Part 18. My Girls!

One of the things I love about life is the many opportunities it gives you to live more peacefully within it. Sadly, peace often occurs only after a struggle, when life has beaten us down enough we finally say "uncle". But it doesn’t have to be that way as I learned a few months ago. Last October, during one of my appointments with my alternative practitioner, Elizabeth, she said (paraphrasing) , “OK. One of the things that is coming up that is vital to your healing is that you need to give yourself permission to be well...” 

“I need to give myself permission to be well.” The statement resonated completely. When you have lived with cancer as long as I have it can be difficult to see yourself any other way. I know how to do this “cancer thing”, but could I do the “well thing”? Being well seems so...free!? And, if I were to be well, is it sustainable? Could I handle the disappointment should it return once I was well? That would be too much to bare - to be completely well and free and then to not be. Too much, too painful. (See how the mind…or my mind anyway…works? It has a way of working you into believing it is safer to stay just as you are.) So, I didn’t have an issue with what Elizabeth was saying, it was what she said next that was intriguing. “And the way this needs to happen is through you creating a piece of art that reflects this.”

So, I am supposed to create a piece of art that reflects me giving myself permission to be well? Hmmmm. After a brief moment of resistance to the notion of an assignment, there overcame me an excitement, a curiosity about the possibility of what I could create. I posed the question to myself, “What would something like that look like?” and the ideas started to flow, which brings me to the first realization I had.

Life Lesson #1 - Excitement and curiosity about a task rather than irritation or indifference makes the task easier to accomplish.

In the past, an assignment like that wouldn’t have even begun to take shape until I got through the “I don’t want to,” “That’s a lot of pressure,” “I have no idea how to do it and will it be good enough?” “What happens to me if I don’t do it?”. The creative seeds waiting to sprout CAN’T as long as I was taking up valuable space in my consciousness with a victim train of thought. The creative seeds were always there, right outside my awareness, but waited patiently for me to finish my mind chatter, ultimately floating into my awareness on the coattails of a quiet breeze of silence. As soon as I had reframed the assignment into something fun to do my mind quieted, and I was able to explore possibilities. And the possibilities made themselves known quickly!

“I…need to give…myself…permission to be…well”

 There are three of me in that statement - the I, the myself, and the well me that gets created when that permission has been granted. That idea flew into my head of its own accord and I found I liked the concept! A rebirth. I and Myself ushering in a new version of me, the Well Me. So how do I create that?

I draw; I paint; I write; I refinish furniture as a way to be creative. It was rather a shock when the next “hit” I got was this project needed to be 3D...no pencil, keyboard, or paint brush for me. Well what then? Driftwood. Driftwood collected from Whidbey Island. Driftwood that will be carved into those three figures. Again, I found I liked the idea, although I have never carved wood before. Whidbey Island holds a special place in my heart from the beginning of our time living in the Pacific Northwest. We would take our boys there and play with all the driftwood that collects on the beach. A piece could become part of a wall of a fort, a bench to sit on, a baseball bat with rocks serving as baseballs hit into the Puget Sound. This time Wes and I took our dogs. The pieces of driftwood would become doll like carvings for me as I worked another angle of this healing odyssey of mine.

Collecting wood on Whidbey Island 10/16

With my newly acquired carving tools in hand and wood collected from Whidbey Island, I began carving the first face. Each of the three figures is about eighteen inches tall. Because I have never carved before, I had no expectation how these figures would turn out which was good, as the first one resembles one of the Moai, the statues on Easter Island! I didn’t care! What mattered to me was the process of creating these, not the end result which brings me to the second realization. 

Life Lesson #2 - Expectations cause suffering.

Never once did I think about, worry about, have any idea how these would turn out. Consequently, there was nothing to criticize. There was no comparison happening between how they are turning out and how I think they should be turning out. I simply enjoyed the process. I think about the past and the many times I was frustrated because my drawing wasn’t looking like I wanted it to look; the many times I was irritated because the traffic was worse than I wanted it to be; the many times I was scared because my health was different than I hoped it would be. When all the expectations are abandoned what remains is simply living. Living with curiosity, awe, and reverence.

The first figure took on an ethereal nature as if she were an aspect of me that transcends time. Her gown was made from a linen cloth of my grandmother’s, symbolizing my ancestors' journey with cancer. I hadn’t realized why I had been saving it. The buttons on the gown are baby’s breath, taken from a bouquet I had received for my birthday from a friend. Her hair came from the branches of a cedar tree in our backyard; her eyes from pine cones from the Douglas fir; the feathers shed from birds on Whidbey Island. 

