Featured Article
An Unwelcome Guest
Words: Karl Farrell
Whilst reading this article try and place yourself in my shoes. I consider myself to be an ordinary, average, reasonably fit guy and my chronological age 46 although my psychological age hovers around 27 – 30, know what I mean? I’ve never really been sick apart from the occasional cold or flu. In fact, now I think of it, I’ve never spent a night in a hospital – ever!
I find wine and Guinness very palatable and a regular source of enjoyment. Having these is the extent of my bad habits. I have
never smoked, thanks to a childhood live-in aunt who chain-smoked and turned me and my brothers and sister away from the habit, and for that I thank her.
Now, here’s my story, a story that has changed my life. It all started with a small lump under my arm that I found a few weeks earlier, and yes, I went to the doctor and had an ultra sound and biopsy.
One day in October 2006, my wife, Peggy, and I were politely ushered into a bland medico’s office, void of either character or cheer. Across the room sat five middle-aged professionals. Between them lay at least 150 years of experience, so they were worth listening to I suppose! I must admit I was a bit taken aback by the ratio of them to us. Their apparent leader was a surgeon, who introduced himself as did the other two oncologists, the pathologist and the radiologist. All of their names I forgot immediately. My wife and I were the only ‘non-‘ologists’ present (what would Billy Connolly make of that?).
The surgeon proceeded to inform me that the results of my recent biopsy indicated that a 7.8 cm melanoma was growing on my right chest wall and it reached across to my right rib cage. The surgeon was a good man delivering bad news – as I am sure he had done regularly in the past.
Next, the oncologist and the surgeon examined me thoroughly. The oncologist found another tumor at the base of my neck. This was news to me, I had no idea one was there till that moment. A strange foreboding began to take root deep in my heart.
We sat down again and the surgeon informed me that these tumors were as serious as it gets. He explained that a series of tests were necessary, immediately, in order to ascertain the type and extent of the disease. However, he also made it clear to us that this was terminal cancer and was in the category that spread rapidly in an un-predictable and severe manner. He emphasised that the tests were urgent and he would see me as soon as the results were available. In the meantime, he scheduled radical surgery for me for the following Monday morning. Radical meant that everything affected by the tumor would be cut out, and the tumor would be ‘chased’ in order to extract it completely.
The following week is a blur now. I underwent C.T. scans, X-Rays and PET scans. As I succumbed to each test, Peggy did some thorough research about the disease using the Internet, doctors, recommended consultants, books, in fact everything she could find. And she spent hours on the phone, talking to friends and consultants in Ireland, England, the US and Australia. At the end of it all, cut, burn or poison (Surgery, Radiotherapy or Chemotherapy), seemed to be the only conventional options available to a cancer patient.
Towards the end of the week of tests, I received a phone call where I was asked to go to the hospital for radiotherapy the following Monday morning. I thought they’d made a mistake as I was scheduled for the operating theatre at the same time. In fact, when I took the call I was undergoing pre-operative tests.
On the Friday, we received another call asking my wife and I to attend an evening meeting in the surgeon’s rooms. The place we’d received the devastating news.
Back in his office, with him sitting at his desk, the grim-faced surgeon spread out my test results. He gently explained that he could not perform the necessary operation as my malignant melanoma tumor was so advanced that it presented an impossibly intricate task. He described it as trying to remove Bolognaise sauce without severing one single strand of spaghetti. It couldn’t be done.
Stunned, we took on board what he said and asked whether there was a Plan B? I regret asking this question.
He explained that he had consulted another surgeon, who was prepared to pursue radical ‘chasing’ of the tumor, but that such an operation would entail removing my right arm to allow access to the site. My arm was in perfect condition and without hesitation I refused Plan B. There
had to be a better way.
I asked the surgeon to be as straight as he could with me, as I needed to know what I was up against and what the odds were. He told me, as kindly as he could, that I should be aware that without any doubt, this cancer would run its course and kill me. He advised me to focus on putting my affairs in order and prepare for what was inevitable. I had a few months at worst, he said, two years at best, but the latter possibility fell into the 10% category. These are not odds anyone would choose, but seeing that these were the cards I’d been dealt, I knew that I’d have to start looking around for a Plan C.
Peggy and I sat outside in the car park and held each other forever. Suddenly life seemed in short supply. The realisation that my time was slipping away fast made us accept that in order to survive I had to move on from this point. We had to see tomorrow as another day, and radiotherapy as another option. My wife went into information search overdrive. The internet provided a great source of positive and practical alternative treatment options. We bought and borrowed books and CDs, digested their contents and made alternative plans. The more we read the more we realised there was a growing gap between traditional and alternative schools of thought.
