Cancer on Five Dollars a Day* *(chemo not included): How Humor Got Me through the Toughest Journey of My Life

by Robert Schimmel

  Because I have nothing to lose.

  One of the first things I try is Reiki, a Japanese method of stress reduction and healing. A friend of mine swears by it. Says he knows a Reiki master, someone who he claims can take away the bulk of my pain and kick out most of my cancer just by laying hands on me. I’m game. What do I have to lose?

  The Reiki master shows up one afternoon when I’m lying in my hospital bed, checked in because of a worrisome fever and a serious world of hurt. The master is a wispy woman who looks a lot like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. Thin, pasty face, shlumpy floor-length sundress, plunging neckline, and a gazillion beads around her throat and wrists that keep clanging, sounding like wind chimes. Right before the Reiki treatment, she removes the beads (keeps on the dress, damn it) and starts moving her hands all over my body. I think I hear her chanting or humming or murmuring, but I can’t be sure. Then she murmurs something about either giving me her energy or taking my money.

  Through it all, I’m trying to allow the Reiki in. I want the Reiki to penetrate. I jam my eyes shut and try to go with the flow, letting her run her hands over me, Reiking me all over the place. I want this nutty shit to work. I really do. If Reiki takes away some pain, I’ll become a Reiki convert and sell it in airports. I don’t care. So I try. I close my eyes and surrender.

  Right in the middle of my Reiki treatment, Dr. Lugo, one of the oncologists on the floor, walks in. He stops dead in his tracks. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Reiki,” I mutter.

  “Oh,” he says. “Uh-huh.”

  “She’s almost done,” I say.

  “I’ll come back,” he says. “Reiki on.”

  “He broke my rhythm,” Elvira says. “You want me to start over?”

  “Is it the same price?”

  “Well, no, I’d have to charge you for a whole new session.”

  “Can’t afford that. Pick up where you left off.”

  “Do you feel anything?”

  The comic in me wants to say, “My wallet feels lighter,” but I just say, “Yeah. Something. I don’t know. I feel a little lightheaded.”

  “That’s good, Robert,” Elvira says. “Very positive. You can’t get all the benefits of Reiki after only one treatment.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I figured.”

  Elvira steps back, assesses me with what appears to be a look of genuine surprise. “You know, a lot of people are skeptical. You have a really good attitude. Thank you.”

  “No,” I say. “Thank you.”

  Later, after the Reiki lady leaves, Dr. Lugo comes back in, carrying with him a slightly superior air. He swivels his head toward the door as if Elvira’s still standing behind him and says, “You don’t really believe in that stuff, do you?”

  The truth is, I don’t know. Yeah, Reiki seems a little off the beaten track, that’s fair to say. But just because Dr. Lugo thinks it’s a bunch of mumbo jumbo doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist. A lot of Western medical practitioners barely know anything about nutrition. I’ve often asked my doctors, “What if I eat this food and eliminate that one, will that help?” They shrug, admit ignorance. In my experience, they are, for example, much more comfortable prescribing antibiotics than touting antioxidants.

  So I just say, “You know what? I’m not sure what I believe. I don’t know if Reiki helps. I do know that it doesn’t hurt. It’s just hard for me to dismiss it and say it’s baloney.”

  Dr. Lugo’s not going to let this go. Guy’s a tad intractable. “I’m just saying that in purely medical terms—”

  “Here’s the thing.” I exhale deeply. Catch my breath.

  “What Reiki does for that hour while Elvira is humming and floating her hands all over my body is give me some peace. If that’s all I get out of it, one hour of peace, then it’s worth it.”

  “Well, okay, if that’s what—”

  Abruptly I sit up and, without realizing it, clamp my hand onto Lugo’s wrist like a handcuff. “Dr. Lugo, you can’t go twenty-four hours a day, each and every day, obsessing about your cancer. Nobody can. You need a break. It cannot be in your face nonstop. I can’t continually remind myself that if this doesn’t go away, I’m gonna die and I’m never gonna see my kids again. So if nothing else, Reiki distracts me. And that is worth everything.”

  Lugo swallows and nods. “I’m sorry.”

  “A lot of people believe in Reiki. I’m just saying, What the hell? Why not? But don’t worry. I draw the line. I’m not gonna waste my time having somebody do a rain dance in my bedroom. The stuff’s gotta make some sense.”