The second figure was the version of me that has been walking this Earth. I knew I wanted her to wear sweats. Right? If I'm home, I'm in sweats. I found an old pair of gray basketball shorts. How many games had I played in those shorts? I smiled with the appropriateness of the sacrifice they were about to make. The leftover scraps became the hat for my head. There would be no hair on this version as she represents the one who has been dealing with cancer for a very long time. An old headband from my running days became the hoody. She looks like me as I sit writing this post in my gray sweats, black hoody, and gray hat. It may be time to reevaluate my choice of wardrobe!

The third figure is the Well Me. She stands in vibrant victory, being ushered into existence by the other two, permission requested and granted! She emerges out of Mother Earth.  I knew I wanted her gown to flow and be made of moss representing Mother Earth, her arms to be raised above her head in victory, a smile on her face that shouts to the world, "I am happy and free!". None of these images came to me until it was her turn to be carved. Every step of the way I wondered, "What needs to be done now?"  and the answer would emerge out of waiting silence. Which brings me to the third realization.

Life Lesson #3 - Answers to the puzzles of life come when it is time for them to come not necessarily when I think they should.

I began to notice something with this project. I was in the moment, always. When the next step to take was right in front of me, I would ask what needed to be done and wait for the answer. It would come. It was perfect. It felt...easy, as if, my job was to ask and wait. It was the Universe's job to provide the answer - from what the figures should wear, to how they should be positioned, to when it was time to stop carving because more isn’t better! Today, when I find myself begin to get frustrated because some answer to a problem isn’t presenting itself, I ask myself, "Am I being present? Am I listening? Is it time?" If silence prevails, then I will ask again later.

I often reflect, three months later, how easy the project flowed, how meaningful it became to undertake, and how well it turned out in spite of, or, because I didn't care...particularly having NEVER done anything like it before. I intuitively know that what happened during the process was a big deal for me. I was shown how life can be. It can flow with ease, grace, and assistance if you just ask. Today I look at "My Girls" particularly the one in green and smile at her vibrant well being. Is it any coincidence that I feel the best I have in four years?

. 

Part 17. Groundhog Day

In the movie Groundhog Day, Phil (Bill Murray), a weatherman, travels to Punxsutawney, PA  to cover the annual emergence of the groundhog from its hole. He gets caught in a blizzard he didn't predict, finds himself trapped in a time warp, and is doomed to relive the day over and over again until he “gets it right”. Recently, Wes was asked, “how are you doing?” He aptly replied, “Our life feels like we are living Groundhog Day…every week is the same.” This was the case between August 11th and December 15th when I was going through the first phase of Dr. Chue’s cancer protocol. (I’m happy to report my cancer marker dropped by 60% in that time!)

The week started on Thursday, not Sunday or Monday, when I spent the entire day in the clinic receiving chemotherapy. Every Thursday was the same. I got up at the same time and prepared for the day in the same way. I wore the same clothes - yoga tights, cozy socks and a hat for comfort with a button down shirt. The button down shirt was so the port in my chest could be easily accessed. I packed a bag with the same things - my laptop computer for writing posts to my blog which went unwritten, a kindle for reading books that went unread, earbuds, charging cords, and my supplements. Wes and I drove the same route, parked in the same garage, arrived at the same time, greeted the same patients who also had Thursdays as their “day”. (They have since become family.) My vitals were taken by the same wonderful young man, I would meet with Dr. Chue for about 10 minutes and then head to my same chair to receive the same “chemo cocktail”. The only deviation to this plan was if my blood work chose to rebel at all this sameness by being too low to receive the full cocktail.  I then received less and occasionally left at a …different, earlier time.

On Thursday evenings I was very talkative and funny when friends were over for dinner, or so I was told. The steroid I received as part of the cocktail gave me a bit of “energy” whose outlet appeared to be “storytelling” on my part. It also made my Thursday nights the same - I got little sleep.

My trench!

Every Friday was the same. The steroid made Fridays a day to get things done! One Friday, for example, I woke up and decided a trench needed to be dug in our front garden. There is a spot outside our front door, next to the house, that concerns me sometimes with heavy rains, as the drainage isn’t good. A few years ago we had water damage in the house. This particular Friday the Pacific Northwest was experiencing a heavy rainstorm. Upon awakening, the first thing I did was walk downstairs, open the front door, and look to the concerning spot. There was a pond growing where there is normally dirt! “NOOO! THAT WATER IS NOT COMING IN MY HOUSE!” my chemo/steroid laden brain decided.  I had not yet had breakfast, my lemon water, or tea. I had about four hours of sleep and was fourteen hours removed from receiving chemotherapy. I threw on a raincoat to cover my oversized sweats, slipped on my garden clogs, and manned with a pick, shovel, and clippers, began digging a trench so the pond of water would have a place to drain. I would stop periodically to catch my breath. I was soaked. The hat covering my bald head was long gone, stolen by the branches of a tree overhead. I didn’t care. I was so happy when I saw the water begin to flow down my trench! You may wonder why I didn’t ask Wes to do it? I would have, but he was volunteering to feed breakfast to the homeless at a shelter in Seattle. Had he been here to dig, I probably would have used the energy elsewhere…I’m sure my attic could have used some decluttering. 

