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    Yesterday, I had the loveliest afternoon and evening.  I went and saw the Bodyworlds exhibit  with my husband, my dear friend Susan, and new friend Kit.  It was nothing less than amazing.  Bodyworlds is an amazing display of the human body in movement, health and also in disease.  The technology is plasticized  human cadavers donated to science.  They are beautifully and reverently displayed, and utterly fascinating.  Interspersed with the specimens were elegant displays of relevant information.  Susan and I are both massage therapists, so we were like little kids in a store full of chocolate, greeting the bones, muscles and nerves like old friends.

    After the exhibit, we came home and watched a fascinating movie called “The Living Matrix”, about what they called “Informational Medicine”.  The theory is that illness is scrambled information, and that by restoring the natural blueprint to the bodymind, health can be restored.  It’s a complex topic too big to go into here, but the nugget that got me thinking was the discussion about the Placebo Effect.  One doctor pointed out, if the placebo effect is documented to aid healing up to 30% of the time, why aren’t we using it?

    In my case, I don’t think that belief itself changed anything about my disease.  I think instead that the focus of my belief sent powerful messages to my body, which engaged my own healing response.  I am deeply grateful that my doctors, and my mom, used their own Informational Medicine.

    For whatever reason, I believed with all my heart that I would survive.  I don’t know exactly why I did.  The story I made up served me.  I believed for myself that if I got the lesson, the teacher would leave and not return.  I believed that what I was being asked to do was learn to really love myself, to open my own heart to me.  I asked for any karma I had coming to make it’s way to me right then, in February of 2007.  I decided to receive all that anyone wanted to give me.  I used every tool I knew of to heal my whole life.  This was and is my belief.  I believe that staying on this path will keep me well.

    What I did not know was that this story I was using to empower myself was fragile indeed.  Any doctor could have deflated it easily, with one thoughtless comment or practical observation.  The facts (the statistics) were not in my favor, the truth of which I was blissfully unaware.  How did this happen?

    It started with Dr. Borofsky.  She did not tell me what she thought I had.  She said that it was “very possibly” a cancer, and that we would know more when I received my full diagnosis.  I was scared out of my mind.  I asked her tearfully, “am I going to die?”  Now there’s a silly, loaded question!  Even bolder was her answer.

    “No.  No you’re not”.  She said it with a firm shake of her head.  I believed her.  If she had lied, oh well, I wouldn’t be around to scold her for it!  I believed her implicitly.  I asked her about it later, and she laughed.  She said that what she meant was,

    “no, not now, not on my watch!”  It was good enough for me.

    When Dr. Brown told me my diagnosis, she did not express dismay when she said the words “Stage IIIC Inflammatory Breast Cancer”.  It rolled off her lips like “it’s raining today, shall we eat inside?”  When I asked for a prognosis, she said, “we’re optimistic”.  That’s all I could get out of her.

    Dr. Metkus wouldn’t give me statistics either.  She said, “why do you want statistics?  What good would they be?  No one has ever studied Elizabeth Danu before.”  My friend Flo told me that she had mentioned me to Dr. Metkus, and that the doctor had observed, “she’s a survivor”.

    My mom totally censored the information she sent my way.  The 25-50% survival rate for Inflammatory Breast Cancer never reached my ears.  Instead, she sent me snippets of things that gave hope, and posts from long term survivors on the IBC support list.

    My doctors, and the people who love me, conspired to keep me in the dark about what might frighten me, and they fed me what gave me strength and courage.

    Never worry about giving someone “false hope”.  No hope is false!  There are exceptions to every statistical curve.  This is why I read and re-read “Remarkable Recovery”.  It was full of stories about people who disproved the statistics, and did what they knew would heal them.  A basic principle that I learned years ago is, it’s true if it works!

    My paradigm worked for me, and I am so grateful that the healers in my life supported my belief.  This is the Placebo effect at work, deliberately.

    This site is about Informational Medicine Power.  Take what gives you strength, makes you laugh, brings hope, or whatever else you want, and disregard the rest.  Reality is overrated!

    Today I realized that I had neglected my self care. I knew this because I discovered that I had become out of touch with myself. This discovery came when I took the time to settle in again.

    Self care is not something I do because it is the right thing. I don’t do it because I am terrified of recurrence, which is of course a legitimate fear. I don’t do it because somebody wags a finger at me and says, “please take care of yourself!” It certainly is a challenge to do it. I do forget, lose track, neglect my own needs for something I feel to be more important, like an idea that has run away with me, handling some kind of family upheaval (my children are at each other’s throats again) or omigod so much to peruse on the internet that can’t wait until tomorrow.

