Why was I not surprised when the technician screwed up the mammogram? Somehow the mammogram got stuck in the machine. After finally extracting the jammed plate, another plate was needed. Another dose of “harmless” radiation, “just to make sure we’ve got it right this time,” was not exactly what I needed.
“How often do you get it right the first time?” I asked, but got no answer. Before leaving, I told the radiologist that he would hear from my lawyer. My lawyer said that exposing me to repeated radiation constituted malpractice. That ended the first clown show.
Doctor #2 went right into my breast with a needle probe. He explained, “If it’s just a cyst, we’ll see clear cystic fluid come out when the needle is removed.” No such fluid came out. Up to this point I was anxious, but with this new drama I was petrified.
“Well, we can do another mammogram or go right in for a biopsy,” the doctor said. I replied angrily, “No, you won’t.” He had made it sound like he was about to take out the garbage. I told him to find another profession. Needless to say, I walked out on Clown #2. He did not even have the courage to bill me.
After discussing these ‘alien encounters of the worst kind’ with Paul and close friends, I decided to learn all I could from women with similar experiences. Reading some books about breast cancer put me in control again. From that point on, I took possession of my own body.
My first impulse was to have it all cut out as fast as possible, as the medical ‘cut-ups’ advised. But I soon realized that I was experiencing a doctor-inspired panic attack. Fortunately, I took the time to consider other alternatives.
Talking to experienced patients and reading about alternatives, made me suspicious of surgery. Now I’m convinced that surgery, radiation, and, especially chemo, do more harm than good.
The so-called War on Cancer was really a war on women. Cancer specialists were hell bent on killing the body to kill the cancer. It seemed to me that doctors were killing people to save their own professional pride.
How much time could I afford to take? A biopsy might reveal the extent of my condition, I thought. I began to make arrangements for a biopsy. The long consent form described biopsy as a form of surgery. At the bottom of the form, in fine print, was a clause stating that a mastectomy would immediately be performed if the growth appeared malignant.
The inquisition is subtle. It leads you to your destruction by a series of small, seemingly innocuous steps. The inquisition persuades; it does not force. You find yourself drawn willingly by the magnet of fear to your own destruction.
One can avoid the medical inquisition simply by not taking the first step. The callousness and patronizing attitude of the medical staff finally crystallized my distrust. I tore up the biopsy form and walked out on that option.
One book contained a survey of doctors. The overwhelming preference was to perform biopsy and mastectomy together, as it’s considered a major source of cash flow. “The patient must be made to believe that it’s better not to take chances.” That sentence was from a prominent medical journal.
Paul’s close friend and business associate referred me to Emanuel Rivici, MD, a Swiss practitioner in Manhattan. Dr. Rivici has treated thousands of cancer patients since the 1920s with considerable success.
The method he used is called: Biologically Guided Therapy (BGT). BGT evolved over 50 years of research practice in Switzerland and America. BGT analyzes the patient’s specific condition and attempts to harness the body’s natural immune system, non-destructively. It treats cancer and other biological imbalances by a series of body fluid tests.
BGT therapy is designed around the person’s specific biology. In my case, a series of organic buffered selenium treatments, along with diet (no meat) and exercise (yoga), cleared up my condition in six weeks. The lump disappeared with no ill effects, never to return.
Dr. Rivici charged $35 for the first visit and $15 for each of four subsequent visits. He was by this time in his 80s with a staff of MD’s to assist him. He gave us a number of reprints of his research.
Paul and I were greatly impressed with this biochemical approach that worked so well. The good doctor was head of Oncology at a major New York hospital, until he was ‘retired’ because of his unorthodox treatments.
With his medical-biochemical background, Paul understood the biological treatment approach better than me, and he explained it to me so that I came to understand it. Here’s my understanding of Biologically Guided Therapy:
It was a biological approach, treating cancer as a multitude of biochemical cellular injuries. For various reasons, normal oxygen metabolizing cells become anaerobic (poisoned by oxygen). The anaerobic cells become acidic and cancerous.
