Part 24. What Does it Mean to be Healed?

What does it mean to be healed?

As many of you know, I recently had a CT scan and received some very good news. While I was happy about the result, what was more significant to me was my state of being going into the scan and the subsequent appointment with Dr. Chue. In the past I would have been anxious, hoping for the best, dreading the worst, trying to set good intentions to influence the results, worrying that my worry was working against my best intentions. This time it was different.

While Wes and I were driving to the appointment he asked me how I was doing. I said, “Good!” and I meant it. I could have been going to the market was my indifference to the occasion. It was a far different car ride than my previous rides which included my “baggage,” mostly filled with anxiety, because of the power I gave to a scan in determining my well-being. I checked in for my appointment and was given the barium sulfide to drink. After a few sips I thought, “I’m going to have to remember mocha next time. It’s not too bad tasting,” which was a far different culinary experience than two years ago when I wanted to vomit with every gulp. When the technician sat me on the table I looked at the donut (CT engine) and thought, “You really can’t hurt me,” referring to the radiation I would receive, which was a far different judgement from my usual resentment at receiving more radiation to get a snapshot of my insides. What changed?

I did.

There existed within me a belief that I could always affect change if I worked hard enough uncovering the root causes of a situation. If things weren’t changing then there must be another root cause, my reasoning said, and I would keep looking. It worked so well over the years I never had to consider what belief I might have about myself if the change I wanted to see wasn’t happening. 

Then, in 2009, I got cancer. For eight years I explored my external and internal landscapes uncovering root causes, remedies, and recipes hoping that the current one would be the magic bullet healing me of cancer. The vigilance, discipline, and emotional highs and lows over those eight years took a toll on my body; It was always in a revved up state. I can only see that now, in hindsight. At the time it was my normal. If I were a fish, that state was my water. (The fish and water analogy comes from a David Foster Wallace commencement speech)

When my cancer marker went up in May, I sat down again to explore my internal landscape because the emotions I was feeling were needing some attention. Something had begun to shift already; I could feel it. Being angry had replaced being worried, and quite frankly, I was tired of thinking there must be more to be revealed that I needed to figure out. 

“Enough,” I thought. “I AM enough as I AM now.”

My mind was having none of that. It had a need to want to dig deeper to uncover something to be healed that might have an impact on my cancer marker.

A more loving part of me said, “No, I AM enough as I AM now. I love you.”

But this controlling kind of energy kept pulling at me to keep digging. 

“No.”

“What is this about?” I wondered! I could see its fear and the urgency it had to want to keep looking. I waited, watched, and it finally became clear. What emerged was a long held belief I had been diligently trying to avoid with my relentless hard work uncovering root causes. “If I still have an issue that isn’t changing, in this case, cancer, then there must be more for me to figure out. And if I can’t figure it out then there must be something wrong with me.” - like a fatal flaw, like I don’t deserve to be here, like I’m defective to my core. I saw that belief for what it was and felt a tremendous amount of compassion. Frantic, child-like, afraid, determined, because it felt like life/love was conditional and unless it could prove its worth it didn’t belong. Over and over I hugged that belief with three others lovingly spoken from the very core of my being:

“I AM enough as I AM now”… “I love you”…”I AM healed. “The child-like belief would try and wiggle out and I would would keep repeating, “I AM enough as I AM now”… “I love you”…”I AM healed. “ until it calmed altogether. All that remained was a quiet peacefulness.

The experience left me contemplating a few things:

1. I thought about my dad who had an unwavering need to be right and wondered if he too couldn’t fathom a world where he would be allowed to exist if he were ever wrong. In lieu of feeling loved, did he choose to be right instead? And then I thought about the human condition - do we each have a strong need to be a certain way - the smart one, the funny one, the good one, because we somehow got the message that we weren’t lovable as we were? We had to earn it? 

2. I thought about our culture which focuses so much on physical healing and yet are we healed? In 2011, I expected to feel relief after my lumpectomy making me cancer free at the time, and yet the worry that had always existed within me found a new focus - will it come back? Physical healing can give us more time to live, but they have yet to figure out a cure for dying.There is more to us than these bodies, and healing the baggage we carry makes the time we have here a richer experience.

