CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter One

First Encounter With Cancer

Chapter Two

Our Constant Worry About Getting Cancer

Chapter Three

How Could Someone Like Me Get Cancer?

Chapter Four

The Operating Table Will Be A Great Opportunity

Chapter Five

Just After The Operation

Chapter Six

Some Great News, Finding Holistic Cures, And Learning To Cope

Chapter Seven

Two Months After Finding Out About Cancer

Chapter Eight

When Cancer Comes Back

Chapter Nine

Why I Turned Down Chemotherapy

Chapter Ten

Live Blood Analysis And The Detection Of Pathogens

Chapter Eleven

More On Cancer And How To Avoid It

Chapter Twelve

I Am The Perfect Candidate For Cancer

Chapter Thirteen

Be Positive When Speaking To Cancer Patients

Chapter Fourteen

What I Eat For Breakfast

Chapter Fifteen

On Being Alone

Chapter Sixteen

Dr. Leonard Coldwell And Cancer Cure

Conclusion

References

INTRODUCTION

The initial approach to dealing with cancer is to go at it head-on as aggressively as possible. What other choice does one have? The signet ring cell cancer of the appendix addressed in this book has a 20 percent survival rate, adding to the initial distress and depression of the diagnosis. Cancer No Chemo does not promote a follow-the-crowd kind of philosophy. This book is for people who spend their lives staying healthy, staying thin, running marathons, and excelling in the world of education. It is written for the type of person who desires to implement an alternative approach to traditional medicine, such as the one in this book. Exploring alternative avenues for a cure for people like us is almost a given. Some would rather die from cancer than from the possibility of dying from chemotherapy.

Although chemotherapy has the intention to heal and cure, it can be counterproductive and, at times, more deadly than the cancer itself. Emotionally, it can impose a do-nothing state upon the patient, which takes away from the quality of life. In turn, the patient may choose a helpless victim route, which was too much for me to bear. Contrary to popular belief, cancer does not kill people; instead, an outside complication resulting from the disease is more often the culprit. For example, cancer may cause the failure of a major organ, resulting in death.

Holistic methods are gaining a rightful place in the battle against cancer, and this book explores a number of these approaches. While facing the possibility of remaining alive for only a few more months during this book’s creation, I set out on a journey with my wife, Debbie, to discover new ways of dealing with cancer, while at the same time accepting the fact that death may soon be at hand.

In Cancer No Chemo, travel through our myriad experiences. Take a front-row seat through postoperative pain, suffering, and recovery. Learn how to explore the world of cancer-killing, natural alternatives. Learn how to implement a valuable positive attitude. Discover how to draw other positive people into your life with your positive attitude. Partake in experiences that guide the mind away from self-pity, and transport it to a place of caring and giving. Collectively, this book and the experiences contained within can bring the reader into a closer alignment with where he or she is and where the person would like to be.

CHAPTER ONE

First Encounter with Cancer

November 25, 2008, 11:30 a.m. I had my appendix removed on November 10, 2008, and today I met with the surgeon for a routine follow-up visit. When he told me I had cancer, I became numb. His written report of this meeting says I was visibly shaken when he told me, and indeed, I was. He told me I was that one person in a billion to whom this could happen. We did a colonoscopy before removing my appendix to make sure I didn’t have cancer. I found out later that a colonoscopy does not look at the appendix. This kind of cancer usually spreads to other organs by the time it is discovered. The doctor did the right thing by ordering a colonoscopy. A clear colon was probably as sure as he could be that I didn’t have cancer. At the time, I was quite confident that removing my appendix was a routine procedure. It never, ever occurred to me that there could be a complication.

During today’s meeting, however, the doctor informed me that I need more surgery. He told me that ten inches of my colon needed to be removed. This would be followed by six months of chemotherapy. What can he possibly be saying? I’m here for a routine visit after having my appendix removed, and he is telling me I have cancer? At that moment, my entire life changed. It was turned upside down, sideways, and every which horrible way. In general, I am constantly talking to myself about the meaning of life, why I am here, and what contribution I am making to humanity. Now, I’m going to die. It’s not the right time. It’s just not supposed to be happening to me right now.

Telling My Wife

Tears flowed when I thought about having to tell Debbie, my wife. When I got home from seeing the doctor, she heard me on the phone, canceling my dental appointment for that day. She was upset. You canceled the dentist because you don’t feel like going? she asked. You scheduled his time, which is important. Your teeth are important. What’s going on?

I looked at her, and tears began to stream from my eyes. I felt so terrible about having to give her this bad news. I came close to her, put my arms around her, and said, I’m sorry, Debbie, but I need another operation.

My God, she said. What is the matter? We were both crying now, but she didn’t know why. Then I gave her the big C word. At that point, our lives became a mess. We kept holding each other, I think in shock; neither of us could stop crying. Me, because I felt so terrible that I had instantly become a failure. I was no longer Debbie’s best friend but someone who was soon to abandon her.

How would I tell my brother, my daughter, and my mother? It’s called signet ring cell adenocarcinoma, a very rare and aggressive cancer. Only seventy cases in the last twenty years have been reported in the United States. I always figured I would live for a long time: at least until age ninety or so. Historically, my family has very long longevity. It didn’t appear I would have to worry about that anymore. Now I could worry about those I would leave behind. That was a pretty cool thought. I would no longer have to worry about surviving until whenever, and I could now think about other things.

Debbie was getting ready to go out. We just wanted to get out of the house right now. I was waiting for her, and every time I thought of her, tears flowed. I had to try to get myself together.

