Rationing of new cancer drugs was a topic of conversation at the recent annual meeting of the American Society for Clinical Oncology in New Orleans, Louisiana.

The problem is simple. Cancer is beginning to be treated as a chronic disease and pharmaceutical companies understand clearly the market value of "chronic" conditions. Chronic means we can 'live with cancer' if we are given new drugs and treatments that are just becoming available.

Now that drug discovery has opened a genetic gold rush, companies know that careful product staging and fear-based public awareness portend superb shareholder results and rapidly escalating demand for new products.

Living with cancer keeps us edgy and frantic under the calm, resigned exterior we try to project to family and friends. But news of "new drugs that extend life" breaks through the worry like sunshine on a gloomy day.

Matthew Herper, who covered the ASCO meeting for Forbes Magazine quoted Leonard Saltz, a Memorial Sloan-Kettering cancer doctor who helped develop some of the hottest new biotech drugs. "We're going to have to stop taking the stance that every patient has to get every last shot at survival," Saltz said. "The price tag for treating patients has increased 500-fold in the last decade."

Survival was not offered to me. Within a few days of 'discovery,' I was told I was terminal in the most precise and definite way. "Six months, perhaps…": was the best my oncologist could offer.

My son and husband went into immediate fight mode. We would do everything we could. We would not let it happen. Somehow, some way, we would beat this thing.

Normally I am a top-flight fighter, but, somehow, the word 'terminal' sent me into high exit-planning mode. The certainty of the diagnosis, the devastation a long drawn-out fight would cause my son and husband and the awareness that, if I fought, I would lose control, made fighting very unattractive. I wanted to plan a civilized, graceful exit that would allow me to accept the finality and make it as painless to all of us as possible.

Our very good friend, Dr. Terry Sharrer, who curates The Health Sciences Collection for the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History, was having none of this. He insisted that I have a CA125 test and contact the National Institutes of Health to see if any clinical trials in ovarian cancer were underway.

Meanwhile, I had surgery. Fourteen pounds of tumors, and liters of the toxic liquid, aesites, were removed. The tumors were not easy to diagnose and one, in particular, was so rare it was impossible to understand. We were told that only two researchers in the world study micropapillary tumors, and they disagree emphatically about what these tumors indicate.

Suddenly, my diagnosis was slightly less definite. I viewed this as truly amazing and hopeful news.

At NIH, we met with Dr. Elyse Cohen who directs one of the few ovarian cancer clinical trials. After a day of tests and examinations, she and her brilliant team met with us to say they would love to have me join the trial because I had a tumor they knew so little about, but they could not recommend it.

They thought I should try chemotherapy first. There was a chance, slim and uncertain, that I could be treated.

Treatment, which would be chemotherapy, felt like a positive step. No one told me I was no longer terminal, but there was a sense of confusion. A diagnosis that had seemed so final was now less so. The professionals were somewhat uncertain.

The power of that slight uncertainty gave me a tiny bit of hope.

Dr. Cohen spoke with Dr. Elizabeth Simms, my highly respected Northern Virginia oncologist, and I agreed to a six-month chemotherapy program. It was fascinating and difficult. But no one sat me down and talked about cost.

I was stunned when the first statement arrived for my chemotherapy, and grateful to my insurance company for covering it in total. But anyone who has gone through this treatment knows that the costs will be $30,000, $50,000 or much, much more to complete a six-month series of treatments.

So it didn't surprise me to learn from the Forbes article that new genetic cancer drugs will rapidly enter the market, or that they would be terribly expensive. What did surprise me was the fear among oncologists that rationing might be the only way to get these drugs to cancer patients.

When my cancer was discovered, I was totally unaware of the first genetic test, CA125, for ovarian cancer that Dr. Sharrer had insisted I have. Results from this simple blood test read from 0-40 if you are fine. The day after my surgery, mine was down to 180. It had been 542 before surgery.

My doctor had not recommended the CA125 genetic test during the three preceding years when I had consistently expressed my concern to her that 'something was not right.'

I now recommend that every woman insist on this test annually. I am not a doctor. But it is a simple blood test. It costs slightly over $100 if your insurance company won't cover it. It is a marker for ovarian cancer and the earlier you know you could have it, the earlier you can address it.

Ovarian cancer can be addressed if one catches it early. CA125 is a sensible medical investment that offers critically valuable returns.

Genetic drugs are rapidly gaining the confidence of physicians and of the leaders of the biotechnology and pharmaceutical industries. They all know demand will be high for genetic drugs like Eloxatin, from Sanofi-Synthelabo {nyse: SNY} which offers as much as 22.5 months of survival to cancer patients.

Eloxatin will cost $250,000 for those 22.5 months according to Forbes Magazine. This does not include pharmacy markups, salaries for medical professionals or hospital costs.

Cocktails, or combinations of these new drugs, will be astronomically expensive. But, the word is out. They will extend survival.

Will cancer patients simply move to Canada?

Without a radical revision in the revenue strategies of pharmaceutical companies, no amount of Medicare adjustments or Healthcare reform will save our society from a devious, science fiction fate: teeming crowds of dying cancer victims looking up at well-endowed citizens who can afford to live.

I was no longer terminal, but there was a sense of confusion. A diagnosis that had seemed so final was now less definite. I viewed this as truly amazing and hopeful news.