3. I thought about how different I felt. With the part of me who believed I had to earn my right to exist now quieted, my body was feeling relaxed, at a cellular level, for the first time. The difference is palpable. Periodically, the habitual echo of that belief will be heard as it wonders if even this realization will be what heals me of cancer . I just say, “Let cancer go, I AM enough as I AM; I AM healed.” And my body relaxes. 

4. I thought about all of this from a more spiritual perspective. At the level of who we really are, eternal and connected to Source - I have always been enough as I AM now, always loved, and I’ve always been healed. Always. My physical existence has come and will go one day, but me, the one who occupies this body, the one who resonates more and more with my eternal nature…has always been enough, always loved, and always healed. It can be no other. 

Which brings me all the way back to my original question. What does it really mean to be healed? The answer to that is probably different for everyone, but for me, I found my answers. I AM healed.

Part. 15 Unremarkable

I am unremarkable. So I was told last Monday. Yep...unremarkable. And I couldn’t be happier about it. The road to my unremarkability (that’s not a real word) actually started way before Monday. A couple of months ago my oncologist asked a very simple, logical question. “So, are you having any headaches?” Until that moment it never occurred to me that the cancer might make it’s way to my brain. Somehow, without question, I assumed the cancer cells would stay in the lower 48 as if my collarbone were the equivalent of the Canadian border. “No,” I responded in somewhat of a questioning way, as in “No, I don’t think so?” and/or, “No, but, maybe, let me think about this?” and/or, “No, wow, I never even thought about it but, gee, now it’s all I seem to think about!” 

I left her office. As the days passed and my cancer marker climbed, I watched as some part of me, some aspect of my personality took up the “watch” and began monitoring for sensations in my head. It was acting as the border patrol looking for suspicious characters wishing to enter forbidden territory. “What was that sensation? Is that new? Maybe my head does hurt? I feel something.” In my more rational moments I was able to counter with, “ Renee, perhaps unclenching your jaw might make the pain go away.” “Oh, yeah, that does help!” “Hmmm, my eyesight has gotten worse.” “Try not squinting.” I was creating stories about unwanted possibilities that, at times, seemed beyond my ability to control. I wish my creativity in storytelling would confine itself to my blog!

A couple weeks ago I did wake up with a headache. Fortunately, it was a Thursday and Thursdays are spent at the Lifespring Cancer Treatment Center (see my last post for information about the clinic) and I was scheduled to talk with Dr. Chue who always asks how the presiding week went since the last treatment. “Well, I woke up with a headache today.” He calmly nodded his head, “Lets schedule you for an MRI then and get a baseline brain scan. Breast cancer can metastasize to the brain.” The scan was scheduled for Monday, Aug 29th. I was both relieved…now I’ll know, and worried…do I really want to know?

As I was getting ready for my MRI appointment Monday morning well entrenched in my own world of coping when Wes said something to me. I interrupted him, hugged him, or more appropriately, held onto him and said, “I’m scared.” He rubbed my back, probably said something reassuring. I don’t remember, but it didn’t matter; the closeness did. We went about our preparations and drove to the appointment. I filled out the necessary forms, sat for a minute and they called my name…

When the technician had me lay on the table and got my head situated the way she wanted it, I found myself thinking about the crystalware I recently had delivered from Ireland and about the easy bake oven I had as a young girl. The technician had me scoot all the way up so my shoulders just touched the box-like contraption that would be home to my head for the next half hour. After the ear plugs went in, padding was placed on each side of my head so it wouldn’t move. A lid was placed over my head completing the “packaging”. My head was in a box. Fortunately, the box is open at the end closest to your chin so you can breathe. Recently, I had crystal tumblers shipped from Ireland that broke somewhere in the delivery process. Had the packaging been as complete as was done on my head for the MRI, I’m sure the glasses would have made it undamaged. The technician then rolled me into the tube...aka Easy Bake Oven.

