MOVING ON: REMISSION
It had been a difficult year. 1976 had passed and with it
probably went the worst of the battle. I was fairly happy with
my performance on the final examination papers, and I knew
that I had until March to enjoy freedom from study, and the
associated pressures. More importantly, the treatment was
definitely working. I had suffered no real setback at all.
One day, covered in the gleam of baby oil, I was dozing by
the pool. Under a warm sun, I felt wholly relaxed. This was my idea of a perfect way to spend a lazy afternoon. Flashing into my mind came the words of one
of my doctors.
"The chemotherapy works differently with different patients,"
he began, obviously trying not to be too blunt.
"It tends to halt the disease for around two to three years
...,"thoughtful pause, "...then you'll have a relapse."
I dreaded the response to my next question.
"What happens after that?"
Looking at this man, I could see a rigid professionalism. I noticed
the black hair comb tucked into his shirt pocket, and then I
wondered why he was so sure of himself.
"We can use other drugs to get you back, but they too will
lose their effect. Sooner or later, we run out of drugs that will
work"
I didn't need to ask what the next stage would be.
Who should I believe, Dr Whiteside, or a relative newcomer?
An expert, or a beginner who would probably complete his
allocated time in this specialist area, and then move on to another?
There seemed to be no value in being defeatist.
There never is.
I had believed Dr Whiteside from the beginning ...
Long before, I had been instructed in the art of meditation
- not by an expensive professional or a manual, but by a fellow
patient who had experimented with the various techniques. At
first I had been sceptical, but soon found that it was a great
experience. It was easy to slip into the routine again, as I baked
in the sun.
"Toes first," I told myself, forgetting that I never really felt the circulation through such a small region.
"Feet then." The concentration was all important. I became
so relaxed that the throbbing pulse in my right foot could be
felt to the exclusion of all other parts of my body.
"Cure" was the silent chant as my thoughts focused on my
foot. Then, coaxed by the rhythmic pounding, they moved slowly
in turn to each part of my body. The entire exercise usually took
only half an hour, but it inspired a feeling of well-being which
often led to sleep.
How can you gauge the part such a crudely performed technique played in my recovery?
I cannot fully answer this question. But I do believe that we
hold within our brains powers and abilities which are not tapped
in normal situations. We use so little of them on a regular basis.
There are many who would say that the most effective way
to combat the cancers of man is to release the full energies of
the mind, and direct them in a way similar to that described
above. I would tend to think that they are getting close to the
truth, but there is no reason not to accept a little chemotherapy,
should it be offered. After all, it really does no harm to try all the
alternatives.
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