Zen and The Art of Visualization

Visualization. It was strongly recommended to me by most everyone as a tool I could use to fight cancer. "If you can visualize it, you can manifest it." Of course! It made sense. There was no better time to practice mind over matter. I believed it. This was a good opportunity to flex my mental muscles. And, from all that I had been told and I had read, it became obvious that visualization not only an enhancement, but rather, a necessity to get me through the hurdle of chemotherapy and overcome cancer.

For my first visualization, I went for the aggressive and violent. Usually, I was restless on the eve of chemo. And as I lay awake during that long night ahead I would visualize the following scenario to to prepare myself my first few chemo sessions. It's like a a football team does before a championship game -- lots yelling and noise (in my head of course).

The Soprano's on Spring Break at The Jersey Shore - The scene was a loud, out-of-control spring break party, consisting of rowdiest, rudest, and most destructive juvenile versions Tony Soprano and his cronies, along with with the cast of the Jersey Shore and their friends, dialed up to level 11! They're all blind drunk, cavorting, carousing, and causing all kinds of havoc and damage everywhere. They're out of control, disrespectful and inconsiderate. But mostly, they're aggressive and destructive, paying no mind to their surroundings and breaking everything in sight. Fights amongst each other would break out and they would pick fights with anyone that got in their way. All of this was their idea of fun. Meantime, things are breaking and others are getting hurt. This place where they're partying and destroying is my body and the obnoxious revellers are the cancer cells wreaking havoc in my body! They're destroying my body with wanton abandon! My body's a wreck of a place --broken, ugly, dirty. But the revellers keep going...louder and more destructive. My body's deteriorating and they keep destroying.

UNTIL . . . (to the tune of Wagner's Ride of theValkyries)

Over the horizon, helicopters and fighter planes fly into sight. Tanks shake the ground beneath as they approach the party. Legions of armed men on foot march synchronously toward the revellers. At the forefront, riding in a top down army jeep is General Dr. T - commander of the anti-cancer armed forces! With an unyielding look of determination as he gazes at the destructive revellers, he raises his hand and signals "FIRE!" Bombs drop at the rowdy destroyers. Canons fire from behind Dr. T! A rain of bullets from the army's AK 47's blanket the party. The revellers are surrounded. Trapped. Firepower (Carboplatin and Taxol) destroys them. Dr. T's anti-cancer armed forces dominate and the cancer (partiers) are destroyed!

(End Visualization )

Pretty violent, eh? This took me by surprise. I abhor violence. I do anything to avoid conflict. I hate war. Then why this scenario to visualize? Perhaps it's the cancer to go away as quickly as possible. Or maybe it was even because I was really deeply angry at the whole situation and wanted to do some serious damage on that culprit cancer! Most definitely, it was a reflection of the rage and anger that was brewing within me.

As I settled into my chemo routine later on, my visualization changed from the aggressive and violent to the silent but lethal. Rather than visualizing rowdy revellers being destroyed by firepower during war, I turned to an imagery that had terrified me as a child:

The Green Fog of Death Creeping Through Egypt - Yes. It's the scene of the First Passover from Cecile de Mille's "The Ten Commandments." Moses had relayed God's final demand to the Pharaoh to "Let my people go!" The Pharaoh was unmoved. So, God sent the final plague. The Angel of Death (in the form of a dark green fog creeping throughout Egypt) was sent to kill all the first-borns in Egypt. The Jews were spared because they had the blood of the lamb on their doors. But, no other first born was spared. The green fog of death represented chemotherapy coursing through my veins (which would be represented by the streets of Egypt) and all the first borns killed in the land were the cancer cells. Inasmuch as ovarian cancer was the silent killer, Carbo-taxol was even quieter, but more lethal, thank goodness!

(End Second Visualization)

It was at once a provocative and terrifying scene, when I saw it as a child on TV. Being the first born in my family, I'd always feared the green fog of death would come for me one day. It's really ironic that such childhood terror would be of such service to me as an adult. This visualization suited me better. There were no explosions or gunfire; and definitely no blood spilled. There was just the quiet, seemingly cold and deadly creep of the green fog of death killing with no violence. This suited my nature more -- quiet but lethal.

ALTHOUGH.....