I’m glad I meditate. I’m glad I meditate because it is incredibly loud and particularly close in the Easy Bake Oven. Instead of focusing on the noises that are eerily similar to those found in construction zones, I quieted my mind and repeated a prayer-like mantra over and over. I also thought about the recurring images that have been popping into my psyche recently. They are images of me speaking in front of groups, I have a smile on my face, vibrancy in my being, and I am sharing all that cancer has taught me; the vehicle it has been to my transformation. I see another image of my grandchildren. There are two of them, a boy and girl, about seven and nine years old. Our excitement upon seeing one another is mutual. They don’t care what I may or may not have accomplished. They are just glad to see me, and I them. Those images are my lodestar. They are the real me and I know I’m on my way to them. Sometimes the road there can be bumpy but it’s ok, it’s worth it. 

About 3/4 of the way through the scan a wave of peace enveloped me. “It’s ok. No matter what the scan says it’s ok, Renee. If there is something there you are already doing something about it, and Dr. Chue has dealt with this many times. If there is nothing there, then won’t that be fun to celebrate! It’s a win-win Renee, either way you won’t have to be wondering anymore.” 

I was rolled out of the Easy Bake Oven and the technician warmly said, “You look like you could have stayed in there forever!” She was particularly friendly and my mind quickly jumped to an analysis of her niceness. One story says she was nice because she feels bad for the results of the scan. Another story was created that says she was nice because there was nothing on the scan. Somehow the ego finds comfort in attaching some meaning, any meaning to what it’s perceiving. Never mind that she might just be a nice person. That train of thought gives the ego no comfort. It’s looking for a life raft; niceness for no reason has no substance, though it may well be the truth.

I thought I was going to have to wait for my normal Thursday appointment to find out the results of the brain scan. Instead, when I left the radiologists office I headed over to Dr. Chue’s clinic to receive a saline drip to help flush the dye that was used through my kidneys. Dr. Chue walked into the room and his first words were, “We got the results back from your brain scan and everything looks normal. Your scan was unremarkable.” 

The news settled in and I remembered my peaceful moment during the scan, “And if nothing is there won’t that be fun to celebrate!” And so I celebrated! I smiled and said “Well, I’m unremarkable and that is so awesome! I’m glad I’m unremarkable!”  When the nurse came in I made her fist bump me, “My scan was clear!” I excitedly shared. In the car on the way home, I would periodically turn to Wes, “My scan was clear!” Every night when I go to bed I say a prayer of gratitude for the clear scan AND for getting to have the experience of such joy, relief, and excitement of receiving good news.” It’s such a great feeling.

Unremarkable...my new favorite word...

“Unremarkable ~ Not particularly interesting or surprising.”

Part 14. Chemotherapy 201 - Course Description

My cancer marker had been rising over the last few months; the anti estrogen therapy was not working. It isn’t that the cancer had “returned." It actually never left. I knew this and we were all hoping the anti estrogen therapy would keep it in check, but it didn’t.  So then, now what?

I have a tremendous amount of gratitude for my original oncologist. She was the calm within my chaos last year; the placeholder for my climb out of the abyss that was my existence. I always appreciated her availability, her care, and her calm demeanor. She outlined my options as we contemplated this next phase of my treatment - chemotherapy, a chemotherapy pill or a combination of an anti estrogen pill with the addition of another, Palbociclib.  In each case it would be buying me more time only. Frankly, none of the alternatives were making me jump up and down with excitement. She then said the words that gave me my freedom. “Renee, this is not curable.”

"If the only thing her recommendations can do is buy me more time," I thought, “What option do I like that buys me the most time, and is there an option out there I don’t know about that might give me the cure that I believe is possible?” I researched clinics in Mexico, San Diego, and Germany. I thought about trying alternative treatments that would require  buying the products from Canada because they are not approved here; I read about different strains of medical marijuana that have proven successful for some; and I explored various well known alternative protocols that I could implement on my own and then supplement with some of these other options.  I discussed these with my naturopath who then mentioned a doctor in Seattle she calls, “an out of the box Western Medicine oncologist, Dr. Chue”.  Wes and I scheduled a consultation at his office.

