My Great Breast Cancer Adventure

Bieler's Broth

I'm currently reading a back-to-basics healthcare book, Food is Your Best Medicine, written forty-two years ago by a doctor named Henry G. Bieler. I feel the delight of having "discovered" Bieler and his maverick ideas about food and health (more maverick during his lifetime than now, but they're still fairly maverick, considering how the mainstream medical establishment continues to place most of the emphasis on pills and drugs rather than on prevention, good nutrition, fresh air, exercise, care of the soul, etc).

My delight is akin to that of a beginner poet who has just discovered William Carlos Williams, or to an amateur rock musician who has just discovered Buddy Holly.

This morning I went to see Efrem at Chinese Medicine Works and when he asked me if I had "anything new" to report, I mentioned this book to him. He knew who Henry Bieler was, of course, and asked me if I'd tried his famous "Bieler Broth." Believe it or not, I was able to say, "Yes, I just made some on Monday!"

The reason I recently made Bieler's Broth was because I had noticed the recipe for it in my now favorite Bible cookbook, Nourishing Traditions, and I made the connection between it and the author of the book I'm reading. So I asked Jack to pick up the ingredients when he was out walking Olivia on Sunday. (I would have been out walking her too, but I was holed up at home doing Writing Salon taxes).

Jack came back with parsley, celery, zucchini, string beans and a few sprigs of tarragon. I dutifully followed the cookbook recipe, which is designed to be high in potassium; this helps restore alkalinity to the body (more desirable than acidity):

1 pound string beans, ends snipped

6 medium zucchini (green), ends cut off

2 stalks celery, chopped

2 bunches parsley (cut stems, optional)

Several sprigs of tarragon or thyme, tied together

1 quart filtered water

Put all ingredients in a large pot, add water, don't freak out that it doesn't seem like anywhere near enough water, bring to a boil, cover and simmer for about half an hour. Take out the tarragon/thyme, pour into a blender, and puree everything into a thick soup (it will be the thickness of split pea soup). Or use a hand-held blender if you have one of those.

This is the "medicinal" recipe. Plain and bland. But Nourishing Traditions also has an "epicurean's" version of Bieler Broth, which I'm sure is tastier. I just wanted to try the basic recipe, first.

When I told Efrem how I made it, he said he'd heard that you should also add potato peels (not the whole potato, though, because you're supposed to be using only non-starchy vegetables). Today I went online looking for recipes for Bieler's Broth (just curious), and several variations popped up. None included potato peels, however, so I'm going to ask Efrem for his recipe.

In the meantime, I'm spiking my daily cup of basic Bieler's broth with homemade chicken stock and a pinch of Celtic sea salt. The recipe above made a little over two quarts, so I figure I'm gonna be Ms. Alkalinity soon... or if not that, at least I'll be neutralizing the acidity caused by my cup of morning coffee, which I'm not ready to abandon (although I recently switched to a much smaller cup, and am pleased to announce that this is a good trick to play on yourself. I feel satisfied as long as I have my "cup" of coffee, even if the cup is only half the size of my old one).

Anyway, I recommend Food is Your Best Medicine. I like Bieler's lively style of writing, his stories about great physicians of the past, and his way of explaining all the reasons he eschewed conventional medicine. Some of it is dated, but so what? It's a cheap little paperback ($6.99) that is packed with information for people like me (new explorers in the world of health and medicine and nutrition), plus I see it as a Fascinating Ode to Common Sense.

"Today...the physician is inclined to discount the natural wisdom of the body itself; to forget that the body has two small bean-shaped master chemists of its own: the kidneys, whose task is more complex than any electronic computer conceived by man. Instead, a growing number of physicians are more likely to get writer's cramp making out prescriptions for patients who are demanding them, the while forgetting the story of the physician who handed a prescription to a patient saying, "Here, have this filled quickly while it is still a remedy."