  He grins. “Well, that’s good to hear.”

  “Yeah. Rest assured. I’m not gonna sacrifice a goat in here or anything.”

  I release his wrist and fall back onto the bed. “She was kind of cute, the Reiki lady, in a stoned-out-sixties-acid-flash-back-mushroom-eating sort of way,” I say.

  “I guess so. I wasn’t born until 1970.”

  “You’re a child.”

  “Yeah. I got a lot to learn.”

  I drift off to sleep.

  And so begins a series of alternative, sometimes far-out distractions.

  I try acupuncture. I go to a Chinese woman in Phoenix who asks me to lie down on a table covered with what feels like butcher paper, then sticks about a thousand little needles into my legs, arms, stomach, ears, neck, and one in the middle of my forehead, the unicorn. She turns off the lights, fires up a couple of incense-burning candles, and puts on a Yanni CD.

  “See you soon,” she says and leaves the room.

  Immediately my thoughts turn dark, resting in that place I try to avoid, the place where all I can see and say is, I’m gonna die if this shit doesn’t work. Never gonna see my kids, never gonna see my parents, never gonna—

  And then she’s back. “How you doing?”

  “Okay.” She begins pulling the needles out and I manage a peek at the clock. Over an hour has gone by. “What? Are you kidding? You were gone for an hour?”

  “Yes. You were sleeping real good. Sorry I have to wake you up.”

  This may not sound like much, but between the throwing up and the worrying about dying, I don’t get a lot of sleep. It turns out that acupuncture is more than a distraction.

  It’s a gift.

  I have less success with meditation. I try various deep-breathing exercises from yoga. Nothing works. My mind sails off into thoughts of death, darkness, and despair, resulting in horrifying bouts with the Big A, anxiety.

  My parents want me to keep trying. Both are devotees of Transcendental Meditation and have been for years. They try to teach me how to block out everything in my mind and find nothingness. I close my eyes, focus on the color blue, and—nothing. I can’t do it. I’m a TM failure.

  “Ma, it’s not working.”

  “Try again, honey. It’s so worth it. Believe me.”

  “I’m sure it is. But I’m just not one of those people. I can’t clear my mind.”

  My mother looks around the room furtively, as if she’s a spy.

  “Okay, look, I’m not really supposed to do this,” she says,

  “but I’m gonna give you my mantra.”

  “Your mantra? Ma, I’m so touched.”

  “You can’t tell anybody because, well, you know—”

  She looks around again, peeks over her shoulder.

  “Why do you keep looking around like that? You think there’s secret mantra police? ‘Hey, where’d you get that mantra? That sounds an awful lot like the stolen mantra we gave your mom.’”

  “This is serious, Robert.”

  “What do think I’m gonna do, sell your mantra on eBay? I promise, it’s safe with me.”

  “I trust you,” she says. “Okay. Here.” She whispers her mantra into my ear. She steps back and gives me a knowing little nod. I nod back and mouth, “Thank you.”

  And then I try meditating using my mom’s mantra.

  Nothing. I just can’t block anything out. The next day I say to her, “It didn
’t work. Your mantra.”

  “You’re kidding. I don’t believe it. It never fails.”

  “Well, for you. For me, no.”

  “I’m so disappointed.”

  “Yeah, me, too. So, okay, how do I give it back?”

  “You can keep it. I got another one.”

  “Really? That’s so weird. I feel like we’re talking about a jacket.”

  Of all the conversations I’ve had with my mother, this one is by far the strangest.

  What does work, surprisingly, is guided meditation, also known as visualization. A friend tells me about a series of natural healing CDs that Dr. Andrew Weil has put out. Dr. Weil talks about the value of taking a cleansing breath, then following that by visualizing something that you really, really want. Which in my case is to live.

  Dr. Weil himself narrates the CDs in his soothing baritone, managing to sound urgent and folksy at the same time. He makes you want to listen and then makes you feel as if the information he has to impart is vital. I’m hooked. After getting the breathing down, I try a visualization, guided by his voice, following his instructions.

