medical diagnostics firm in California, Tata heads a laboratory in the Hematology-Oncology R&D Department.
Tata’s aunt, writer Paulynn Sicam, says there was only one other Filipina in Tata’s graduate class at the University of California, Los Angeles. Tata did not let this matter, and at heart she remains a Pinay.
Making Filipinos proud
In an e-mail to her aunt, Tata says, “I am certain that whatever accomplishments I have achieved are largely due to my Filipino family and its strong emphasis on education, discipline and social responsibility. I only hope that I can continue to make them and other Filipinos proud.”
For more information on Tata, e-mail psicam@cyberdyaryo.com.
Science humor
Another physicist friend, Alan Batongbacal, e-mailed this bit of science humor:
A math professor noticed that his kitchen sink broke down. He called a plumber. The plumber came the next day, sealed a few screws and everything was working as before. The professor was delighted.
However, when the plumber gave him the bill a minute later, he was shocked. “This is one third of my monthly salary!” he yelled.
The plumber consoled him, “I understand. Why don’t you come to our company and apply as a plumber? You will earn three times as much as a professor. But remember, when you apply, tell them that you completed only grade school. They don’t like educated people.”
The professor became a plumber, and his salary went up significantly. One day, the boss decided that every plumber has to go to evening classes to complete high school.
The first class was math. The teacher asked for the formula for the area of a circle. The professor went to the board but realized he forgot the formula.
So he started to reason it out and soon filled the board with integrals, differentials and other advanced formulas to derive the formula. Then he got “negative pi times r squared.” He didn’t like the negative, so he started all over again. No matter how many times he tried, he always got a negative.
He was frustrated and looked helplessly at his classmates. Then all the plumbers whispered, “Switch the limits of the integral!!”
For more science humor, go to http://ask.slashdot.org/askslashdot/04/03/03/2125257.shtml.
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©2006 www.inq7.net all rights reserved
World-class Filipina – INQ7.net
Posted by rob on February 10, 2006 under Uncategorized | 
C H Unnikrishnan in Mumbai | February 10, 2006 01:46 IST
The Patent Controller Office of India has rejected the patent application of Novartis AG for its cancer drug Gleevec.
Assistant Controller of Patents & Designs V Rengasamy rejected the application on January 25 on the ground that the drug, Imatinib Mesylate, did not qualify for patenting in India as the novelty of the drug was objected to by a host of Indian companies, including Cipla.?
The patent office heard the pre-grant opposition on October 14, 2005, filed by Cipla. This is the first major decision on patent application after India complied with the TRIPS regime in 2005.?
Norvatis officials were not available for comment. Novartis was likely to challenge the patent controller’s decision in the Madras high court, industry sources said.?
With this, the generic manufacturers in India, including the Hyderabad-based Natco Pharma, Cipla, Ranbaxy, Torrent Pharma, Sun Pharma and many more can re-enter the Rs 400 crore market with their generic versions of this product.
Novartis denied patent for cancer drug
Posted by rob on under Uncategorized |
| Priti Radhakrishnan |
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| Just how wealthy do you have to be to buy medicines in India? The UPA government is about to decide. After the controversial Patent Amendment Act was passed in March 2005, the government is now about to take critical decisions impacting access to health. Its position will affirm or negate its commitment to the promises of the Doha Declaration on Public Health, the Common Minimum Programme and the health of ordinary Indians.
A few days ago, cancer patients won a stunning victory in Chennai. The patent controller ruled against multinational conglomerate Novartis AG in the Gleevec case, stating that Novartis had not shown any improvement over a known compound. Controversy raged last year after Novartis was granted an exclusive marketing right for the anti-cancer drug imatinib mesylate, commonly known as Gleevec. This prevented other domestic companies from making the drug and resulted in the price of Gleevec rising from Rs 10,000 per month (already out of reach for most Indians) to Rs 1.2 lakh per month.