"Away back in the year 1855 (drugs were even then the chief remedy for disease) the following notice was posted by the Massachusetts Medical Society:

The Treasurer announced that he had received the sum of one hundred dollars  from a member of the Society. . . .for a prize on the following theme: We would regard every approach toward the rational and successful prevention and management of disease, without the necessity of drugs, to be an advance in favor of humanity and scientific medicine."

"What I hope to do in this book is show you that both "prevention and management" of disease may be obtained without drugs. I have done it more times than I am able to count." — Henry G. Bieler

Today's Big News (sic)

Olivia's barking genes seem to have kicked in. We used to comment on how quiet a dog she was, and how odd it was that she NEVER barked. And no, I'm not about to say that she has suddenly become Barker Extraordinaire. I'm only noting that a few sporadic and surprisingly hefty barks every now and then have appeared in her repertoire. We know not why or wherefore.

Hefty may not be the correct word. What I'm trying to say is that, because Olivia has such a sweet and generally quiet temperament (they told us she was extremely shy as a puppy, trembly shy), we didn't expect such a loud and satisfyingly ferocious sounding bark to ever emerge from her mouth. She's got a lusty and deep bark, not the least bit yappy. If you heard it without seeing her, you'd think it was coming from a German Shepherd. I still haven't hit on just the right word to describe it. Jack, who happens to not be out painting any houses today, is of no help.

"Jack, how would you describe Olivia's bark?"

"Uh...dog-like."

"Jaaaaaaack! Seriously!"

"Okay. Mysterious. We never know when she's going to do it, or why."

True. Although I was wanting to describe the SOUND of it. Growly. Rough-edged. Forceful. Fearless. Gruff. Deep bass. NOT a typical terrier bark.

I know! She has a Tom Waitsy kinds of a bark. Very cool.

That's all for now.

Oh, except for a note about yesterday's excitement in my old (Moultrie St.) kitchen, which my downstairs tenant reported to me today. He was sitting downstairs writing when he heard a distant clucking noise. Tried to ignore it but finally had to get up to investigate when the noise became less and less distant. His ears led him first to my back deck, then up the back stairs and into my kitchen where he came upon the neighbor's escaped chicken and my cat Reecy, just hangin' out together, no problem, no fur or feathers flying. Cluckin' and meow'in' and havin' a fine old time.

David called out over the back fence to our chicken-owning neighbor, who rushed over to retrieve her egg provider. I wish I'd been there to snap a photo and also to find out the name of our unexpected guest.

Conversation with a Burglar

I'm copping out today by posting only a link to someone else's blog post. This post has nothing to do with anything that my own blog professes to be about. But I thought it was interesting.

Now I have to go finish this week's Round Robin compilation, then move reluctantly on to my Most Pressingly Depressing (or Depressingly Pressing) Current Project: Writing Salon tax preparation. There's something wrong with my Quicken, which is causing me untold agony, forcing me to resort to old fashioned techniques using a clickety clack calculator. I know you sympathize. Thank you.

Fat Facts

All my jeans are too tight again. The second I sit down at home, I unbutton and unzip. Yesterday I vowed to cut my food consumption, but this morning I read an article that pretty much persuaded me that what would be better than eating less would be to start Pilates again.

The reason I quit Pilates was that I didn't have the money to continue with the lessons. But I spent the last few months rearranging my life so that I'd have less rent to pay, and now I can start Pilates again IF I choose to make that  a higher priority than, say, regularly dying my gray hair at a salon, or eating out, or buying new clothes and furniture rather than opting for used thriftstore and flea market stuff.

I came across the above article after I went to the News Target website to read a different article about mammograms. That, too, was interesting, and my gut instincts tell me it's not off base.

Olivia's Sister

One evening last summer, a couple of months after we got Olivia, we were up on Bernal Hill, about to leave because it was almost dark, when Jack saw the dusky silhouette of another dog and said, "Look at that dog. It's got the same shape, even the same tail, as Olivia."

The other pup's owner heard Jack and said, "Did you say OLIVIA?"

Turned out that the other owner, Chrissy (and her husband Scott) had met Olivia (who had the same name before we adopted her) when she was still litter mates with their pup, June.

