The eclipse of cancer - by Maria Paraskeva

One of our lovely beneficiaries, Maria, talks about her personal cancer journey and how she nurtured herself back to health.

I found my medical file, dated 2010. In it there were scan results confirming a diagnosis of aggressive stage 4b NH Lymphoma with multiple “metastasis in the liver and peritoneum”. It was my eclipse, the sun blotted out by the moon, earth into a long night. There was plenty of light available to me, but I couldn’t see it at the time. I had just lost my mother to cancer, and the news of my cancer arrived just after my Mum’s funeral. All I wanted and needed at the time was to be left alone to grieve, to pay appropriate respect to her memory. She was my whole world and I was heartbroken. This determined very much what I chose to do next. Had I not lost mum I may have taken a different route.

The family had gathered around Mum’s bedside. Unbeknown to me, the hospital had tried a few times to contact me with the results of an MRI on the kidneys showing the spread of cancer. There followed more scans. I recall going to the hospital after Mum’s passing. The consultant was very sympathetic when he gave me my results and asked me, how was it that I was still standing? He insisted that I was admitted to hospital there and then. I was shocked to say the least. But I had known on a deeper level that things hadn’t felt right for some time. The effort to look after my dear mum had taken its toll and I was weary, scared and had a sense of impending doom.

I listened to my consultant and went back in the afternoon for admission into hospital. The hospital planned to perform immediate multiple biopsies to discover the primary tumours. I turned up to the ward and just as I was walking along the corridor, a cup that I’d brought with me, which had been given to me by my Mum, seemed to fly out of my hand and the little cat’s head on the cup split in two. That was enough for me to walk out of the hospital. I was nervous enough and very jittery. It was a good move as I had time then to research the best person to do the biopsy. I requested that person to perform the procedure a few weeks later, giving me time also to digest the news. The female consultant performing the biopsy, asked me if could she go in a second time and take more samples. I replied that once should be sufficient. I had a fear of too many biopsies spreading the cancer further. And most of all, I needed to feel comfortable at every stage of my decision making.

It is very interesting looking back at things from 7 years ago. It’s a real eye opener. I’ve forgotten how tough those days were. In this medical file, there are letters to and from consultants. My sister was good enough to take notes during my appointments. I didn’t trust myself, in the heightened state of mind that I was in, to actually take in all the facts. I was trying to assess all the time how I was feeling. What felt right and what didn’t. This was very frustrating for the doctors and for my family. I even signed a consent form to begin chemotherapy, twice in 3 months. Each time backing out. Each time I got close to accepting chemotherapy, I changed my mind. I was presented with worse case scenarios and foregone conclusions, that I wouldn’t make it beyond 2 or 3 months.

The first time I signed a consent form to begin treatment, the professor of the clinic I was in, took hold of his head and made as if to bang his head on the wall because he was despairing at my response. I had felt very sorry for him. Another scan had revealed possible intrusion into another organ. My family, father, brother, sister, began to push me to accept treatment. They argued convincingly that one death was enough, having lost Mum, they didn’t want to lose me too. I signed a second consent form. And again I backed out.

I faced a lot of resistance. The specialist in Alternative medicine was very clear too. In his opinion, the cancer was of the type and grading which made it difficult to be successfully treated with alternative means, even if I travelled to the best clinics in Europe. This wonderful doctor explained to me that his conscience would not allow him to do anything else but recommend chemotherapy. At first, he was reluctant to accept me as his patient.

Looking at this file now, I realise I couldn’t have acquired all the information without a lot of help. My sister was particularly good at research. And my brother and sister were good at keeping my spirits up. I listened as best I could. And each time I’d consider what I felt comfortable doing. There was no one around me who did not put pressure on me to start chemo.

In the folder I still have the protocol which I followed for a few months, devised by the doctor working in the Alternative cancer field. This was a very tough regime for me to follow… It involved intense juicing and lots of supplements. I administered coffee enemas daily to clean the liver. It was intense and I became worn out even more by simply trying to follow it. The alternative doctor was great though and he tailored it further, so that I wouldn’t abandon it altogether.

The pressure continued from all sides. It was difficult not to submit to the medical model, which could take over my care and simplify everything, and stop all the internal voices telling me that I wasn’t thinking straight. This was very compelling for me at the time. But I had a nagging doubt that I would not survive chemotherapy. There was the NHL and tumours in the liver and peritoneum. I realised that the primary organ to deal with the drugs administered, was the liver. And if the liver was in such a bad way, why injure it further? Somehow it didn't add up. And all along I didn't feel right about it, yet I did try so hard to convince myself otherwise.

I felt an overwhelming need to cultivate a feeling of safety, and to promote a sense of ease within. I had read the leaflets, listened to the experts, chased down the cancer survivors, friends who were on the way to recovery. I followed the dietary recommendations but felt uneasy about cutting out so many of the foods I enjoyed. It’s hard to say which of the practical things I did helped. But all this effort to keep things going was very draining. I was juggling it all whilst standing on my head upside down. That’s what it felt like. I couldn’t see myself in the scrabble for the facts and in the “doing of it all”. I was so driven to survive, to beat cancer, that I was in danger of undoing any good that I had achieved. I felt enormous pressure, which was a far cry from feeling at ease. It was inevitable that I would soon have to slow down.

It was a turning point of orientation, a shift, which in my opinion was the clincher. I had a new focus. I began to rediscover my practice of Qi Gong. The teacher of my style of Qi Gong (“Hua Gong”) taught me simple techniques of how to repair, contain and settle myself and make space for the real essence (life energy) to return to the body. I had quite a few “one to one” healing sessions with him also. I discovered the value of experiencing insubstantiality, a deep connection to source, whilst remaining deeply grounded. My energy field had been like a bucket with holes in it. Whilst on a Qi Gong retreat, my dreams returned to me and were very lucid. Through working with these dreams, I knew I was going in the right direction. I attended some shamanic ceremonies also but I’ll talk about this another time. Art therapy brought in the element of play and creativity. I didn’t have to paint or draw like Rembrandt. I simply let my unconscious reveal itself and had a lot of fun doing it, whether it was a scribble or something finer. (I’ve had some brilliant art therapists, who were so good, and helped me greatly, that it was like magic.) Art and all creativity was a seam of gold and still plays a massive role in my recovery.

So, I slowly nurtured myself back to health. I was less fearful and I had a sense of being at ease. And this flickering light of peace and feeling safe, and supported by the universe was the single most valuable feeling I could hold on to. I have a very close friend who has been living with untreatable cancer for many years. Her vitality, her clarity of mind is truly inspiring. She has advised me that the best thing I could do for myself was to get out of my own way. Very wise words. In fighting cancer, without realising it, I became the biggest obstacle to my own healing.

Looking back now, I realise that I simply gave my body a better chance of coming back to itself. I know of people who have also achieved miraculous recovery through chemotherapy. I can only describe my own journey, as it is so individual a journey. The turning point of orientation brought in freshness. I still try to immerse myself in nature, to be amongst trees. Getting fresh air as often as I can. Cultivating good friendships. Not holding on to grievances. I also found myself a good talking therapist and I have regular acupuncture, (I found a good healer who uses both acupuncture and herbs). Friendship, laughter and the full expression of joy, allowing grief and sadness to appear and dissolve, all play a huge role in recovery. And actually, is a good way to live, cancer or no cancer.

If only I had known about this amazing charity, “Yes to Life”, before. I may have run around a little less. I’m now an ardent supporter of theirs. All the money and the focus go on treatments. A charity such as “Say Yes to Life” provides a life jacket for all those who need support through diagnosis to remission to recovery and wellbeing.