CANCER MEDICINE – Summer Haze 1994 Chapter 2

© Pat Irwin Lycett (wk.pi.lycett@sympatico.ca)

(There is a PDF of this entry which has supporting footnotes not available in a blog. If you would like a copy of the PDF version, click here: CANCER MEDICINE – Summer Haze 1994 Chapter 2

I’m soaking in a huge hot tub outdoors in early September among a dozen nude strangers, both women and men. “Do you mind that I have all these scars,” I ask, “that I’ve lost so many body parts?”

“Nah, it’ll be educational,” someone says. Then the alarm wakes me at 2AM. I apologize to my dear husband, who vows that he has no trouble getting back to sleep. I choke down eight New Zealand pancreatic digestive enzymes, from organically raised pigs. In regular digestion enzymes act upon food substances, reducing them to simpler compounds. In cancer treatment, two nightly doses (2 and 6 AM), taken when nothing competes for their use (no food being digested), penetrate tissues and break down cancer cells. Enzyme therapy, along with organic foods, is now critical to my remaining cancer-free. We get rid of our microwave.

Fifteen years ago my chiropractor, I recall, mentioned the benefit of detoxifying herbs. Had I understood what she was talking about, I might have avoided cancer – but might also have missed all the good stuff pouring into my life. For instance, after forty years in the wilderness, I have a huge desire to sing, and I join a church choir.

The Earth Angels quartette grows out of this, taking me way back to my first quartette in high school – aptly named The School Belles.

The psychotherapist says, “Can you tell me a bit about why you’re here,” and Kwai Chang Caine’s TV program pops into my head, “To know myself. There is nothing else,” he said.

“I’m a psych grad, didn’t know I needed psychotherapy. But my friends think it’s a good idea.”

For many months, I’ve found myself digging ever deeper: Do things happen for a reason? Do I daily create myself, re-designing my body? Can missed opportunities and emotional pain make me sick? Victor’s gentleness helps me explore the hidden anger that I’m only now beginning to understand. On his instruction I beat first his couch, then
later my bed, with a tennis racket. It’s odd that I never saw this dreadful lack of comprehension in myself. Textbook smarts had me thinking I understood life, but I must have a long history of burying feelings. I begin to see, on a new level, that anxiety, an overtaxed body and my driven spirit covered them up, encouraging a disease process.

My planned visit to Dr. Rogers in Syracuse is so exciting, and my books shed new light on allergies, the downside of antibiotics, and ‘dysbiosis’ a concept not found in my 1993 Taber’s Medical Dictionary.

I’m now in the fifth week of recovery – no vacuuming or lifting – and am driven to appointments by good friends . Our young neighbour, Ashley, comes to the door today, NY baseball cap on his head, to ask if he can fish in our pond. “Why is your book store never open, Pat?”

“I’m really sorry, dear, but I had some surgery to get through.”
“Was it serious?”
“Well, yes, because I had cancer.”
“Gosh, Pat, (eyes very wide) I bet you feel lucky to be alive, eh?” Big hugs.

Today I have a full-body massage, and my therapist gets to talking about scars. “I see a lot of them in my work,” she says, “and I’ve grown to respect them.”

“I can relate to that,” I say, “mine resemble a cross.” She smiles when I add,
“a cross between a physical sacrifice and a state of higher consciousness, maybe?”

Certainly, my scars are a symbol of a well-negotiated process in my life. Problems arose and I am now living with the results. I’ve often wondered if colitis might kill me, but, from the get-go, I’ve been determined that cancer will not!

The day I begin driving, an insurance company notifies me that they’re dropping my life insurance. This sets me back – I nearly fold up – they must figure I’m a goner. Getting a grip on myself, I turn to Deepak Chopra, who reminds me that one should always look for more than one interpretation. This is helpful; I know that I am more than just one of their statistics.

I set off for a walk to the post office, find two letters, and open my mail. “Nature’s Garden wouldn’t be nearly so nice without you,” says a card from my tai chi friend, bringing me to tears. The second envelope contains the picture of me and our two grandbabies, Jake and Keara. Looking at the woman in the green summer top, I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her determined spirit will see her through.

I’m still wearing my friend’s slip, the stuffing now on the left side while the incision heals. The gorgeous leaves surrounding my walk remind me of a decision made in the 70’s to not smoke pot – that seeing colours any brighter might drive me mad. I’m suddenly aware of how fast I’m moving, with purpose, consciously sending oxygen to all my dialoguing cells. I still haven’t started Dr. Rogers’ plan for freeing-up waste, but I will.