Every Saturday was the same. I crashed. As the day progressed I felt more and more tired, weak, flu-like, hungover though no alcohol had been consumed to make me feel that way. A couch potato. I did absolutely nothing but lay on a couch and binge watch some show or another and nap. I often went to bed in the same clothes in which I awoke. Saturday evening was the worst and I found myself wondering if this was sustainable…did I really want to do this over and over again with no guarantee of a desirable outcome? I reminded myself that that kind of thinking was also part of the “sameness”. It occurred every Saturday.

Every Sunday was the same. I began to make my way back to normalcy. I could foretell how the next days would be by what I was able to do on Sundays - did I have the energy to run errands, make dinner, work on my art project? How far could the dogs get walked? 

The "dress-up" hat, aka a wig!

Mondays through Wednesdays were the same, but I labeled them differently. Monday became "Three days out". Tuesday was "Two days out" and Wednesday was "My last day".  Errands got done, calls and appointments happened and, other than feeling more tired than normal, I continued on with my life. No one looking at me would know I received chemotherapy particularly when I wore my new “dress-up hat” aka a wig. 

No matter what I did or what I wished for, Thursday always showed up after Wednesday. Like Phil in Groundhog Day, I would wake up and, like it or not, the routine would start all over again. In the movie Phil lives everyday over and over until he “gets it right”. Some estimates say it took him over 12,300 days to “get it right”. As I watched the movie I wondered, "Is that what we are here to do...get it right?"

And what does “get it right” mean for each of us? Often our experiences seem to repeat. The content can look different, but the themes remain the same. Maybe our experiences are meant to help us "get it right." For me "getting it right" has come about when I step back from being the victim of my experiences and step into being the master of them.  

If I look to the experiences I have had in this life I see the role cancer has played in helping me “get it right” if it means:

• Living without fear and with more love.
• Living with less judgement and more presence and appreciation for what “is” rather than what I wish it were.
• Seeing the beauty within everything. 
• Letting life happen with as much curiosity as I can, rather than trying to control everything, knowing that whatever happens is in my highest interest whether I like it or not; whether I can see it or not. 

It has taken me about 2,760 days* to get this much right. 

Like Phil, I too woke up one day, a Thursday, to find it was finally different than the previous ones. With phase one of Dr. Chue’s protocol over on December 15th and phase two yet to start I woke up on Thursday, December 22nd, didn’t put on yoga tights, pack a bag, or drive over to Seattle. Instead I dressed in “real” clothes, grabbed my purse and drove to Woodinville to have coffee with a friend. The rest of the day I found myself smiling as everything I did that day was different than the previous Thursdays. 

I have started phase two which doesn’t involve chemotherapy so, for the next three months, I find myself excited and appreciative for all the “normal,” mundane days ahead - particularly Thursdays! What do I want to do with them all?!

*Number of days since I was first diagnosed in 2009.

Part 16. Throwback Thursday

IVY Club

The summer after I graduated from high school I worked as a lifeguard at the Illinois Valley Yacht Club. Now I believe it is called the Illinois Valley Yacht and Canoe Club. (Does anyone else find that funny?) The year was 1977. There aren’t many things in my current life that cause me to think back on that summer. When I do, I think about all the post high school fun we had, but there are also three memories that have nothing to do with friends or fun.

• Teaching swimming lessons. When I got the job as a lifeguard I was told I would also be teaching swimming lessons...to toddlers. I was petrified. There is an assumption that lifeguards know how to teach swim lessons. Lifeguards know how to save people who are drowning, and just because I may be able to save someone who doesn’t know how to swim, doesn’t mean I know how to teach him to swim. Toddlers were alien little beings to me, too. I never babysat as a teenager so I had no idea how to interact with them. A toddler, a pool, me, and my complete lack of training in both swim lessons and children didn’t seem like a fun combination, but somehow, I managed to both teach them how to swim and enjoy it, too.
• The smell of chlorine and cement. To this day, a splash of chlorine on wet cement takes me right back to the summer of ’77. Every night our job was to clean up from a day of IVY Club members frolicking in the pool and locker rooms. To clean the floors of the locker room we would hose down the floor, toss some chlorine around and sweep it all to the drain. The combination of the two presents a nostalgic sort of perfume to me.
• The day a visiting boat docked at the IVY Club. One day in August of that year, a quite large yacht that was traveling the Illinois river docked at the Yacht Club. There was a photographer on board, Lou Sapienza, and for a few hours that afternoon, Lou chatted with me and took some photos. I think he might have sent me a photo a few weeks later. Although I was comfortable with the innocence of the afternoon, my mother was worried that continued contact might lead me into the porn industry. Never mind that he would go on to have photos published in National Geographic, Life, and Forbes to name a few. I never knew what happened to him until 2011 when he found me on Facebook and we reconnected. Lou does exciting things now like lead expeditions to Antarctica and Greenland to recover the remains of MIAs from WWII. I write posts to a blog.