In the final analysis, I found myself using neither visualizations at all. Somehow, instead of visualizing, things evolved into awareness and presence -- being in the moment during chemo infusion. I started to think of myself as an active and vital part of Dr. T's cancer team. Each person in the team had a role to play, Dr. T being the captain. But everyone needed to do their bit order for the team to beat my cancer. Dr. T provided the analysis and treatment plan, his nurses at the chemo lab executed the plan, and I had to be there READY AND PRESENT for this treatment. This way, I was participating in my treatment. I was there. I showed up, READY for my role in "the fight." This was better than any visualization I could muster. Being aware and in the moment (eyes open and all, even though I have rolling veins and I hate needles) when I was infused me Carbo-Taxol gave me a huge feeling of control. Both my visualizations portrayed me as sort of just a place where things happened or to whom things happened. But when I showed up, alert and present, I participated by being ready emotionally, mentally and physically. I made sure that I concentrated on what was going on, as if to "cheer on" Carbo-Taxol. I wanted to feel the chemotherapy coursing through my veins because I knew that it was on its way to destroy the cancer cells that were destroying me. It sounds new-agey, but it's true. I was zen about it -- zen in the sense of being hyper-aware of what was happening in my body at the moment. It was a meditation of sorts. Granted the Benadryl would lull me to sleep in the 4.5 hours that I sat for my Carboplatin therapy. But I would awaken again, once they changed bags and gave me the Taxol for the last hour of treatment, again meditating on the chemo coursing through my veins, being aware and present, knowing that the chemo was doing its bit to get rid of the cancer in my body. And I focused on that.

(And this was one of the reasons why I chose to go to my chemo sessions unaccompanied. I wanted to be alone with my treatment.)

Now, this post is certainly not meant to diss visualization. I merely wanted to point out the power of mind over matter. I absolutely respect and appreciate its value. It works! The mind is a powerful thing! And you can you use it to your advantage however you can -- whether through visualization or meditation, or another method. You just have to find what fits you. There is no one way because there is no limit to the power of your mind.

Fuel Up!

The capacity for hope is the most significant fact of life. It provides human beings with a sense of destination and the energy to get started. - Norman Cousins

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Hope comes in many forms and is found in many places. To some, hope can be found in churches; amongst encouraging loved ones; in seeing the sun rise after a long hard night; in hearing the laughter of children at play; seeing a marathon runner cross the finish line; in a song; or in hearing the testimony of a survivor. Hope can be found most anywhere at any given time -- there for the taking. It is an optimist's bright guide and a pragmatist's best companiion.

I am more pragmatic than optimistic. And while it's true that one needs to be at least a little optimistic when fighting something like cancer, I think that, in my case, it's more important to be pragmatic. See, I'm not wired to be optimistic even though faith and hope are the foundation of my existence. Even though I don't look at the world through rose-colored glasses or sing "the sun will come out tomorrow," I do believe that everything happens for a reason -- good or bad. Nothing is in vain. It all goes towards the "big pot of purpose" Although many times, I don't know what the reason is, I have absolute faith that there is always a reason. This keeps me sane and grounded. Life moves, albeit sometimes in mysterious ways. If you don't move with it, you'll get left behind, perhaps stagnate and eventually atrophy. Hope is the the fuel that enables movement, especially when moving is the hardest. And when you're saddled with a heavy load like having to fight cancer, you need to get to your nearest hope fueling station and fill up!

My hope fueling station is nestled in the second floor of a mid-sized office building in the middle of the city. Hope was dispensed from a large room at the end of a long and cold hallway, flanked on either side by offices. The door opened to a rather gray and sterile reception area, always full of people either waiting for their turn to go beyond the reception area for their turn or waiting for someone else who is inside. Once seen, one of the two receptionists quickly greeted me cordially and bade me sit until my name was called. I always sat in the the chair right nearest to the large bowl of hard candy that seemed always to be full -- lots of peppermint and fruit variety, a very cheery addition to the room. This was the waiting room at my oncologist's chemotherapy clinic, where I went for treatment once every three weeks. Yes. This was where I fueled up on hope!

Different people have differing opinions about chemotherapy. In reality, it is poison that kills fast growing cells in your body. So, yes. It does harm to your body. And a lot of cancer patients and survivors resent that -- as well they should. The immediate side effects alone are enough to banish this treatment to hell and back. BUT, it IS a necessary evil, isn't it?

