Beating Cancer Nature's Way

[Guest guest]

http://www.thenhf.com/newsflash_20.htm

 

Beating Cancer Nature's Way

 

January 4, 2004

Provided by the Alliance for Natural Health

 

 

 

 

In a week that's seen the deaths of Bob Monkhouse,

Alan Bates and Dinsdale Landen, all victims of cancer,

here is a story of one man's successful - if

unorthodox - struggle against the disease.

 

By Tony Jackson

 

The dull ache in my groin and the appearance of a

small amount of blood should have sent me rushing to

the doctor. But it didn't. I hoped it would go away.

The mind, that master of self-deception, invented an

endless list of ridiculous possibilities.

Diverticulitis, irritable bowel, ulcerative colitis,

haemorrhoids, washing-up scourer. Anything but cancer.

That happened to other people.

 

Eventually, cornered by unimaginable pain, I dragged

myself to my GP who referred me for tests. Following a

colonoscopy, I was informed that a tumour blocking my

colon was so advanced it had prevented passage of the

camer a. My blood had also tested positive for

hepatitis C. I was a mess. The doctors explained that

an appointment had been made to arrange for urgent

surgical intervention during which any further spread

would be assessed.

 

'You mean that you want to take out half of my colon

without knowing the full extent of my condition,' I

gasped, visions of colostomy bags filling my mind's

eye. The pressure to conform was intense. I wanted six

weeks to think about it, I told the doctors. 'You

probably don't have that long to live,' they said.

'Immediate surgery, chemotherapy, radiotherapy is the

only cure. Everything else is snake-oil quackery.'

 

One in two people in the West will be afflicted with

cancer at some point despite the trillions of dollars

spent on decades of research. I wanted better odds

than those. I took my six weeks. In fact, in the end,

I took three months.

 

Returning home, I decided to take time to go deep into

myself mentally in order to make what was probabl y

the most crucial decision of my life. Sitting back, I

took a breath and let go.

 

When I'd left behind the chatter of a restless mind,

something remarkable happened. I felt as though I was

embraced by a vibrant stillness, a feeling that would

stay with me for the next 20 months. In that very

moment, I knew I had reached the heart of listening

that lies at the core of the healing process and that

whatever happened it was going to be OK.

 

A lifelong interest in holistic therapies meant that I

could make informed choices. I'd read a book by a Dr

Max Gerson about his successful use of nutrition in

the cure of chronic metabolic diseases and advanced

cancers. He recommends the use of copious, freshly

made organic vegetable juices, detoxing coffee enemas

and intense supplementation designed to help

regenerate a compromised metabolism.

 

Accordingly, I put myself under the guidance of a

holistic physician who favoured a modified model of

the Gerson therapy that took into account the

increased toxicity of contemporary life. He included

cutting-edge, high-dose supplements and enzymes

uniquely geared to fighting cancer, a sweeping

detoxification programme and a total revision of diet

and lifestyle.

 

The key was to boost and nurture the immune system so

that the conditions of cells are transformed, no

longer providing a toxic ground for cancer to

flourish. Although case histories show it to be

effective in the treatment of even late-stage cancers,

it should be understood that pursuing such a course is

rigorous, lengthy and expensive, requiring the

discipline of a monk.

 

After three months of this therapy combined with a

six-week fast, during which I sustained myself on

organic vegetable juice, my immune system was boosted

to help protect my cells against metastasis during

surgery.

 

Sue Rose, my partner, and I were lucky enough to find

a surgeon, who although she didn't profess to

understand my methods, was sympathetic, agreeing to r

emove the minimum amount of malignant tissue, for I

needed as much of my colon as possible for the enemas.

Her major concern was that given the amount of time I

had left it there was a real danger of the cancer

having spread into the liver, in which case it would

be inoperable. A CT scan showed that it hadn't. For

this I thank my regime.

 

After surgery, the biopsy showed the cancer had spread

into the lymph, hardly surprising given the amount of

time I had been in denial. This didn't concern the

holistic physician I was under, who was completely

confident of being able to deal with it. Not wishing

to have chemotherapy, I was discharged.

 

I was deeply moved by the devotion of nurses and

doctors working to save lives within an overwhelmed

National Health Service and grateful for their

understanding which allowed me to combine conventional

and holistic treatment. In my view, if holistic,

nutritional medicine, instead of being so unfairly and

short-sightedly vilified, got t he smallest crumb of

research funding, compared to the astronomical sums

allotted to pharmaceutical cartels, many patients

would benefit.