Restoring biological balance is the treatment objective. Except for digestive acids, the body is mildly alkaline. When the normally alkaline tide of the cellular environment shifts to an acid tide, biochemical imbalances make good cells go bad. Thus, alkaline cells become acidic and cancerous.
It’s comparable to the environment. When lakes or fields become acidic, they can be restored to normal alkalinity balance by adding a combination of buffers. Land can be restored by adding limestone. Lakes are restored by adding mixtures of baking soda, limestone, and caustic soda.
A similar approach is taken with body chemistry. The human body has similar levels of alkalinity as sea water. As life on Earth evolved from the sea, it stands to reason that our blood has a similar buffer system with the same composition of buffers as sea water.
Similarly, the trace metals in our body are in the same proportion as in sea water. When we came onto land, we brought the ocean with us in our blood and body fluids. The main buffer in sea water and our body is sodium bicarbonate, or baking soda.
The lump in my breast provided a flirtation with fate, as well as a whole new level of awareness. My knowledge and interest in my body greatly expanded, and now I paid more attention to Paul’s research and his writing.
In the past, if his aerograms got too technical, I’d skip those parts. Now I read everything he wrote and found, with some effort, the understanding that I’d missed before. I saved all his old aerograms and re-read them when I get home. No longer did I laugh at his ideas and theories—well I laughed at them at first, but now I pestered Paul until he explained so that I could understand.
Paul has a cyst on his back that I was aware of since we were intimate. He has consistently ignored the lump—joking, “It’s all behind me, on my back, get it, ha, ha.” The last time I came home, one of the first things I did was scheduled an appointment with the Stockton Family Clinic.
Since we’ve been together, Paul habitually ignored all his skin issues. His skin is light and quite sensitive to the sun and fungus. For this reason he needed to leave the South. This is a great contradiction since he is quite health conscious as far as “body-building” and nutrition are concerned.
He is attentive to me and the boys, but not with himself. In the past I usually let it slide. But since coming face-to-face with my own mortality, I no longer tolerate his dangerous habit.
The doctors examined the lump and pronounced it a harmless lipoma (fat deposit). They assured us it’s never malignant, but if it becomes annoying or painful it can be cutout in the office. I vowed never to let Paul ignore stuff like this again.
With my health restored, I was ready to devote my attention to the Afghan trade. Prior to my next trip, aerograms were sent back and forth every few days by my Afghan partners. My friends in Kabul were busy collecting the items and contacts I needed. A few days before flying to Kabul, ten large metal trunks and burlap bales arrived. Most of the consignment was pre-sold. My clients, especially the museums, knew that it was getting difficult to obtain Afghan tribal artifacts.
Again, landing at Frankfurt, the Mercedes bus took us to Dharma’s farm outside of Zurich. We were once again a caravan of six vehicles preparing for an overland trip to Kabul. In addition to the Mercedes bus, we were joined by a tiger-striped double-deck VW Microbus, a lar
ge Overland and three other VW campers.
Altogether, we numbered 30 travelers, mostly Sannyasins, but also business travelers such as me. I was the only American. Our little band of pilgrims consisted of Japanese, Germans, Swiss, Australians, Brits, Dutch and Canadians, mostly young couples.
Along with Dharma, Versant and Satya, the caravan organizers, most were heading for the ashram outside of Delhi. There, they planned to dedicate their lives to their spiritual guide. They hoped to continue the great work of saving thousands, perhaps millions of souls.
They actually didn’t save souls; they ‘recycled’ souls. That’s what reincarnation is all about, recycling soul energy. At least that’s my understanding, or as Einstein said about quantum physics theory, ‘It’s not wrong, just incomplete.’ This was Paul’s contribution to my expanding knowledge.
In addition to the spiritual purpose of our journey, there were the not-so-laudable business interests that had to remain in the background. Even the most spiritual had their bread and butter interests, which often included hash or grass.