Perhaps I'm crazy to say this, but I deemed Carbolplatin and Taxol as healing infusions. I absolutely looked forward to chemo every three weeks because I believed that with every IV infusion, more cancer cells were being killed by the chemotherapy. So, what if my liver suffered, or my hair fell out, or I was fatigued, or I was bleeding incessantly after treatment? I sat in those chemo chairs always with anticipation and with a smile. "Give me chemo, please!" was the look on my face. I never thought those IV's were poison at all. I thought of them as medicine that will make me better. Chemotherapy gave me hope -- enough hope to weather the nausea, fevers, headaches and everything else in between. And no matter if it was poison for other cells in my body, I didn't dwell on that. I was just always glad to have the infusion. It's the pragmatist in me.

Whatever I needed to get rid of those cancer cells was all well and GOOD -- not poison! "Dwell on the good it is doing, rather than the damage it is wreaking," I told myself. Because the little energy I had was better spent on "accentuating the positive" as the old song said. And because of that, chemo served as hope rather than poison. I believe that attitude helped immensely in my bout with cancer. Hope comes in all shapes and sizes. Mine just happened to be in the form of Carbo-Taxol chemotherapy.


So, here's to hope, where ever and however you may find it! Hang on to it and reach for the sky!

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We'd never know how high we are till we are called to rise; and then, if we are true to plan, our statures touch the sky. ~ Emily Dickinson

Guess Who Ended Up in the Driver's Seat Anyway?

The phone conversation with the insurance lady left me feeling like that plastic bag in "American Beauty." But, I did not find any "beauty" in my particular wind dance. I was angry, sad, defeated, incredulous, tired, at a loss, and depleted. Like that plastic bag, I was windblown and empty. So, I put my hands up in the air once more, said "whatever" and succumbed to Ambien.

I was still in that Ambien haze when Dr. T greeted me the next morning. But, that soon cleared up when he escorted me into his office with that bright smile and hearty handshake. After we sat down, he showed me a luminous outline of a woman's body with glowing dots on his computer screen. They looked like little constellations. It was my PET scan. "It's ovarian cancer," he said as he pointed to the dots around the cervical area. "And as you can see, it has metastesized to your chest cavity," he continued, while tracing the dots up to the area in the midst of my lungs and heart. How ironic that an image so pretty could be an indicator of something so deadly.

Maybe it's because I'd been through the "cancer news" grindstone once that I didn't feel the sting or the blow of the news that it was Stage 4 Ovarian Cancer. Or maybe it was because I was numb from my phone call with the insurance lady. But, it was probably mostly because, the news came from Dr. T. It was actually a relief that he had solved the cancer mystery. Strange.

Because of its advanced stage, Dr. T was going to be very aggressive in treatment: Carboplatin and Taxol chemotherapy for at least 8 sessions, once every three weeks. "This is not going to be easy. But it's treatable," he said. "Are you ready to do this with me?" was his battlecry. Yes! Of course! I'm ready! Where do I sign up? When do we start? Let's do this!!

Oh wait...there's "small" matter of insurance coverage....

I took a deep breath, squared up and told Dr. T that I was ready and willing, but may not be able to fight the fight with him. A brief synopsis of my conversation with the insurance company followed. Without hesitation, Dr. T said "Well, you won't have to see another doctor. We're doing this together. Let's have you meet with my finance office now and we'll sort it out. You need not be bothered with this. I need you strong and prepared for chemo."

Dr. T handed me off to Suzanne, who headed up his finance office. After she heard my story, she immediately told me to leave all the financial details to her. She was going to talk to the insurance company and find out what's going on. "Don't worry. Your job is to get well. My job is to deal with the insurance folks. OK?" [I think at this point I may have seen the heavens open and heard a choir of angels sing "Ode to Joy."]

Yes! Dr. T [and his crew] had taken the wheel again! Take that, insurance company! His office ended up entering into a unique contract with my insurance company, agreeing to a very low pay scale (apropos to my POS plan) in order to continue with my treatment. No, I didn't get treated for free. But it cost me much less than what the claims rep had quoted me (it's about 5% of the total cost of treatment), . It will take me a while to pay off what I owe Dr. T. but I'm glad to pay for it. It means tightening the belt all the more, but I have my life! I am grateful, beyond words to the efforts Dr. T's group put into sorting everything out with the insurance company. Not only did Dr. T save my life, but he also agreed to save it for a huge discount.

So here's to the man who took the wheel back from the insurance company and saved the day(nay, my life) with a big smile and an even bigger heart. I will follow him whereever he tells me to go. And I hope my Christian friends will forgive me as I fondly refer to him as my lord and savior, Dr. T.