When June and Olivia saw each other, they were...dare I use these words?...incredibly cute and adorable as they romped around the hill, unable to get enough of each other.

Since then, the two play with great and hearty joy whenever we all happen to be on the hill at the same time. Or whenever we bump into each other elsewhere, as we did this morning when Jack and I were strolling down Cortland after a visit to Martha's Coffee.

We took Olivia and June on over to Holly Park (or maybe I should say they took us) for some more breakneck running and rowdy "Gladiator" clashes, plus plenty of "I've got the pine cone now!" drama...all concluding with a little farewell kiss at the end.

I Never Get Tired of It

All this light inside, I never get tired of it. That's why I take the needle out three times a week and inject the mysterious mistletoe into the fat of my abdomen. That's why I dance with the dog. That's why I almost cry when I see the silhouette of a vase of flowers on the dining room wall. I never get tired of all this music, either — from Joshua Bell and the Royal Philharmonic Orchetra to Susie Suh.

Nor do I ever get tired of all this dark inside, of all this lack of melody. I step into a room void of sound, feel how alone I am, breathe in the quiet, and am content. No, it's more than content. I am saved.

I never get tired of the play between lights and shadows, riches and poverty. Look at the lovely flicker of the stovetop flame, then run from that man you see lurking on the midnight corner. Run home. That's why I keep on compromising, dancing with my unpredictable cells. That's why I'm furious with the doctors on Tuesdays but blessing them on Wednesdays.

Never do I become tired of all there is to be tired of. This is my mantra: No black or white, ever. Rather, infinite shades of gray, buoyed by the occasional, unpredictable burst of after-the-rain color. That's all I know or allow.

I make a small, mental thank-you bow to the crush of red tissue paper inside the little bag from Joseph Schmidt Confections, and to the bites of chocolate tucked inside that red, on this my 54th Valentine's Day, 1:22 p.m., 2007.

Valentine's Day Balm

My friend Ms. Toby sent this "unconditional love" link today, and I'm passing it on.

Garage Portrait

My Olivia and Jack, just hangin' out in the "shop" gettin' their pictures took... (and then futzed with in PhotoShop).

Isn't it cool how you can make a photo look like pen and ink? I'm sure that real photographers and graphic designers can do incredible things in PhotoShop; I don't understand 90 percent of the options/tools, but even so, playing around with it is fun. If you click on the photo and enlarge it, you can really see the pen and inky (or paint brushy) details.

Quilt Walking

It only recently occurred to me (duh) that if people ask me a question when they post a comment to this blog, I can answer that question by posting another COMMENT. I did that, for example, yesterday.

Quilt Walk

Red Leaves and Wet Mascara

Red Leaves and a Peach

Red Leaves in the Rain

Hodge Podge

Here's what I ordered from Three Stone Hearth this
week:

Chicken in rose petal sauce
Blushing carrot soup
Coconut rice with fresh coconut shavings
Creamed greens
Braveheart beef patties
Chocolate smooches
Chicken broth
Cultured- beet kvass tonic
Coconut oil

Yum. So tasty and fun and EASY.

What else? The night before last I caught part of a
KQED television show that I'd never seen
before called "Spark," which also has a website. I
liked it! The episode I saw featured the
photography of an Oakland artist named Todd
Hido (I especially liked his "Homes at Night"
and "Landscapes" series, and the equally
intriguing "Mundane Journey" conceptual bus
tours created by San Francisco artist Kate
Pocrass. I sent her an email saying I want to be
notified of the next tour. This is my idea of a truly
fun, quirky thing to do. I might try to round up a few
friends ro go with me and Jack (hint hint).

You can watch Spark on Comcast Cable Channel
191. The Hido/Pocrass episode I stumbled upon
is going to be shown again today, Sunday, at 7 p.m.