  “Close your eyes. Picture this. You’re down by the beach, and the ocean’s crashing onto the sand, and you can smell the salt in the air—”

  I’m pulled in by his words and caught up in the picture that I paint in my mind. I am swept up and carried away. For the next hour I’m gone, sunk into the sand by that beach, lost, out of my head and cocooned away, far from my worries and my cancer, as close to being physically transported to some exotic location as I could possibly be without leaving my room.

  When I come back from my hour at the beach, I feel relaxed, soothed, lightheaded. I start thinking, Being at the beach felt so real. But it wasn’t real. It was all in my head. So, then, what is reality? Isn’t the world you create in your mind reality, your reality? Do things really look the way they do? Or do we create things to look the way we want them? That’s called perception. Man, I am tripping.

  I do visualization every day. For me, it’s necessary. It amounts to a mini mind trip, a mental vacation. I always come back calmer, refreshed, and armed with new insight. My attitude shifts. I honestly feel that I am a lucky guy. The cancer has obviously upended me, thrown me for a loop, but it has also opened me up to so much that I could never have seen before.

  I begin to reorder my priorities. I see that all my relationships are shifting and deepening, and I accept that. And my perception of life changes. I don’t look at cancer as a punishment for what I have done or not done in my life. Cancer just is. As crazy as it sounds, if I get through the chemo and kill the cancer, I will be grateful to it.

  Vicki suggests that I try crystal therapy. She knows someone whose cousin is like the third-best crystal therapist in the Southwest.

  “What do I have to do?” I ask Vicki.

  “That’s the best part. Nothing. She comes to you. She brings everything, candles, music, and the crystals, of course. This could be very good for you, Robert. It’s all about connecting to your inner place of healing.”

  “I don’t know. I’m open to almost anything, but this sounds wacky.”

  “It’s not. Crystal therapy goes back thousands of years, to the ancient Hindus. Oh, one thing. She’s really booked up so the only time I could schedule her is tomorrow at two, and that’s when you’re supposed to be at the clinic.”

  “Yeah, no problem. Let’s cancel my appointment at the clinic so I can spend the afternoon with some crazy lady and her rock collection. Like I would ever do that.”

  So the next day at two I’m lying in bed with candles burning on my nightstand, while Inez, a woman in sandals and a flowing floral robe, hovers over me, her fists closed and bulging with crystals, Yanni singing from her portable CD player.

  By the way, I’m pretty sure I’ve discovered the cure for cancer.

  Yanni.

  If I beat this thing, it’s because the cancer cells couldn’t stand Yanni anymore. They packed up and got the hell out of my body as fast as they could so they wouldn’t have to listen to any more of that music.

  “How you doing, Robert?” Inez speaks in a superhigh voice loaded with sympathy. Her voice is birdlike. She chirps.

  “Fine. Doing great.”

  “That’s wonderful. Okay. What we’re going to do is locate your seven chakras. You know what a chakra is?”

  “An ice cream flavor?”

  Inez chirps, “Not quite. Your seven chakras are the areas in your body that need to be aligned and in balance to promote health and healing. They’re your meditative spots. Including, by the way, your third eye. Your disease blocks your chakras, clogs them up, so to speak. The crystals, specifically the one you choose, will help in the unclogging, alignment, and balancing. Understand?”

  I don’t have the vaguest idea what she’s talking about. “Got it,” I say.

  “Great. Robert, you’re very spiritual.” Chirp, chirp, chirp.

  “Okay, now close your eyes.”

  I do. I smell a whiff of strawberry wafting over from the candles. Behind me, Yanni’s yowling as if he’s got somebody’s thumb up his ass.

  “Now, I want you to hold out your hands. At the same time, I’m going to hold out a selection of crystals. With your eyes closed, pick one.”

  “What am I feeling for?”

  “The right one. For you.” She pauses. “I don’t have to say anything more. You’ll just know.”

  I shrug and close my eyes. I wonder how this would look to Dr. Lugo if he walked in now. Not sure I’d be able to explain the crystal lady to him. I might just go with, Okay, doc, here’s the truth. I’m an easy mark.

  “Robert,” Inez tweets, “the main thing is to clear your mind. Don’t think. Feel.”

  I nod and reach out my hand. My fingers fumble through the crystals in Inez’s hand, four or five cool, smooth, jagged little torpedoes. I touch each of them, and then I feel my fingers involuntarily closing around one near the hook of her thumb.

