I swear: in an alternate dimension of reality, I *must* be a superhero(-ine). My cells just grow with such an alarmingly efficient ferocity that I picture my superhero self as being essentially infallible because all her organs, blood, and internal systems are in constant cell re-development and evolution.
Unfortunately, in THIS reality, those cells just mean my cancer is the number one gang on the block.
Right posterior hip (which is fucking BULLSHIT because I just got a right hip replacement, so that whole area should be clean as a Muthafuckin WHISTLE right now).
Mid-sacrum (I had to look that one up. It’s the triangular shaped bone that forms between the top of your ass crack and your spine. Even my ass crack has cancer.).
“Uncurable, but treatable.”
Let me break down what this essentially means, according to Western medicine.
This means that I consent to being infused with poison every couple of weeks until my body can’t take it anymore. This means that doctors pump me full of these drugs right here for a little while, and then when these drugs “stop working,” doctors start pumping me with those drugs over there. This means I spend my remaining days on this Earth, inside this body, in doctors’ offices, on the toilet, over the toilet, and in bed.
I’m going a different route.
On Monday, I will be waking up before the sun rises and driving from Phoenix, AZ to Tijuana, Mexico. There, I will enroll in Rubio Cancer Center, an immunotherapy clinic that works with Stage 4 Cancer patients. See, other countries don’t all approach cancer the same way that the United States does. In the United States, we attack cancer by flooding our entire body with poison, and then afterward, when everything inside is gasping for its very last breath, we say, “Okay, go enjoy life now! Your immune system will be fine in time.”
Except my immune system DIDN’T end up being fine in time. Have you ever sprayed Raid on a bunch of bugs on the ground? Some seize up the moment the Raid hits their bodies. Some writhe around in the liquid for a while, and you can’t tell if they’re swimming or dancing or screaming or dying, but eventually they stop moving too.
… And then there’s the ones you see moving around in that same room a few days later, and all you can think as you stare at them is, “How the fuck are you still here???”
Hey, breast cancer cells.
HOW THE FUCK ARE YOU STILL HERE???
Chemo and radiation didn’t kill them. They killed enough, for the remaining cells to hide under the PET scan radar for two – count them, TWO – years. But they didn’t kill all of them. Poisoning didn’t work. Neither did amputation.
So instead, I turn to immunotherapy. For the next 3-8 weeks, I will be injected, infused, and immersed with cancer-fighting foods, juices, supplements, and herbs. I will be replacing traditional water for water that is ionized and/or ozonated. Teas that detox my lungs, liver, and skin will be incorporated into my daily routine. I will give vials of my blood that will be used to create one of seven custom-made cancer vaccines that will then be injected into my veins every night before bed. I will participate in bathing rituals that involve removing toxins from my feet. I will essentially consent to a 10-12 hour/day regimen that no oncologist in their right mind would endorse here in the United States. And since my insurance company won’t pay for any of it, I am closing out all three of my retirement plans to pay for it.
I might lose tens of thousands of dollars.
I might die in that clinic in Tijuana.
I might help the US oncologists feel justified in their disdain for all non-Western medicine.
Or, I might invest tens of thousands of dollars into a life that survived and thrived beyond all odds, thereby giving an extra smug “In your FACE!” taunt to all those US oncologists and their disdain for all non-Western medicine.
Anyone who has spent fifteen minutes with me knows which one of these options sounds more like me.