Prices of other drugs are also expected to rise. One study estimates price increases in one therapeutic class alone will be between 100-400 per cent. The controller’s ruling is significant as it sends a clear message to drug companies that they can’t obtain frivolous patents through chicanery: patents will be granted only for real inventions. Last year, various ministers stated that if medicine prices increase excessively in India due to the patent regime, the government will intervene. In the case of Gleevec, it was the unparalleled determination of the Cancer Patients Aid Association, with the support of civil society and Indian drug companies, that led to this adjudication. The government’s only response was inaction.
It is time to demonstrate a commitment to health. The commerce and chemicals ministries could begin by taking the inputs of the health ministry on issues connected to pharmaceutical patents. The rebirth of the product patent regime sounded the death knell for affordable generic medicines. Monopolies on medicines, heretofore considered unacceptable for India, will now be the norm as India complies with its WTO/TRIPS obligations in a manner that goes beyond the call of duty. It is an open question as to which drugs will be patentable, as the patent controller decides on issues of ‘efficacy’ and ‘economic significance’, standards that no country has employed. As a result, without patent opposition from domestic patients and manufacturers, there is scope for abuse and ‘evergreening’ to extend monopolies on medicines.
Difficult decisions lie ahead. After the patent act passed, one of the open issues was referred to a technical committee headed by Dr A.R. Mashelkar. The committee will recommend whether the scope of patentability for drugs will be limited to new chemical entities or expanded to include mere modifications. Civil society groups have written to the PMO asserting that the patent controller’s grant of pharmaceutical patents will be ultra vires (beyond his powers) and should be enjoined until the issue is decided. It remains to be seen what action the PMO takes. The pressure is on.
The government, however, has some options. First, it can take decisive action to check the scope of patentability and data protection. Health groups are watching to see if the UPA is committed to protecting health as promised. Thus far, there have been no mechanisms introduced to safeguard the rights of patients. The defunct Drug Price Control Order can hardly be used as a shield for the government to hide behind, even with a new pharmaceutical policy on the anvil. Demonstrating commitment to open, consultative processes on issues impacting access will be an important step in the right direction.
Second, the UPA can ensure that flexibilities are utilised. In the event of grant of a patent they can order immediately a licence under Section 92 for public health crises such as HIV, TB or potentially the ‘bird flu’ pandemic. Alternatively, they can override patents for “government use” purposes. The health ministry must act swiftly to ensure licences are granted for drugs desperately required in the next stage of India’s HIV/AIDS epidemic.
The government would be wise to note that even these measures are merely preliminary safeguards. It is hardly effective as a public health measure to put a patient on TB medicines if she will thereafter succumb to another disease such as diarrhoea. But for now, the question is, how seriously will the government take its immediate commitment to public health?
The writer is coordinator, the Affordable Medicines & Treatment Campaign
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Posted by rob on under Uncategorized |
Cancer drug patent outcome elates Indian pharma industry as generics hike production.
February 10, 2006
What could be a major setback to the Swiss drug maker Novartis has proven to be a victory for the Indian pharmaceutical industry.
After Novartis lost its patent claim on Gleevec in India late last month, more than half a dozen Indian drug companies are ready to launch the generic version of Imatinib Mesylate, a lifesaving drug used to treat chronic myeloid leukemia, and tap the $100-million-plus domestic market.
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‘We got chemical tests done… which proved contrary to the claims of Novartis.’
-Adi Narayana,
Natco Pharmaceutical
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Posted by rob on February 7, 2006 under Uncategorized |
Updated: 5:54 p.m. ET Feb. 5, 2006
23 years old and fresh out of college, in love with her boyfriend Nick, and having just started a great new job as assistant editor at Glamour magazine, Erin Zammett was looking forward to a future of unlimited promise.
A routine checkup by her doctor seemed to indicate that she was in perfect health, until she was called back just a day later to be told that a blood test revealed she had a type of cancer, Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia, the only known treatment for which was a bone marrow transplant; without treatment, she had roughly five years to live.
After the initial shock wore off, and with the support of her family and friends, her own inner strength, and a recently approved experimental drug, Erin Zammett immediately began the journey that would lead her to recovery. Below, is an excerpt of her book.