One couple, deeply into opium, smoked and ate it to the point of opium becoming their primary ashram (temple). During the weeks of our trip, the faces of the opium eaters reflected the peculiar patina of vacuous eyes and moist alabaster skin. They began to look more like statues than people. Cocteau would have loved these living statues for his film sets.
Compared with the unplanned buying of my first year in Afghanistan, each succeeding year sharpened my perspective. From an artsy-craftsy dilettante, I transformed into an internationally recognized dealer in tribal art. By 1977, my trade associates referred to me as Tycoon Lela. My family called me Typhoon Lela. I, however, considered myself a cocoon morphed into a butterfly.
The process of transformation was clearly defined, at least in my mind. There had been a series of distinct events, and it had been far from a gradual process. I was affected by changes that were rapid, distinct, and largely accidental—or were they? In the hundreds of aerograms that I exchanged with Paul, a pattern was discernible.
Essentially, a pattern of spreading tribal networking became clear. Meeting Kit, the politically savvy Australian nurse, provided the first meeting with Mike, the civil engineer and government minister. From that point on, it was like a stone dropped in a pond. The waves of contacts spread out.
Not that I forgot about the Afghan jewelry importer, my first supplier. I credited him with stimulating my interest in the Afghan trade. Beginning as a sales rep for my friends at Primitive Artisans, I acquired at least six different tribal art importers, before meeting-up with the Afghan jewelry importer.
Soon after starting as a sales rep, I bought a large Chevy van and filled it with samples, like a museum on wheels, building a sales route and refining my knowledge of tribal art along the way.
In time, I realized I could do much better on my own. All I needed was the self-confidence.
As I mentioned earlier, I called my jewelry supplier Flake because he ran a flaky business, and I would become increasingly anxious about getting involved in his suspected drug business. Most of all, I wanted to capitalize on my artistic taste and the customer following I built.
Noting the motivation for my first trip to Kabul, highlighted my extreme fear then, compared to the relative calm that developed as my business became successful. An important factor contributing to my success was that I never got involved with drugs. Most importantly, I avoided known druggies or shit-heads, as they were called.
I had to laugh as the ‘shit-head’ designation became a common part of the Pashtu language. My Afghan contacts continually warned me about the various merchants to avoid. The westerners sporting hippie gear were virtual walking drug advertisements.
While there were many hippies in Kabul on my first trip, by the second trip a few months later there were far fewer.
As I mentioned, my friend, Kit advised me to dress like an Afghan professional and business women. Blue jeans were quite common among Afghan men and increasingly so with Afghan women government workers.
I always wore Afghan women’s long sleeved tunics over my jeans. These usually had high collars covering the neck. Also, in public I made certain to wear a scarf covering my head and neck. As cosmetics were frowned upon, I wore none in the Middle East.
Most families, hotels, and eateries had at least one hajji proprietor. I got in the habit of pointedly establishing a respectful dialog with every hajji I met. For one dollar, I could request a hajji blessing. The hajji would put his hand on my head, say a short prayer, and, with his thumb, smear a rouge streak on my forehead. Thus, I was blessed, and so were my business dealings.
Hajji with rose
Without exception, all business contacts, new and old, told me that they felt blessed by doing business with a person so blessed by a hajji. Often I was asked, “What is your tribe?” I would smile and say, “I was born in America, but my mother was Turcoman, of the Osman-Ataturk clan.”
Some of the hajjis knew of this clan. A few mentioned that Osman Ataturks were Sufi Dervishes. “That’s true,” I replied, “For that reason my mother’s clan was expelled from Turkey in 1910.” Hajjis had great respect for Sufis.
[NOTE: Fundamentalist Muslims do not consider Sufis true Muslims.]
Now, two years after my first trip to Kabul, I was comfortable with my Afghan associates. I spent many hours with the same seller, sometimes days, haggling over kilems, jewelry, brass and copperware, as well as artifacts. Artifacts were antique art objects, often bogus.
