Here's a controversial discussion. Not everyone subscribes to the standard treatment of chemotherapy or radiation which is given to cancer patients. Suzanne Somers known as Chrissy on Three's Company, later as an author and business woman shares her perspective on what worked for her. Ms. Somers decided to take an unconventional approach in treating her cancer. An excerpt from her book Knock Out:
Chapter 1
A CANCER STORY—MINE
November 2008, 4:00 a.m. I wake up. I can’t breathe. I am choking, being
strangled to death; it feels like there are two hands around my neck
squeezing tighter and tighter. My body is covered head to toe with welts
and a horrible rash: the itching and burning is unbearable. The rash is in
my ears, in my nose, in my vagina, on the bottoms of my feet, everywhere—
under my arms, my scalp, the back of my neck. Every single inch
of my body is covered with welts except my face. I don’t know why. I
struggle to the telephone and call one of the doctors I trust. I start to tell
him what is happening, and he stops me: “You are in danger. Go to the hospital
right now.” I knew it. I could feel that my breath was running out.
No time to wait for an ambulance. We race to the emergency room. I
am gasping, begging for yet one more breath. I am suffocating. I am running
out of time. I don’t have time to think or be frightened; I can only
concentrate on getting one last breath. I am dizzy . . . the world is spinning.
Breathing is all I can think about.
We arrive. My husband has called the hospital in advance. They are
waiting for me. The emergency room workers—nurses, doctors, and other
professionals—are wonderful people. They have dealt with this before.
They are reassuring: “Okay, we’ll take care of her.”
As soon as I am in the emergency room they inject me with Decadron, a
powerful steroid. “Why can’t you breathe?” the ER doc seems to be
yelling in my ear, but I can’t answer. I am unable to get words out. They
inject me with Benadryl for the welts and the rash. Now I’m inside the
ER, but I still can’t breathe. I can’t even sit up. I am bent over trying to
find oxygen anywhere . . .
They put me on oxygen and albuterol to get me breathing, and slowly,
slowly, life returns. I am still grabbing for each breath, and there
are spasms in my lungs, like someone is turning a knob that pulls my
lungs inside out, but unlike before, the breath is there . . . labored but
there.
“We have to do a CAT scan,” he says. I already know that there are
large amounts of radiation inherent in CAT scans, and it bothers me to
think of doing that to my body. This is the first time I have had any pharmaceutical
drugs in me in eight years.
I always say, “I am not anti-pharmaceutical, but they should be saved as
the last tool in the practitioner’s back pocket.” My life was just saved by
pharmaceuticals. Maybe this is one of those times that radiation is justified
to find out what is wrong? Because something is seriously wrong. I
am healthy. I don’t know anyone who does more for her health than I do
on a daily basis. CAT scan . . . I don’t know.
I say to the doctor, “It seems to me that I’ve either been poisoned or am
having some kind of serious allergic reaction to something. I mean,
doesn’t that make sense? The rash, the strangling, the asphyxiation.
Sounds classic, doesn’t it?”
“We don’t know. A CAT scan will tell us. I really recommend you do
this,” the doctor says. “Next time you might not be so lucky—you might
not get here in time. You were almost out.”
I know that. I could feel the life going out of me in the car ride over.
“Okay,” I answer meekly. I am concerned and wary. My husband is with
me, holding my hands, rubbing them. His face is twisted with fear, concern.
Nothing is making sense.
A week ago, I was the picture of health. I hosted a beautiful evening at
my home for all the wonderful doctors who had participated in my bestseller
Breakthrough. It was a beautiful, warm evening, and together we all
celebrated health and wellness. The stars were out that night in full force,
and while the air was filled with the sounds of live musicians playing my
soft jazz favorites, the forty people at the table were enthusiastically conversing
about the possibilities of aging without illness; aging with bones,
brain, and health intact; dying healthy at a very old age. We were all
turned on. We had all realized it was attainable, and we were excited to
know that we had jumped on this incredible bandwagon in time.
This was an amazing group of people. These doctors were the courageous
ones who stepped out of the Western “standard of care” box to declare
that the present template of medicine is not working. Drugs are not
the answer. Drugs and chemicals are degrading the brains of our elders
and sneaking up on the unsuspecting young ones.