Chapter 1: A Fork In the Road
I was living the life I’d always said I wanted. But I was afraid if I slowed down to really enjoy that life, I might not be able to get enough items checked off my to-do list. I might not be a huge success, and nothing could be worse than that. Then, when I was 23, busy plotting my next move, stockpiling my hopes and dreams, I was diagnosed with cancer. So much for my big plans. There is no preparing for news like that, no penciling it in to your otherwise packed schedule. It just happens, without warning. No symptoms, no heads-up, just cancer handed to me on a perfectly nice Tuesday afternoon.
On Monday, November 12, 2001 I went to the doctor for a checkup. I wasn’t sick, but I hadn’t been to a regular physician in a while so I made an appointment. He was a brand new doctor for me, and I figured it would be a good opportunity to get to know him in case I ever really needed him, for a real reason. A friend from work had recommended him: Eric Lutsky, nice, smart, close to the office, took my insurance. Perfect. I also wanted a referral to go to physical therapy for the herniated disc in my back, which I thought was just about the worst thing that could happen to a 23-year-old. I’d been an athlete my whole life-I played Division I volleyball in college-so I’d always taken great care of myself. I ate right, I slept right, I exercised. I figured the doctor would just give me a pat on the back, a “keep up the good work!” Approval and reassurance were two of my favorite things.
I can handle this, I thought, as I walked out of his office. I had no idea what it was I’d have to handle but I told myself I could do it. In a way, I was prepared for something like this, expecting it even. My whole life I’d lain awake at night having horrible thoughts about my parents and my grandparents and my sisters-plane crashes, car crashes, heart attacks, cancer. My family had it pretty good, and I always felt like our number would have to be up sooner or later, like it was only a matter of time before the dreaded phone call came. I just never thought I’d be the one that call was about.
Desperate to talk to my mom, I scanned the streets for a payphone. Of course I had walked out of my apartment without my cell phone that morning. I crossed the street and fumbled through my bag for some change.
“He thinks it could be something bad,” I told her, unable to just say the word.
“Did he say what?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“What did he say, Erin?” she was getting annoyed.
“He said that it wasn’t good, and it could be really bad if it wasn’t a mistake,” I said, desperately trying to come up with a way to sugarcoat the news. I suddenly understood how Dr. Lutsky must have felt.
“How bad, Erin?” she pressed.
I leaned into the phone booth and whispered, not wanting anyone-especially myself-to hear me say the words out loud.
“Like . . . leukemia, Mom.”
And just like that, it was real. “What?” my mom shrieked. “Holy shit. What’s the doctor’s number?” She sounded like she was going to yell at him, like it was his fault. Then we were interrupted: “Please deposit 10 cents. Ten cents please.” I pumped dimes into the phone and tried to relay every detail. On the third interruption by the operator, my mom got really frustrated. “Don’t you have a goddamn quarter?” she fumed. I knew she wasn’t mad, just scared, like the time she yelled at me for getting lost on our Brownie field trip to Radio City Music Hall (I hadn’t actually been lost, I just followed the other leader into the bathroom without telling my mom). I told her that Dr. Lutsky didn’t want to talk until he knew more, and that I wished she wouldn’t bother him. But I knew she’d call. She’d ask a million questions and get some answers too. Then she’d talk to more doctors. My mom works in a hospital and makes friends with every janitor, X-ray technician and surgeon she meets. She was going to use her connections.
My mom is a tough lady, and she’s great in emergencies-medical, fashion and otherwise. She always knows the right thing to do or say and manages to stay relatively calm. In a crisis, my two sisters and I would usually go to my mom, who’s the far more rational of our two parents. Then she’d decide if it was worth telling my dad. Certain things-my 12 parking tickets sophomore year, Meghan’s shamrock tattoo, the price of Melissa’s wedding dress-were better kept between the girls. My dad is a complete alarmist and just a tad temperamental. When Meghan, my younger sister, tore up her knee on a ski slope in Vermont a few years back, my dad was so upset, he took her skis, snapped them in half over his knee and heaved them into the woods. He hasn’t skied since. My mom and I decided it would be best if we waited until my dad was back from his business trip to tell him in person. We hung up and I headed back to work.