The only problem I had on my first trip to Kabul had been with ‘artifacts.’ Most artifacts were forgeries, processed to look old. Whether they were genuine or bogus, they needed to have a museum stamp in order to leave Afghanistan. Rather than go through another hassle with officials, I avoided anything vaguely resembling an antique artifact.
Primarily, I was seeking unusual one-of-a-kind quality tribal art at a reasonable price. When it was made didn’t concern me. Once an agreement was reached, I paid cash on the spot. Most items were sold to boutiques and museums for their tribal art exhibits. A few items I could not bear to part with, and these I kept to display in our new home gallery.
After a few trips to Afghanistan, I was no longer dependent on the kindness of Mike, and at times I traveled with migrating tribes. Sometimes I met tribal clans in the towns they were passing through. If their textiles or decorative designs seemed uniquely appealing, I would ask my interpreter to negotiate travel with the tribe for a few days which would give me time to socialize.
Most of the migrating tribal clans had pickup trucks and motor vans, along with camels, donkeys, sheep, and goats. Different clans had unique textile patterns, much as Scottish clans do. The unique designs extended to clan camels. Camel decorations were often captivating, especially the eye protection.
Camel eye-glasses were handmade and leather-stitched to enclose dark blue glass and designed to fit snugly to protect from blowing sand and dust. In many ways they provided elaborate care for their camels. Light passing through dark blue glass calmed the camels. Camels with bruised foot pads were fit with heavy leather boots.
Camels provided camel-wool, still highly prized and priced. The finest paint brushes are still made with camel-hair. Camel milk is so rich that in Israel, camel milk ice cream has become an important specialty industry.
The migrating tribes would camp for days or weeks outside a town to sell, trade, and auction handcrafts and decorative textiles, as well as handmade jewelry. This was where I came into the picture.
Dyed and raw camel, sheep, and goat wool was mostly used by tribal artisans. Wool was seldom sold in bulk, keeping the price of quality wool high. The rocky land does not lend itself to wool ranching or any other type of large-scale ranching.
While I socialized for days with the clan families, once it seemed proper, I drove a hard bargain. By this time, with more than a few trips under my belt, I was a skilled trader. Haggling or bargaining was a necessary ritual in m
ost of the Middle East, and especially in Afghanistan.
Hanging out with the women for a few days usually provided me with a sense of what they would sell and what areas to avoid. I learned that one clan had quality turquoise, but would sell it only after the purchaser bought lots of other items. I knew enough Pashtu to understand that I should not mention jewel stones until they were first offered to me.
I began trading by offering some gifts from America, mostly jeans, but also cheap calculators and beef jerky. Then I would look around and point to something I liked saying, “My husband would love a prayer rug like yours.” My host would then insist on giving it to me as a gift, which I graciously accepted.
We would then sip some more tea, and I would say, “If you have older prayer rugs that are no longer used, I’d be happy to take them off your hands and pay you for your trouble.” We would dicker with price for half an hour. The host would ultimately sigh and whine, “I’m too old and tired for an energetic woman like you. Name your price so we can discuss other things.”
At that point I would offer a price halfway between my price and his. He would then smile and say, “Yes, you are too generous. How many dozen can you use?” For smaller items, such as camel bangles, I would take many hundreds, if available, at twenty-five cents each. For larger, more costly items, such as uniquely patterned saddle bags, I might take only a few dozen.
Textiles, brassware and jewelry were discussed last. If I spent over one hundred dollars, my host would show me the better jewelry and stones, mostly green turquoise and dark blue lapis. Some of the most highly prized lapis had thin gold veins running through it. Of these stones, I purchased as many as I could. They were popular jewelry items and rapidly sold out.
The initial baksheesh developed into a proper, ritually correct exchange of gifts. Each gift exchange, meeting, wedding, or birth that I was involved in cemented our relations more tightly.
The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan Page 11