What else? Um, well, I discovered another song I
like; it's in the soundtrack to a movie, Unhook the
Stars, that starred Gena Rowland, whom I love,
and Marisa Tomei. The song
(same name as the movie) can be found on a 1996
Cyndi Lauper album called Sisters of Avalon (and
was written by Lauper). I paid the 99 cents to
download it from iTunes. Here are the lyrics, but
you really need the music too. (I don't know much
about Cyndi Lauper, truth be told, but I'm wondering
now if I should further investigate her talents.)

"Unhook The Stars"


Just when everything's in order and good, things
fall apart

Just when life should be resolving I'm back at the
beginning,

And it comes back to the heart ...

I'm not really sad ... I'm not running, I'm looking ...

Did I tell you I've saved all your letters and cards ...

There's just nothing left for me to do here but unhook
the stars ...



Do you remember when I told you all that I could and
it seemed like too much ...

Well I was living your life hoping you'd never fall ...

If I held on tight enough ...

And letting go now is like a passport to anywhere ...

With time on my hands I can make a new start ...

I just didn't want to stay here and unhook the stars

I just didn't want to stay here and unhook the stars



Don't worry for me it's just I'm inspired

Waiting in the wings made me drunk with possibility

It rivals my memories ...

Me Being Perverse Again

Whenever someone gives me a semi-sorrowful, solicitous look and says, "How are you FEELING?" my first impulse is to say, "Annoyed with you for asking me this question."

I know this is a completely unreasonable response. What would I prefer that people say? Nothing? No inquiry at all? No. It helps that people care. It's just that I feel compelled, every time I get this question, to give the real, complicated and not-so-rosy answer: "Well, uh, I feel 'fine' except for the various shitty side effects of various shitty treatments, and except for the stress of constantly fighting with my health insurance company, and except for the stress of having to pay thousands of dollars a year out-of-pocket for alternative treatments that health insurance won't cover, and except for the reality that you can't "cure" breast cancer, and except for the fact that, beneath my normal-looking surface, I feel constantly afraid that it's going to recur or metastasize, or that it already has but I just don't know it yet.

"But yeah, I'm fine, really. I mean, I didn't have chemo and go bald and lie around in bed for months feeling sicker than a dog. And I had no radiation, so experienced no exhaustion or infections from that, either. And I'm not yet being obviously eaten alive by tumors that are spreading all through my body, destroying my organs one by one, breaking my bones, pressing on my spine, addling my brain, causing me unspeakable pain.  I guess it depends on how one defines "feeling" or "fine."   

Or I could give the simple but incomplete and misleadingly rosy answer: "Oh, I feel great! They got it all when they did the lumpectomy. (I don't bother to mention the re-excision to extend the margin of the lumpectomy, or the fact that even the second margin was only .2 millimeters when it should have been at least 2 millimenters, or the fact that the concept of  "getting it all" is pure bullshit because you can never get every single little cancer cell, and by the time they do the surgery, some of those cancer cells have almost certainly already escaped via your lymph glands and/or blood, to the rest of your body. Or if they haven't escaped (highly unlikely), then the surgery itself will often CAUSE them to escape, because it stirs them up and sets them free. Look it up. Studies abound, but our surgeons neglect to mention this. I found this out only AFTER the surgery had been done.)

"Technically, however, I'm what they call NED, No Evidence of Disease. This is different from being 'cured.')

But back to what I was saying about the "How are you FEELING?" question. I know I'm being picky here. I'm quibbling over word selection. What would I prefer that people say? Maybe: "How's it going, Jane?" or "Hey, Jane. You look fabulous. Whatever you're doing to keep the cancer at bay seems to be working. I know it must be a scary thing to live with breast cancer day in and day out, but you're doin' great. By the way, I've been meaning to ask, Do you need any extra money to help pay all those giganto medical bills? Here. Take some of mine. I don't really need it."

As I write this I see even more clearly how ridiculous my reaction to the question is. People are just being nice, for godsake. How could they possibly know the perfect thing to say? I certainly wouldn't, if our roles were reversed.