Upon entering the office, above the receptionist desk is the name of the clinic, Lifespring Cancer Treatment Center (love the name!), and a quote underneath, “With God, all things are possible.” Matthew 19:26. The juxtaposition of that statement and “Renee, this is not curable” was palpable. Here was an entire office that believes in the possibility of a cure. After a brief wait, I was brought to the area to check my vitals and above the chair I sat in was a painting “You are loved” and I thought, “Well, so far they are speaking my language everywhere I look!”

Dr. Chue talked to Wes and me for two hours and explained how his way of treating cancer differs than most oncologists. “First of all, I don’t see stage 4 cancer as incurable. Stage 4 cancer means you have more cancer.”  I am very much going to paraphrase what he said and hope I get it right. I’m not a science kind of gal as you know. Any mistake I make is mine in the translation of what I heard him say.

 “Cancer cells are smart in that they eventually learn how to outsmart the chemotherapy drug that is used. They also send out chemicals to create blood vessels to feed the tumors and these blood vessels aren’t great for getting the chemotherapy or immune system to reach the tumor. Usually, the amount of chemotherapy drug used is low enough so the patient doesn't die, but high enough to kill the cancer cells. Often there needs to be three weeks in between infusions to allow the patient to recover.” 

Because of how cancer behaves, Dr. Chue developed a three pronged approach to his system that differs from the normal approach and he’s been doing it this way for 20 years.

1. One drug, Paclitaxel, is given to shut down the blood vessels feeding the tumors.  Shutting down those vessels weakens the cancer.
2. He then adds in one or more other chemotherapy drug to kill the cells.
3. Finally, one to three immunotherapy drugs like interferon are given to boost the immune system. Adding in the immune boosting functions make the chemo drugs synergistically work better. 

All of this is possible because he is using low doses of everything and it is given on a weekly basis, This way of treating cancer is called metronomic chemotherapy. After twelve rounds of chemotherapy he assesses the progress and then switches the chemotherapy drug to outwit the cancer before it can get smart. He keeps switching it up every twelve weeks or so until the cancer is gone. This can mean you can be doing chemotherapy for quite awhile, particularly with stage 4 cancers. While I was not thrilled to be doing chemotherapy again, I was excited because his explanation made sense to me. There seemed to be logical, purposeful intent to the process and it resonated. Had I stayed with my original oncologist I would have opted out of chemotherapy as she had outlined it...not as a way to buy me more time only.

Dr. Chue truly believes he can help everyone and the attitude is infectious throughout the office. I heard of a woman who is thirteen years cancer free after having had breast cancer metastasize to her bones, liver and lungs. Today I met Karen (not her real name), who was diagnosed 10 years ago with stage 4 pancreatic cancer that had metastasized to her liver, lungs and lymph nodes. She was given 45 days to live...10 years ago. Here is another article about a 35 year old man with metastatic pancreatic cancer who found Dr. Chue. http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2806805/  He was so weak when he started treatment that he was brought in on a stretcher for his infusions. Five years later he completed the Seattle to Portland 175 mile bike ride. Patients in Dr. Chue’s office use words like, “amazing”, “brilliant”, and “genius” to describe him and people travel long distances to take advantage of his protocol. One woman travelled from Florida weekly for two years.

I love the infusion room overlooking Lake Union in Seattle. Last year my chemotherapy was done in a lovely, private area sectioned off from the other patients by a curtain. In this office there are 10 chairs set up side by side so that patients can chat with one another. If it weren’t for the infusion drips standing next to each person one might think we were all getting pedicures!  Inherent in a set-up such as this is confidence; confidence that the chatter amongst the patients is going to be beneficial to their well being, not detrimental.

So, to all of you who may know someone recently diagnosed with cancer, please, please share Dr. Chue’s information if it resonates: http://www.lifespringcancer.com. To all of you who are concerned for me...thank you AND I have been living with cancer for awhile; this is my new normal for now. My view is that I’m just in a different phase and I feel like I’m getting to be part of something special! I’m living my life with as little interruption as I can, and yet, I honor my body’s need for a slower pace. The bummer is I will lose my hair again. Drat! Vanity still speaks strongly! In anticipation of that, I had my friend Jami cut my hair really short so it won’t be as hard emotionally when it begins to fall out. Oh, and I find myself searching for cute little hats again...