 So what prompts me to write about that summer now? Last week Lou sent me the photos from that day. Normally, when you view a thirty-nine year old picture, the photo itself has aged thirty-nine years leaving you with a proper sense of time having passed. These photos hadn’t gone through the aging process and looked like they could have been taken yesterday. So, when I looked at the girl in the photo it was eerie; it was weird. It was me...but it wasn’t. I really looked at her and remembered:

photo by Lou Sapienza

How much my hair irritated me back then. I so much wanted it to hold the Farrah Fawcett curl and it never would. Going out on a weekend night, I would keep those curlers in my hair until the very last minute. My friend’s car would pull up to the house. A honk signaled her arrival and that the curlers needed to come out. Hairspray went on, and then there was the mad dash to the car in hopes it had air conditioning so the humidity wouldn’t undo everything I had done. Today... I don’t have hair.

I didn’t like my thighs. My brothers used to laugh at me and call me “Thunder Thighs!” among other names. They weren’t the protective type.  Being a basketball player didn’t lend itself to thin gams that looked good in “hot-pants” Remember those? Today they are called shorts. This didn’t keep me from wearing my red, white, and blue stars and stripes hot-pants during the bicentennial year, though. I thought I looked good...they even had a little cuff on them. Today, while I rarely wear shorts, I’m so appreciative that those same legs will take me where I want to go after the year I had in 2015 wondering whether I would be able to walk normally again. What they look like is...irrelevant.

photo by Lou Sapienza

I never liked the shape of my mouth either. I always thought I had a thin upper lip. Over the years I tried using lip liner to change the shape of my mouth and all it accomplished was looking like I colored “outside of the lines.” I thought the natural shape of my mouth made me look like I was either mad or sad, too. Maybe I was and didn’t know it. When I was younger I would bemoan the genes that caused this. Today, in the end, I realized that if you walk around smiling no one wonders whether you’re mad or sad. 

Looking at the photos Lou sent made me remember the critical nature I had of myself back then. I stared a bit longer at her. She was just seventeen…would turn eighteen in two months!  She hadn’t left for college yet and doesn’t know that she will become so homesick that first quarter being 2,000 miles away...twenty pounds worth of homesick! Everyday she will cross off the day on a calendar, counting down the days until Christmas vacation. She has no idea what she will do for a living after college, although she is pretty sure it will have nothing to do with swimming lessons. She hasn’t met the man she will marry - that is six years away, or contemplate being a mom - that is twelve years away. She doesn’t know yet how hard it will be to leave everything that will become comfortable and familiar in California at twenty-nine years of age to move to a state like Utah where nothing will be comfortable or familiar. She doesn’t know yet that she will end up raising her boys in the Pacific Northwest, come to love the weather and culture it provides and find her calling there as a personal coach. And finally, she doesn’t know yet that the most profound life lessons, suffering, and joy will come from a diagnosis of breast cancer. I looked at the photo, looked at my right breast in the photo and thought, “Nothing was there yet.” She was more worried about the size and shape of it, not the health of it. At seventeen one doesn’t even think about that, nor should one.

What I was left with after all this pondering were two things - how grateful I am for being alive and getting to a point of being able to appreciate everything that comes my way - the good, the bad and the wisdom that comes from living through life's experiences. And this brings me to the second realization. I have two children in their twenties. I think back over the four decades since those pictures were taken and wonder what is in store for my kids. We all want them to be happy and have a life free of heartache, and yet, has that been our experience? What will the Universe throw their way that will be in their highest interest, but they may not know it?  A mother diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer? What else? It is my hope that how my family has chosen to handle my situation, and the love we have for one another, lays a solid foundation that carries them forward through any experience they may encounter in the years ahead...and that, that brings a smile to my face. Lou, thank you for sending those pictures!

P.S.  I keep forgetting to share the news. My cancer marker is half what it was when I started this process a couple months ago. Woo-hoo!

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...