Besides, there is no right or perfect question. On the one hand, I don't want to be perceived as being "sick" That's a crappy stigma to have, as we all know. On the other hand, I don't want to be perceived as "well," either, because I'm not. Not really. I'm in a murky Limbo Land. And to allow myself to be perceived as "all well, now" would be to allow the misconceptions about breast cancer to continue unchecked. It would be to encourage ignorance rather than knowledge.

If you take 10,000 women with breast cancer, 2,000 of them will die of that breast cancer within five years of their diagnosis. Quite a few more of them (I don't know the statistic, it's probably still evolving as the years go by and more data is gathered) will die of cardiovascular disease caused by their radiation treatments or caused by serious hormonal imbalances that could have been corrected if they had not been ordered to stop their hormone replacement therapy (which, I should add, should be supervised, bioidentical and cyclical).

Others will die of other cancers caused by their radiation treatments. Others will die, technically, of some other cause...but the root of that cause will be the fact that their general health was so badly damaged by the toxic chemo or radiation or tamoxifen or raloxifene or... you get my drift.

So. Conclusion:

"How are you feeling, Jane?"

"I'm feeling fine, all things considered. Thanks for asking. I appreciate it."

From Behind My Curtain

Last week was crazy busy for me because it was the first week of Winter Session 2007 classes at the Writing Salon. This is the beginning of my ninth year in business.  It's hard for me to believe this fact. Before I started the WS, I had never owned a business. Talk about a learning curve! The only LC I've ever been through that was steeper was the Motherhood curve.

I'm writing this now from my little "office-behind-the-curtain" (call me the Wizard of Writing Salon-Oz) as the Intro to Fiction class is about to end on the other side of the wall. It's 9:15 p.m. and the reason I'm still here instead of around the corner at Jack's house/our nest is that Jack's Internet connection has been down for the last three days. I'm accustomed to having Internet access 24/7, so this has been a gargantuan pain in the neck. I've been running back and forth between the two houses a lot more than usual, at much stranger hours, in order to keep getting my virtual reality fixes...and keep running the biz.

Anyway, I can't think what to say because I'm brain dead and am attempting this only because I've been slacking off again re: daily postings, and Ms. K or Ms. Mass might disapprove.

***

Ooops, never finished the post last night. Couldn't keep my eyes open. Dragged myself back to Jack's and took my melatonin (a good breast cancer fighter, so they say) and some kombucha (a good immune booster, so they say) and another palm full of pills, then went to bed. Now it's 7:30 a.m. and I'm back over here with a steaming cup of coffee that I carried over from Jack's, and am checking emails and petting a loudly meowing Reecy and gearing up to finish preparing the 1099 tax forms that I'm late sending out to more than two dozen teachers.

I also want to do and send my daily write to Ms.K, my NYC writing partner. But first I have to go BACK to Jack's to take my cod liver oil along with the first batch of pills for the day, which must be taken on an empty stomach: wheat germ capsules, Vitamin D3, CO Q10, and testosterone. Then six droppersful of Chinese herbal extracts. Twenty minutes after that, I can eat breakfast and take the second batch of pills, most of which must be taken with food: Immuplex, Super Eff, Mammary PMG, Spanish Black Radish, Iodoral (iodine), curcumin and glucosamine sulfate.

Breakfast will probably be preceded by chicken broth, and will include sauerkraut and coconut oil or raw butter and protein and a vegetable (I'm thinking maybe the Japanese black-eyed pea and salmon soup from Three Stone Hearth) instead of a pastry.

By the time I get all of that down the hatch, it'll be way later in the morning than I want it to be. Probably some time between 10 and 11 a.m. At that point, I'll race back over here to try and finish the 1099s before the mailman arrives.

So. Year number nine has begun. And I've been doing this breast cancer blog (which evolved out of my earlier and no-longer-very-active blog, Writing Salon Mistress Muses) since...Sept. 18, 2005. Time does fly.

37th Place

"According to the World Health Organization (WHO), America is the 37th healthiest nation in the world. Basically the American Medical Association's team is in 37th place. When was the last time you took the word of a 37th place team as Gospel?" —Steve Plog (Founder, Results Project)