  “This one,” I say. “Yeah. This is the one.”

  “Perfect,” Inez trills.

  I open my eyes and observe the pale blue stone pressed into my palm.

  “You’ve chosen kyanite,” she says. “Kyanite is the absolute best stone for aligning the chakras. And it helps you communicate with your spirit guides and angels.”

  “Sounds like I’m already dead.”

  “Not quite,” Inez says.

  “Just curious,” I say, rolling my crystal around in my fingers. “How much does one of these cost? Roughly.”

  “The kyanite is one of your less expensive stones. The top price is only about eighty dollars. Then, of course, you can always add a setting, for a ring, say, or a necklace, and that’ll drive the price up. I actually brought a catalogue. We sell the stones, and accessories as well.”

  “Eighty bucks, huh? Seems like a bargain for something that allows me to communicate with my spirit guide.”

  “I know. Good thing you didn’t choose amethyst. Those can run you over two thousand dollars.” Inez laughs. Then shifts into a tone that’s all business. “Okay, Robert, I want you to lie down, close your eyes, hold your kyanite stone to your chest, and try to focus only on your crystal. Concentrate on it. Give it your full attention. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I’ll guide you through it,” Inez says.

  I happily go with her. She, too, chooses to send me off on a sandy beach under a soft, soothing blue sky. Fine by me. I love the ocean. I feel connected to it. In fact, I make a promise to myself right then, an instant before I drift off to the melodic sounds of Inez’s chirping.

  If I make it through this, I’m going to buy a house on the beach and I’m going to live there for a year, no matter what it costs. I don’t care if I have to sell my car and everything else I own. I’m going to do it. I owe it to myself. And I’m not going to put it off, because one thing I’ve learned, you never know what the future holds. You have to give yourself permission to
live life to its fullest. Living on the beach. That’s the one thing I have to do.

  Later I find out what it actually costs to live on the beach, and I say, “You know, living three blocks away isn’t that bad.”

  But for now, I’m gone, lost in the spell of Inez’s chirpy voice, in the smell of the strawberry candles, even in me-owing Yanni, because I know that while crystal therapy will not cure my cancer, it, too, like Reiki and acupuncture and all the rest, takes me on an hour vacation from the horror of the chemo and the madness that surrounds it. And that’s why I believe in it.

  I start keeping a journal.

  I get the idea from Nadine, the nurse at the infusion center. As usual, I’ve brought in muffins and doughnuts for the staff to share. Nadine tears the top off a blueberry muffin and pops bite-sized pieces into her mouth.

  “You have an unbelievable attitude,” she says, and then gives me a wonderful compliment. “We all look forward to seeing you. You brighten up the day.”

  “Thank you. That’s very nice. I try. Some days are easier than others.”

  Nadine pours a cup of coffee from a silver thermos she keeps handy. “Have you thought about keeping a journal?”

  I’m intrigued. “What would I write?”

  “I’m talking about an Oprah kind of thing. You wake up in the morning and you think of something good. Start your day that way. Write something positive.”

  “You mean, instead of, ‘Well, good morning, I’m up, and damn, I’ve got cancer, I’m dying, and if the chemo doesn’t work, I’m finished?’”

  Nadine smiles. “Yeah. Instead of that. Be honest. But look for something good.”

  I look at her, and now I smile. “A journal, huh? Why not? I’ll try anything.”

  I cover all my bases. I buy both a reporter’s notebook and several packs of three-by-five index cards. My idea is to write one positive thought per card. Frankly, I buy the index cards as a safety measure. What if I open up my reporter’s notebook and I have no positive thoughts? The blank pages will stare at me, depress me. Somehow the index cards are less intimidating. I needn’t have worried. The thoughts pour out of me unchecked, uncensored, unedited. I write until my fingers ache. The thoughts help me focus and keep me sane. I keep the cards with me. I read what I’ve written at various times during the day. I shuffle the cards, read them in a different order, find new meaning. In the course of my chemotherapy, I will write thoughts on hundreds of index cards. Here are just a few:• Learn to embrace my cancer. It is mine. I do not belong to it. Cancer might be a part of my life, but it doesn’t rule my life.