We went to a favorite local restaurant that allows us to enjoy its peaceful, mellow atmosphere. We usually go there at a time when it is relatively empty and quiet. We both brought sunglasses with us because we were crying so much. We sat at the bar, enjoyed appetizers and drinks, and we cried and cried. I felt like I was breaking up with my best girl, and my heart was breaking. I felt like I was being forced to go away. I don’t want to go. I know I have to, and I miss Debbie already so badly it’s making me cry constantly.

Debbie suggested that we take a trip, take a vacation. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I was already where I wanted to be. I was at my home with my best girl. We have such a lovely homelife. Neither of us ever wished to leave it. That’s how perfect life had been for Deb and me over the previous ten years. Now I would have to leave, and I missed my girl already.

After a few hours at the restaurant, Deb wanted to go to her mother’s house, because she knew she would not be able to get through Thanksgiving dinner, which was just a few days away, and not let her mom and dad know what was going on. When we got there, she told them. Deb and I cried for a long time. Dad went through the God thing, asking me if I was ready to meet Jesus. I told him yes. He was happy and assured me I had nothing to worry about. My good friend Greg Pulley sent me a text, asking me to call him. It was nice of him to be concerned about how things went during my visit with the doctor. Neither Deb nor I could make the call back to him.

Later that evening, I found some information on the Internet stating that 5 to15 percent of people survive two to five years with this type of cancer. Many people die within a few months. These statistics seemed so crazy. When I saw them, I ran away from the computer. I decided to go back in later and look again. Hopefully the facts are not true. But on November 25, 2008, at 10:30 p.m., all is true.

The Next Morning

November 26, 2008, 6:00 a.m. This morning I awoke to find Debbie lying next to me, crying. I felt so horrible. It’s because of me that she cries. I began to cry. We cried together, holding each other, and we could not fall back to sleep. Usually, when we had the opportunity, we would sleep as long as we could. On weekends, we would sometimes stay in bed until noon. But there was no peace for us this morning. We tried our best to comfort each other while we cried. I’m so sorry, Debbie, that because of me you cannot sleep. All of a sudden, my life—our life—had become a tragedy.

Telling My Brother

November 28, 2008. My brother called to ask how I felt. He knew I had the appendix operation and that I had been to a follow-up appointment with the surgeon. I told him everything was okay, but I guess he knows me better than I think. He kept telling me he could tell that something was wrong and that I was not telling him. Bobby, I can feel that you are lying to me. What is going on?

As he pressured me, I began to fill up with tears and couldn’t talk. He kept pressuring me, and I finally gave up. Crying, I said, I have cancer.

I think this crying thing is genetic. My uncle Russell Boeta had a stroke, and every time he saw anyone, he would laugh heartily. My uncle Jerry Visco, who also had a stroke, would cry uncontrollably when people asked him how he was doing. I remember visiting my parents’ home one evening. A group of relatives were at the dining room table, eating, drinking, and playing cards. Paralyzed on one side of his body, Uncle Jerry was in his wheelchair. Hi, Uncle Jerry, how are you? I asked as I leaned over to kiss his forehead.

He replied, I’m good, Bobby, and the tears just rolled right out of him. He would usually apologize for the tears, stating he couldn’t help it. He was a sweetheart: the sweetest man who ever lived. Now, with the new situation I’m in, I’ve found out I’m also a crier. I have to tell people not to ask me how I am or how I’m feeling, because I start crying. Uncle Russell is not blood related to me. He is married to my mother’s sister’s aunt Rita. Uncle Jerry, however, is my mother’s brother. So I guess it’s reasonable that I take after him. However, I’m not much interested in having a stroke. I don’t mind the crying part, but no thank you for the stroke.

November 30, 2008. I don’t know why, but I’m feeling like death has moved away from me. It has taken a distant stance. It’s lurking out in the pasture but not in the attack mode that I felt the other day. I thought I read the other day that the mortality rate for this type of cancer was 85 percent to 90 percent. When I saw that on the Internet the other day, I ran away from it. My brother, Teddy, and his wife, Arlene, paid us a visit last evening and told me the mortality rate was only 10 percent to 15 percent. I felt better with this news—until I went back online again to find that the death rate for this type of cancer is really extremely high.

Who knows what’s going on at this point, but I’ll meet with the surgeon tomorrow and drill him about this. He stated the other day that he thought he got it all out when he removed the appendix. I wonder if he was able to see the cancer at that time. It doesn’t matter now. He told me that if you see a few roaches in a corner and you kill them, it doesn’t mean there is not a roach in another part of the house. That’s why, for precautionary reasons, they will have to take out ten inches of my colon. So Deb and I will be meeting with a cancer surgeon in the very near future.

CHAPTER TWO

Our Constant Worry about Getting Cancer

People worry constantly about when something horrible is going to happen to them. I work with master’s-level social workers between the ages of twenty-three and thirty-four, who, every time they have an ache or a pain, think they have cancer. People always worry about themselves. We worry constantly throughout our lives. We just worry, worry, and worry. Then we get something, and we die. Worrying is like paying interest on a loan you have not yet received. But we cannot stop the worry.

To give you an idea about worrying, here is a passage I wrote five years ago, when I was healthy.

Our constant worry is our death. Every time we feel pain, we fear we are dying from some horrible, cancerous disease. People die all around us all the time. A pain in your head is a brain tumor. A pain in your stomach is stomach cancer. What is the concern about all of these concerns? The concern is that one of these things is eventually going to happen to us. The other concern is that we all spend too much time worrying about all of the concerns. As I previously mentioned, worry is paying interest on a debt that we have not