iphone app for the blind helps identify products

In 2007, I went to Japan and discovered the cool technology of using one’s cell phone to scan a barcode and then having all the information about a particular product pop up on the screen. We tested it out on the barcode on the back of the cardboard container of some McDonald’s fries. I thought it was so advanced and upon returning to the U.S., I told my husband (who was a new boyfriend at the time) about it.

“I already knew about this,” John said.

“Oh,” I said.

I should’ve known better. He is, after all, a total tech geek. In addition to being into computers, he is also entrepreneurial; he’s always coming up with new ideas, especially those that have anything to do with technology. And because he was an Apple fan before it was trendy to be one, and because his wife is blind, it was no surprise that he came up with the idea to apply all of the above into an iPhone app to help the blind.

Several months ago, he told me about this idea he had to utilize the iPhone’s camera to take pictures of the open source barcode and have the information contained within the code be read aloud on the iPhone (I’ll blog about this iPhone technology later). The blind person could create dozens of these barcodes–it’s free because it’s open source–and print them on labels and stick on whatever they need help identifying. For example, I would type “Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup, purchased on August 2″ into the open source program, and then a barcode would be generated with this information encoded in it. I’d then print the barcode onto a label and stick it onto the cream of mushroom can. I would do this for all the canned goods in my food pantry, and when I come back later in search of the cream of mushroom, I use my iPhone to take pictures of the different barcodes until I hear “Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup…”

You could make pages and pages of stickers and place them wherever to help with organization: items in the food pantry, the refrigerator, closet (“pink capris from Zara”), or medicine cabinet (“ibuprofen – expires June 2011″). This helps you find things quicker without having to ask someone or straining your eyes with a magnifier, thus promoting independent living.

I told John this was a great idea and that I would probably use it for the food pantry and medicine cabinet for starters, not to mention DVDs and books. He told his boss about the app since his company has been brainstorming iPhone app ideas. John was excited about developing this app, that is, until today.

This morning, he emails me this link. Apparently, this very app for the blind has just been released. You snooze, you lose, I guess. For $29.95, you get the digitized audio labeler and scanner. I just skimmed the article and cannot believe how closely it resembles John’s idea. I don’t know whether to feel happy that technological advances are happening for the blind, or sad because my husband’s invention idea is taken from him again.

rituximab infusion of 2010 so far a success

There is a lot of excitement and pressure surrounding the first post of a new blog. So I decided to ignore all that and get straight to the point by simply blogging about the latest incident in my life that involved either eating, cooking, or not-seeing. And it just so happens to be the latter.

Today I went in for my second Rituximab infusion of 2010. (The first one was 13 days ago.) In terms sans physician’s jargon (let’s call this Rituximab 101), Rituximab is a mild chemotherapy that the pharmaceutical company Genentech brands as Rituxan. It is composed of mouse proteins (yes, those pesky little rodents). It is mild in that I don’t suffer from hair loss or nausea–only mild flu-like symptoms, e.g. fatigue, headaches, and body aches.

Rituximab is typically used for non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma (NHL) and occasionally rheumatoid arthritis (RA), but case studies performed by Dr. Bruce Cree in San Francisco have shown benefits for Devic’s too. The idea is to kill off the B-cells of the immune system which are linked to the nerve cell destruction associated with Devic’s, thereby eliminating (or at least slowing) the progression of the disease course.

I’ve only received Rituximab one other time, and that was in spring of 2008. I did not fare well as an outpatient at that time–I started breaking out into hives early on in the infusion–so the doctor ordered the expensive drug be pulled. In order to try it again, they took all possible precautionaries: the drug would be dripped at a snail’s pace over a period of 22 hours (instead of the usual three or four); I’d receive intravenous hydrocortisone, IV Tylenol, and IV Benadryl to minimize reactions; and I’d have to be in the care of an inpatient floor staff (read: overnight stays). The doctor ordered to have the 2,298 mg of Rituximab dripped over four visits, each one week apart. It was a pain to get through that round of treatment, but I was grateful nonetheless that I was able to tolerate the drug fairly well. (Reactions to the IV Benadryl and other issues with the hospital staff were not so great, but that’s a whole other story.)

This time, I petitioned with my neurologist to try it again as an outpatient–I figured I’d be able to tolerate the Rituximab better since it’s been in my system before, plus we could try all the precautionary medications again. I am happy to say I completed this Rituximab round beautifully in a recliner at the infusion center with next-to-none reactions (only mild itching the first session). And instead of doing it over four visits, I was able to complete it in two.

The aftermath effects are mild to moderate with the usual flu-like symptoms mentioned above. In a way, it’s a good excuse to take care of myself and not feel guilty for taking multiple naps in the afternoons, not to mention putting off daily tasks.

I imagine in a week or so, I’ll have to get the usual lab work done (CBC and flow cytometry analysis a.k.a. B-cell count). By monitoring those regularly, we’ll know when I need another round. The nurse said it could be as soon as six months, but I’m hoping for a repeat of the 18 or so months of clean remission.