    So why? Why is self care so important, if not for the reasons I have just stated?

    Some months ago, some of my survivor friends and I were discussing self care and why it is so hard to do, why we fight against ourselves to do it. All kinds of reasons came up for not doing it. We were all aware that it was vitally important if we wanted to stay well. We decided to do some guided imagery. We entered into our heart space to explore. What came out of that journey is the picture I’ve included in this post.

    For me, self care is love in action. When I care for the temple that houses my spirit, my spirit is happy. When my spirit is happy, I will expand, take risks, be creative, give back. When my heart is open I will find my own treasures there, and share them. When my body is rested, well fed and tranquil, my mind is not so cluttered and I can be patient and focused. In this way I have more to give to others and to myself. In this way everything I give to others is mine also.

    “self care is the key to the treasures of my heart”

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    Reading that old Caringbridge entry reminded me again of how grateful I am to my strong, resilient body.  It took such good care of me for so long.  I was under duress for so many years, I really can’t blame my precious body for letting in that intruder.  I met him in a dream, and he was wild.  Not smart, but crazy, aggressive, and scary as hell.  He was in my house, waving a broom to bludgeon me with.  He was only in the front hall.  He hadn’t made it upstairs, into the living room, or the kitchen.  In my dream, I ran outside in terror to get reinforcements.  I knew I couldn’t get him out myself, but I knew that the four men outside would come in and carry him out.

    I had that dream in the morning on the first day of chemotherapy.  I hadn’t had my PET scan yet, but after the dream I was confident that I was safely at Stage III, only locally advanced.  Steve suggested that I attack the wild man with fierce little monkeys.  Always ready to run away hand in hand with my imagination, I decided that I didn’t even want to see the scary bald man with the sharp teeth in my house.  I imagined him in a vast, empty white space, being slowly put to sleep until he was in a coma.

    Then, I changed the image to a beautiful landscape, vast and green, with dozens of little waterways running through it.  Marring this scene was a huge, ugly gray slag heap, with two smaller ones next to it.  As the Adriamycin and Cytoxan entered my veins, an army of busy little purple Ewoks, chattering and busy, marched in and went to work on those slag heaps.  I decided that they needed some bigger, stronger help, so I called in the Wookies.  It was a busy scene there!  They loaded up the mess that came off the heaps into barges, which were carried away.  Every time I had an infusion, there would be a couple of days when my breast would flush, and be extra red.  Then it would subside and the sheet in my breast would feel softer and smaller.  These tumors went from 11 centimeter and 2 plus centimeters to half a centimeter and less than a millimeter by the time I had surgery.  This was the AC.  I came up with different visuals for the Taxol and herceptin when that time came.

    I was of course concerned about white blood cells.  I watched another man get sent home, unable to have his treatment, because his white blood cell count was low.  I knew that I could not allow that to happen to me.  I could not give the aggressive cancer I was fighting any opportunity to regroup and become resistant.  Not one bad cell could survive!  So I needed those white blood cells and I needed plenty of them.

    Oh, they were so beautiful!  I love my white blood cells.  They emerge from the rich brown earth (my bones) and take shape in pairs.  They are strong and powerful, a male and a female sent out into the world of my body to keep it safe.  They look like greek gods, dressed in tunics of white and gold.  They are very tall, and they have wings.  They are noble, and they are relentless.  Any intruder is destroyed immediately with a beam of gleaming light like a thousand suns that comes straight from their hands.  If two of them are not enough, they communicate telepathically to other pairs of guardians, until there are enough to surround the threat completely.  I still to this day am aware of, and grateful to these majestic and fearsome protectors of my body.

    By the fourth infusion, my neulasta dose was cut in half.  When I started Taxol and it was neupogen (a slightly different medicine) I needed a reduced dose of that one as well.

    I met my objective.  My treatments were uninterrupted.  My body stayed the course, and I will always appreciate my body for it’s loyalty and patience.  I admire it so much for not allowing that terrifying breast cancer past my lymph nodes to escape into my organs and bones.  I am amazed and grateful that it withstood years and years of relentless stress before succumbing to a persistent invader.  Even then, my body was still there for me, and I finally learned how to be there for her.

    My beautiful white blood cells are still there, protecting me.

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