As people on the sidewalk bumped past me with cigarettes burning, I wanted to shout, watch where you put that thing, I have cancer! But I had a sudden sympathy for these strangers. Who knew what was going on in their lives, if they had just gotten similar news. I certainly looked like a normal person, but I wasn’t. Not anymore. I put on my sunglasses and let myself cry.
From the book My (So-Called) Normal Life, copyright (c) 2005 by Erin Zammett. Used with the permission of The Overlook Press.
c 2006 MSNBC.com
URL: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/11191259/
Posted by rob on under Uncategorized |
Updated: 5:54 p.m. ET Feb. 5, 2006
23 years old and fresh out of college, in love with her boyfriend Nick, and having just started a great new job as assistant editor at Glamour magazine, Erin Zammett was looking forward to a future of unlimited promise.
A routine checkup by her doctor seemed to indicate that she was in perfect health, until she was called back just a day later to be told that a blood test revealed she had a type of cancer, Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia, the only known treatment for which was a bone marrow transplant; without treatment, she had roughly five years to live.
After the initial shock wore off, and with the support of her family and friends, her own inner strength, and a recently approved experimental drug, Erin Zammett immediately began the journey that would lead her to recovery. Below, is an excerpt of her book.
Chapter 1: A Fork In the Road
I was living the life I’d always said I wanted. But I was afraid if I slowed down to really enjoy that life, I might not be able to get enough items checked off my to-do list. I might not be a huge success, and nothing could be worse than that. Then, when I was 23, busy plotting my next move, stockpiling my hopes and dreams, I was diagnosed with cancer. So much for my big plans. There is no preparing for news like that, no penciling it in to your otherwise packed schedule. It just happens, without warning. No symptoms, no heads-up, just cancer handed to me on a perfectly nice Tuesday afternoon.
On Monday, November 12, 2001 I went to the doctor for a checkup. I wasn’t sick, but I hadn’t been to a regular physician in a while so I made an appointment. He was a brand new doctor for me, and I figured it would be a good opportunity to get to know him in case I ever really needed him, for a real reason. A friend from work had recommended him: Eric Lutsky, nice, smart, close to the office, took my insurance. Perfect. I also wanted a referral to go to physical therapy for the herniated disc in my back, which I thought was just about the worst thing that could happen to a 23-year-old. I’d been an athlete my whole life—I played Division I volleyball in college—so I’d always taken great care of myself. I ate right, I slept right, I exercised. I figured the doctor would just give me a pat on the back, a “keep up the good work!” Approval and reassurance were two of my favorite things.
I can handle this, I thought, as I walked out of his office. I had no idea what it was I’d have to handle but I told myself I could do it. In a way, I was prepared for something like this, expecting it even. My whole life I’d lain awake at night having horrible thoughts about my parents and my grandparents and my sisters—plane crashes, car crashes, heart attacks, cancer. My family had it pretty good, and I always felt like our number would have to be up sooner or later, like it was only a matter of time before the dreaded phone call came. I just never thought I’d be the one that call was about.
Desperate to talk to my mom, I scanned the streets for a payphone. Of course I had walked out of my apartment without my cell phone that morning. I crossed the street and fumbled through my bag for some change.
“He thinks it could be something bad,” I told her, unable to just say the word.
“Did he say what?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“What did he say, Erin?” she was getting annoyed.
“He said that it wasn’t good, and it could be really bad if it wasn’t a mistake,” I said, desperately trying to come up with a way to sugarcoat the news. I suddenly understood how Dr. Lutsky must have felt.
“How bad, Erin?” she pressed.
I leaned into the phone booth and whispered, not wanting anyone—especially myself—to hear me say the words out loud.
“Like . . . leukemia, Mom.”