I decided to commence my course of radiotherapy: 36 sessions, Monday to Saturday, driving 30 kilometres each way to the hospital. It was a strange experience. The Radiotherapist is one of the kindest people I’ve met to date. She talked me through the full spectrum of the pros and cons of radiation treatment. She described the outcome she hoped to achieve. I discovered the course would take place over a six week period and that it involved high level radiation. It was a once only attack on the tumors, in an effort to arrest its growth and hopefully kill the cancer cells. There was a risk of my right lung being burnt away in the process.
At the hospital I was fitted with a fencing-type mask that was moulded to the contours of my face and then fixed to the treatment table. Its purpose was to reduce movement. They marked my chest and head with tattoo dots to limit exposure to only the targeted areas. The two assistants maneuvered me into position with a certain grace and attention and they were always smiling. I felt a little awkward as I wasn’t accustomed to being handled so delicately.
The effects of radiotherapy build up slowly, and after a few weeks the burns had blistered in the treated areas. Radiotherapy creates a particular type of pain and morphine is recommended to combat it. However, long term use of morphine seemed to dislocate my mind from my body and I entered a timeless world, one I didn’t particularly like. The burns and discomfort got progressively worse but once I started I had to finish the treatment.
Changing the dressings was an ordeal that I dreaded. My wife, the eternal seeker of knowledge, found out that in Italy it is standard practice to administer ‘L-Carnitine’ to radiotherapy patients in order to avoid the depression that is often associated with the treatment. I took this anti-depressant every day and it worked, not once did I suffer depression, thank God, there were too many other things to cope with.
One treatment that I refused outright was chemotherapy. To poison my body with chemicals and damage my immune system just at a time when I needed it most, seemed illogical, and more damaging to me. Statistical support for the effectiveness of chemotherapy is scant, the more we researched the less we were convinced that it would work. However, I was so sedated with morphine that if my wife had not been with me, I may have agreed to it against my better judgment. Hence, I realised the importance of always having your partner, or someone you trust, with you during consultations. Please remember that it was my personal decision not to have chemotherapy but others do support it. I respect their opinion. At the end of the day we are individuals and the choice is that individual’s alone.
Fatigue, however, hit me hard and after the third or fourth week my strength seemed to disappear. A simple task drained me of all energy. I had no choice but to rest during the day. Now, two months after my radiation treatment has finished, and four and a half months after the initial diagnosis, I’m still tired if I exert myself. In order to combat this, I walk once or twice a day and around 5 pm I have a short swim in the ocean which does wonders for me. The release of endorphins after exercise boosts my immune system and gives me a lift, psychologically.
So what else am I doing to combat cancer? Instinctively I divided ‘Me’ the individual into Mind, Spirit and Body, each of which deserve support and sustenance in order to conquer the cancer. This has become my 24 hour a day task.
For my mind and body I follow a strict diet of vegetable juice and fruit every day, and only eat fish as protein. I have no sugar intake as cancer thrives on processed sugar, and no alcohol as it contains sugar. I also made a conscious decision to have a clear and pure mind to help me focus on my régime.
I take a series of homeopathic medicines (16 a day) to help my liver and kidneys stay healthy as they had to process all the by-products of the cancer. And supplements of shark cartilage B17 and a maze of powders five times a day have made my complexion far clearer than ever before. I feel I’m on a roll. People who meet me can’t believe how well I look. Surely that’s a good sign?
Acupuncture, hypnosis, kinesiology and sessions of electrical vibrations in water have all contributed to my quest for a cure. But, I feel the two most effective treatments are courses (intravenous infusions) of Vitamin C, and a drug called Uk-raine from Austria. I run my own drips using butterfly needles... sometimes it’s so very hard to get a vein that I get frustrated, but as with most things if you persevere you succeed. I take a few hours each day to administer the drips but that’s part of my new life now.
For my spirit, daily meditation produces a calmness and inner peace. We all can and should maintain this practice. Living in, and for, the present moment is truly embracing reality – so few people realise this. Past and future contemplations take up far too much of our time and are normally destructive or unsatisfying. They steal the enjoyment of the present. Am I making sense?
My current position is that the tumor in my neck has disappeared and the large mass across my chest wall is in retreat. The largest tumor of all, the one on my right chest, seems smaller and its cellular structure has changed from hard to jelly-like (sorry, I’m not too high tech!). I will not give cancer the time or the recognition it craves, why should I?
Will I die? Yes. Will you? Yes, but I’ve had a wake up call. It’s what you do in between that counts. I’ve learned to be grateful and enjoy what I have and to re-evaluate – take a look at what you have it’s more than you think.