 

My day would begin around 6am when I drank the morning

mid-stream of my own urine (urea helps to protect the

liver), took my first juice, followed by the first of

three daily coffee enemas. I grew my own wheatgrass,

which formed part of a daily requirement of 10 freshly

prepared juices. Three times a day I ate a porridge

bowl full of pills and capsules, knocked back with a

witch's brew of liquid supplements administered under

the guidance of the physician, who understood the

importance of not disturbing the balance of

electrolytes when using high-dose supplements.

 

Every moment was taken up with preparing the next

fresh juice, washing equipment, preparing and taking

enemas, pills and potions along with daily saunas and

hyperthermic baths which help the process of

detoxification. Sacks of organic vegetables and fruit

were organised in industrial quantities. A water

purifier was installed. Supplements were ordered from

around the world.

 

Friends came and went, filling the place with fresh

flowers, making sure I wanted for nothing. 'If anyone

can do it, you can,' they enthused. Often, they

arrived at enema time, which with the help of a

blanket and a half-open bathroom door I was able to

perform discreetly while holding court, much to their

amusement. But in the face of death, trivialities such

as modesty are hardly a serious consideration.

 

One of the demands of a diagnosis of cancer is that

everything must change. All activities inessential to

survival stopped. Some days, overwhelmed, I crawled

around the floor sobbing. At the same time, my monthly

blood tests showed a steady improvement, as my cancer

markers dropped.

 

One night, nauseated by a blinding headache, the

process reached a crisis. Becoming progressively

weaker, I lay down like a dying animal. Gaunt and

hollow-eyed, I lost muscle m ass rapidly. Physical

anguish penetrated deep into my bones with every

attempted movement, preventing me from sleeping, even

though I was exhausted.

 

For the first time, I acknowledged the possibility of

death. Yet deep down, I understood this heavy torpor

to be nature's way of imposing the long healing rest

that was needed. In the end, I surrendered, trusting

the process.

 

By December 2002, my legs had swollen and my belly

grotesquely bloated with fluid pressed painfully up

under my diaphragm, making it hard to breath. My

haemoglobin count had halved. Catching myself naked in

the mirror I gasped in horror at the pestilential

image that stared back, unrecognisable with its big

belly, protruding ribs and skeletal limbs. Friends sat

around, whispering in hushed tones.

 

Just when it seemed as if death had me checkmated, a

miracle turned the tables and I began to recover.

Before Christmas, I went to hospital, and a barrage of

painful, scary, intrusive cameras, needle s and probes

explored every orifice. Then we waited for the

results. No gift could have been more wonderful than

the morning of Christmas Eve when the doctors

telephoned to tell me that there was not a sign of

cancer anywhere.

 

In January, the liver doctors diagnosed advanced

cirrhosis due to long-term hepatitis C. Thinking of

Muhammad Ali on the ropes during 'the rumble in the

jungle', I continued with my regime. Sue Rose did

everything. Carried sacks of carrots and apples up the

stairs, prepared the juices, attended to every need.

In many ways, it was harder for her than it was for

me. She could only watch and help as best she could

and while she put on a brave face in my company she

spent much time crying when she was on her own.

Nevertheless, she had complete faith in me, and only

in rare moments did she doubt that I would make it.

 

There is no evidence to date of the return of cancer

and my liver tests are normal. Happier than I have

been for years, I cycle around London while friends

tell me I look 10 years younger than I did before all

this started. When it was obvious that I really was on

the mend, Sue Rose collapsed, having held things

together for so long.

 

There are other equally important factors in the

process. I spend hours tending my garden, running my

fingers through the soil. Watching its transformation

has become a metaphor for my own recovery. Sitting

down to play music, I soar with inspiration as my

fingers run over the piano keys, the Bach Fugue, my

early morning prayer of gratitude. I'm thankful for

every God-given moment. Life is exhilarating and

precious.

 

There is an irony in my recovery, however. Last year,

in spite of opposition from 200 MPs and a

million-strong petition, the Government passed the

European Union Food Supplement Directive into UK law.

This will effectively remove some 5,000 vitamin and

mineral products from this country's health-store

shelves from August 2005. Jeremy Corbyn, the Labour

MP, sa ys he 'sees the hand of the pharmaceutical

industry at work'. For millions of us who choose to

take supplements to maintain our health in the face of

chemically drenched food crops, this is catastrophic.

 

For myself, having survived cancer through nutritional

methods, it is a life-threatening disaster.

 

· Tony Jackson lives in London where he works as a

jazz musician and craniosacral practitioner. Email:

tjaxon

 

Further reading:

 

Alternative Medicine Definitive Guide to Cancer by W.

John Diamond MD, published by Alternativemedicine.com

Books, £20.64

 

 

The Gerson Therapy by Charlotte Gerson and Morton

Walker (HarperCollins 14.99)

 

 

Living Proof: A Medical Mutiny by Michael Gearin-Tosh

(Scribner£ 7.99)