And just like that, it was real. “What?” my mom shrieked. “Holy shit. What’s the doctor’s number?” She sounded like she was going to yell at him, like it was his fault. Then we were interrupted: “Please deposit 10 cents. Ten cents please.” I pumped dimes into the phone and tried to relay every detail. On the third interruption by the operator, my mom got really frustrated. “Don’t you have a goddamn quarter?” she fumed. I knew she wasn’t mad, just scared, like the time she yelled at me for getting lost on our Brownie field trip to Radio City Music Hall (I hadn’t actually been lost, I just followed the other leader into the bathroom without telling my mom). I told her that Dr. Lutsky didn’t want to talk until he knew more, and that I wished she wouldn’t bother him. But I knew she’d call. She’d ask a million questions and get some answers too. Then she’d talk to more doctors. My mom works in a hospital and makes friends with every janitor, X-ray technician and surgeon she meets. She was going to use her connections.
My mom is a tough lady, and she’s great in emergencies—medical, fashion and otherwise. She always knows the right thing to do or say and manages to stay relatively calm. In a crisis, my two sisters and I would usually go to my mom, who’s the far more rational of our two parents. Then she’d decide if it was worth telling my dad. Certain things—my 12 parking tickets sophomore year, Meghan’s shamrock tattoo, the price of Melissa’s wedding dress—were better kept between the girls. My dad is a complete alarmist and just a tad temperamental. When Meghan, my younger sister, tore up her knee on a ski slope in Vermont a few years back, my dad was so upset, he took her skis, snapped them in half over his knee and heaved them into the woods. He hasn’t skied since. My mom and I decided it would be best if we waited until my dad was back from his business trip to tell him in person. We hung up and I headed back to work.
As people on the sidewalk bumped past me with cigarettes burning, I wanted to shout, watch where you put that thing, I have cancer! But I had a sudden sympathy for these strangers. Who knew what was going on in their lives, if they had just gotten similar news. I certainly looked like a normal person, but I wasn’t. Not anymore. I put on my sunglasses and let myself cry.
From the book My (So-Called) Normal Life, copyright (c) 2005 by Erin Zammett. Used with the permission of The Overlook Press.
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© 2006 MSNBC.com
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URL: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/11191259/
Cancer at 23 – Dateline NBC – MSNBC.com
Posted by rob on February 5, 2006 under Uncategorized |
Shimizu K, Kuroda H, Kida M, Watanabe H, Shirao S, Akiyama T, Fujimi A, Tanaka I, Sato T, Matsunaga T, Niitsu Y
Administration of imatinib exacerbated psoriasis vulgaris in a case of chronic myelogenous leukemia (CML). After the cessation of imatinib therapy, the psoriasis was alleviated. Upon readministration of imatinib, the psoriasis worsened despite the improvement of hematological and cytogenetic findings in the CML. Psoriasis is known to be an autoimmune skin disease characterized by Th1 cell-mediated hyperproliferation of keratinocytes, and the type 1 helper T (Th1) cell subset increased with imatinib therapy. Thus, the exacerbation of psoriasis was likely due to the increase in Th1 cells associated with imatinib therapy.
Posted by rob on under Uncategorized |
The translocation (15;17) is a typical marker of acute promyelocytic leukemia, whereas t(9;22) is predominantly associated with chronic myelogenous leukemia, and seldom with acute myelogenous leukemia. Furthermore, the association between t(15;17) and t(9;22) in the same cell is extremely rare. We present a case of therapy-related acute promyelocytic leukemia (t-APL) with a subclone accompanied by karyotype 46, XX, t(9; 22)(q34;q11), t(15 ;17)(q22;11 to approximately 12) at onset. A 75-year-old woman was diagnosed as having non-Hodgkin lymphoma of the thyroid gland in July 1997. She was treated with a CHOP-like regimen, but complete remission (CR) was not achieved. She then underwent surgical resection of her thyroid gland, and was treated with etoposide (total dose 16775 mg) from February 1998 to May 2000. In June 2000, having developed t-APL, she was referred to our department. The patient attained CR following treatment with chemotherapy containing all-trans retinoic acid. Ten months later she relapsed, but lost the t(9;22), while maintaining the t(15;17).
[Therapy-related acute promyelocytic leukemia with a t(9;22)(q34;q11) and t(15;17)(q22;q11 to approximately 12) subclone]
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