2019-02-01_Australian_Yoga_Journal

18

february/march 2019

yogajournal.com.au

Holistic systems

of medicine

work like an

organic gardener

who makes

plants (in this

case the body)

hardier by

strengthening

the soil rather

than simply

pouring on

pesticides.

I fi gure the massages and herbal

remedies, which had helped me so

much in the past, would at least give me

a better shot at getting through what

was to come. And although there is zero

scientifi c evidence to support the idea, I

suspect they may even increase my odds

of getting cured.

Hope in India

A few days after beginning this round of

Ayurvedic treatments, I notice that my

tonsil is no longer covered with a

grayish fi lm but is shiny pink and looks

smaller in the mirror. When I move my

fi ngers across the lymph nodes in my

neck, as I’ve done thousands of times on

patients, it feels like they are also

shrinking. Krishna agrees. Over the

next couple of weeks, this trend

continues, with a progressive, slight

decrease in the size of the tumors. I’m

not thinking this is going to be suffi cient

to eradicate the cancer, so I’m still

planning conventional care, but it feels

like confi rmation that what I’m doing is

already making a difference.

In deciding to go to India for

Ayurvedic treatments before

commencing chemoradiation, I

remember something that I learned in

medical school: Cancer is potentially

life-threatening, but in most

circumstances, it’s not an emergency.

That’s why I shudder when people hurry

into treatments before they’ve had a

chance to carefully consider their

options. By the time a cancer is

diagnosed, it has often hidden in the

body for years, sometimes for a decade

or more. This is why a few weeks

delay—unless there is a critical

situation, such as a tumor obstructing a

breathing tube or compromising

another vital structure—usually won’t

matter much. What is crucial to me is to

get the best care possible, not, as I’ve

heard patients say, to “get the cancer out

of me as soon as possible.” I have the

luxury of not being in an emergency, so

I am able to do extensive research, talk

with loved ones, consult colleagues, and

get second opinions from other health-

care professionals.

Chemotherapy begins

Less than a month after India, I arrive

at a major medical center in the

southeastern United States for cancer

treatments. The air conditioning in the

hospital is freezing. I’m wearing a

maroon stocking cap, one of several that

my sister-in-law, Madelyn, bought for

me. Before the chemotherapy drug

Cisplatin is infused, the nurse brings a

paper cup with two anti-nausea pills.

One is a powerful corticosteroid called

Decadron. The other pill is a popular

new anti-nausea agent that is said to be

much more effective than the drugs

that came before it.

Just in case, though, to help prevent

nausea, I’ve drunk nothing but warm

water for the past two days. I made the

decision to forgo food after reading a

report in an oncology journal that found

patients who fasted during their chemo

treatments reported little or no nausea.

Sitting in the infusion center, I chew on

slices of fresh ginger I’ve brought from

home—an Ayurvedic remedy for nausea.

As the yellow contents of the small

bag of Cisplatin drip into a larger bag of

saline running into a vein in my arm, I

do not think of it as a toxic drug, even

though I know full well that it is.

Instead, I imagine that it is a healing

nectar fl owing into me and circulating

throughout my body. I lie back on the

vinyl chair, look out the window at the

few trees in this urban landscape, and

silently chant mantras.

Yoga in treatment

The yoga pose that is proving most

helpful to me is a prone restorative

twist. To come into it, I sit with my bent

knees to the right side of my body with

my right foot cradled in the arch of my

left. As I bring my torso down toward a

cylindrical bolster, I twist my spine and

my head to the left. Just before my chest

lands on the bolster, I turn my neck in

the opposite direction, so that my knees

and head face the same direction. My

breath deepens as I sink in.

This is a beautiful stretch between

the neck and the rib cage, helping me

preserve movement threatened by the

chemoradiation. And because this prone

twist is a restorative pose, I can hold it

for a long time. I’ve been tired and

unable to do much yoga practice most

days. Some mornings, just

standing and lifting my arms overhead

feels like too much. I stay 20 minutes in

the twist, then come into the pose on

the other side.

Yesterday, Madelyn caught me

asleep in the pose. I might have been

there 45 minutes. Normally that never

happens.