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To avoid having the harsh chemo drugs drip into delicate peripheral blood vessels in my arm, I would have a “port” surgically installed below the skin in my upper chest. Port tubing would be threaded through my superior vena cava, so the chemo cocktail could pass efficiently into my heart and then be distributed throughout my blood system. Efficiencies aside, it was unnerving to me to know that the chemo cocktail would flow directly into my heart. I was further unnerved when the oncologist ordered a MUGA scan (MUltiple Gated Acquisition scan) for assessing heart function and ensuring that my heart would withstand the chemo infusion.
I refused the routine procedure of installing the port under a general anesthesia and, instead, opted for a local anesthesia. Because the superior vena cava could not be anesthetized, I felt the pain of that part of the installation—after the surgeon made a separate incision in my neck—to feed the port tubing through the large vein. I nearly broke the fingers of the kind social worker, who held my hand as the surgeon worked on me. Using no general anesthesia meant no need for post-op recovery. Minutes after the surgery, I was out of the hospital and off to the grocery story.
In late July, I started 4AC chemo, a cocktail consisting primarily of Adriamycin and Cytotoxin. The name “Cytotoxin” was a reminder of the toxicity of the drug that would be coursing through the cells of my body. The four infusions, given at three-week intervals, turned my urine dark pink, created a never-ending metallic taste in my mouth, caused me to lose all head and body hair, made my white blood-cell count go haywire, and further compromised my immune system. But I did not have the anticipated nausea, so I felt lucky.
In the decades leading up to my cancer diagnosis, I had bought and prepared some organic foods, but I had no understanding of the correlation of tumor promotion to any kind of animal protein, including milk, yogurt, cheese, and sour cream, which were significant components of my low-meat diet. I also did not consider whether I was absorbing all the nutrients my body needed. For more than a decade, doctors had told me I was severely anemic; my PAP smears routinely showed cervical dysplasia; and a past biopsy showed atypical tissue in my left breast. Even so, no doctor had ever suggested that these conditions might be improved or even reversed with dietary changes.
In the first months following my cancer diagnosis, I learned—through the guidance of a few close friends and information I found on both the Internet and in the few available books on complementary medicine pertaining to cancer—that I had a wider array of healing options than I initially understood. I was excited and empowered to realize I could orchestrate my return to health by combining gentle and constructive—as opposed to toxic and destructive—therapies in a self-designed healing program. Instead of simply surrendering my body to medical practitioners to tell me what they wanted to do to me, I would decide what I wanted to do. Risky? Possibly. Important to my understandings of the true meaning of health and healing? Absolutely.
Although I had, by midsummer, committed to having chemotherapy for an initial, anticancer blast into my system, I was determined to employ as many holistic therapies as I could find on the “gentle spectrum.” In retrospect, I seriously question the usefulness of chemo, especially for breast and most other cancers for which no data exist to prove long-term benefit. In my case, however, it bought me invaluable time to conduct six months of intensive secondary research. I was fortunate to be self-employed, operating my technical writing and editing business at home, which allowed me flexible hours to read and digest crucial information to apply to my new healing program.
Continuation of my UNM graduate program was on indefinite hold, which, by then, I accepted. I was surprised to find that I was focused, absorbed, and even content in my research on healing. I had, so it seemed, traded one education program for another. Within my new education program, I was struck by the easy, constant flow of pieces that filled in the picture of my healing-based jigsaw puzzle. Often, it appeared that the answer had arrived before I realized I had a question.
After learning of the benefits of an organic alkaline (plant-based) food program, I started to prepare my meals accordingly. I came to understand that my fresh plant-based food regime, in parallel with my weekly acupuncture treatments, was purging my body of common environmental toxins while pharmaceutical toxins were being dripped in through my chemo port every few weeks.
I created a list of vitamins and specific antioxidant supplements, which I brought to my oncologist, to obtain permission to take them while on chemo. He was open to my taking most of them but instructed me to show the list to the pharmacist in the cancer-treatment center, to ensure that none would counteract the effects of the chemo concoction. The pharmacist advised me to reduce the dosages of a few but, overall, was accepting of my list.
Shifting into high gear, I began eating a plant-based diet, drinking Essiac tea, taking local bee pollen, and including flax oil in my food plan according to the well-documented Budwig diet. In addition, I worked with an energy healer and, much to the delight of my two dogs, lay on the ground for about twenty minutes daily to absorb healthy earth energy. I did walking meditations, focused visualizations, and yoga. I began each day with prayers of gratitude to the Universe for all the kind people who had come to me in loving support and, also, to my tumors, for providing me the much-needed opportunity to put my life into balance—in alignment with the wisdom of most ancient cultures. Incorporating these gentle, constructive therapies into my personal healing program gave me a new sense of control over my life that had been lost along the way. I took back my life, became my own best advocate, and made sure I was providing the loving self-care and proper nourishment I had for too long not taken the time or energy to give myself.
Although I had taken back my life, losing my hair from chemo challenged my sense of
self. My psyche kept asking, “Who is this woman now in your place?” Unlike many brave women on chemo, I was unwilling to look in the mirror to see my bald scalp. I feared that the sight of a compromised image of myself would shatter my self-confidence and derail my healing. I kept my hairless head wrapped in a post-shower towel, elegantly wrapped scarf, night-time fleece beanie, or slightly punk-style auburn wig. I drew on eyebrows and eyeliner where I no longer had lashes.
After three months of chemo and all the parallel holistic therapies, my interim MRI showed that my tumors had shrunk by 75 percent. Around this time, my oncologist had gone on a six-month sabbatical to his native country, and I was assigned another oncologist, who told me it was time to do the mastectomies. Shocked, I asked, “Why have mastectomies when whatever I’m doing is working?” Bruskly, she told me that, without mastectomies, I had less than a 15-percent chance of surviving this cancer. I responded, “15 percent is not zero.” I had her removed from my case.
Responses to “How breast cancer helped me know who I am”