102 | March• 2019
THE LADY ON THE TRAIN
“I’monmywaytoViennatosee
afriend.ButIliveinGermany,in
Heidelberg.”
“Oh,that’swheremynewhomeo-
pathic doctor is,” she says. “I haven’t
metheryet,butI’minregularemail
contact.”Sherunsherhandoverher
hair.Itlooksprofessionallycoiffed,
turned slightly inward at the ends
andstreakedindarker
shades of chestnut.
“She is treating me
forcancer,”sheadds.
So personal. So
impossible to leave
without comment.
Homeopathy against
cancer!Ihavememo-
ries of my friend Gina,
turningtoalternative
medicine in search of
acureforherbreast
cancer. Her distrust of
chemotherapy, stubborn commit-
ment to ‘green’ therapies, and faith
inher‘doctor’weresuicidal.For
sixexcruciatingmonthsherhealer
denied her painkillers, saying she
must experience her body battling
theinvader.Intheendshedieda
painfuldeath,beatenandbesieged.
My scepticism must have shown in
my face.
“I’m doing it along with conven-
tional medicine,” she reassures me.
“IknowIhavetotryeverything.”
She guesses my unspoken question.
“It’s breast cancer,” she says ruefully.
“A tumour they found three years
Ifeeltouched
by her quiet
courage.
Notoncewas
there anger
or self-pityago.Itwastoolargebythentoop-
erate,soIhadfivemonthsofchemo
to make it shrink. Along with the
chemo,Idecidedtogethomeopathic
treatment.”
She was referred to a homeopathic
doctor in Zürich.
“Thecrisp,cleanairinSwitzerland,
the sunny days, the quiet, the sounds
of the cowbells on the
green hillsides, the
breakfrommywork,
yes, even from my chil-
dren–theyallhelped,”
she says. “The tumour
disappearedafterafew
months!”
Ilaughoutloud
in surprise, but she
smiles sadly at my
enthusiasm. “Well, it
left the breast. But three
months ago they found
it had metastasized in my brain. In six
places. Too many to operate.”
We are silent. The noise of the train
is suddenly loud – the compartment
shakes, the windows rattle, the wheels
turn. Metal against metal, the train
against the wind, our time here and
now against time running out.
“I’ve just finished another round of
chemo,” she says. With a confessional
smile, she dips her head, slips off her
wig and shows me her scalp.
“A l r e a d y t h e h a i r ’s g r o w i n g o u t
again. See,” she says, rubbing her
palm gently over her head.
In the harsh lighting of the