Tag: Living with Cancer

It’s Come To This

by Maasaisis

I’d trained myself out of “scanxiety.” For me, this meant not only the anxious waiting for scan results, but also the fear of the potential long-term effects of radiation from regular screening. Once I accepted that consistent monitoring was necessary for my current condition, the next step was letting go of my resistance. That resistance had been the driver of how I navigated so much of my healing journey. It strengthened my judgment toward conventional medicine through my need to prove that my way was right, that there was an alternative I would find. When life is on the line, it can inspire minds to change. My closed mind is healing into an open one.

I didn’t feel anxious, right up until the phone rang.

I’d been anticipating a call from my oncologist to go over the report from my latest PET scan. Over time, my screening appointments had become a kind of ceremony, an entry into a portal of light, the high-tech tunnel that would reveal truth. This reframing was the only way I could reconcile my discomfort with the radioactive process that now happens every six months. It’s how I can get real with the facts I have to face.

The last scan was in Aug. It confirmed there was still cancer activity, but it was mostly localized in my breast and appeared stable under the treatment I was on. There was a suspicious spot on my T4 vertebra that my oncologist wanted to monitor, but compared to the previous PET scan taken in the thick of my healing crisis the year before, I was doing much better. There was no cancer activity in my vital organs, and that was something I truly celebrated.

My life had reached a place where cancer no longer took up center stage. I’d been tolerating my treatment, a cocktail of two receptor-blocking drugs that were meant to work as a trifecta alongside chemotherapy. At the time, though, I was too weak to take the chemo, a divine intervention that saved me from facing one of my greatest fears when I felt I had no other choice. Only when I finally surrendered was I given the grace of not having to take it. Whether it was the blockers or the natural closure of the ulceration process of my tumour that restored my vitality, I’ll never know.

Since last September, I’ve been rebuilding my strength. I joined an intimate workout program where my coach encourages me to explore the edges of my physical capacity. I healed my frozen shoulder and regained mobility on my right side, which had been bound up by scar tissue from the trauma of my tumor’s breakdown. I finally healed the plantar fasciitis in both feet that had plagued me for months by being encouraged to exercise barefoot, strengthening my feet instead of babying them with sophisticated, padded shoes.

I found my edge, and that edge kept expanding. In six months, I was in the best shape I’d been in since my twenties. I felt strong, energized, and deeply alive.

Feeling confident in my health, I finally allowed myself to fulfill a long-held dream of studying flamenco in Seville. I took the leap and bought my ticket for this summer. From there, I planned to continue on my solo journey to Toulouse to study with my Dhrupad teacher, a classical Indian vocal tradition that dates back over a thousand years and is practiced as a spiritual discipline to calm the mind through devotional sound.

I booked my entire trip.
And now, it has come to this.

I knew something was wrong the moment my oncologist said hello.

“I’m so sorry. Your cancer has spread. It’s such a shock, as you look so vibrant.” She genuinely sounded upset.

A stillness came over me as I felt Al’s hand tighten around my thigh. He was there, hoping we’d receive and share good news together. I was surprised by how calm my voice sounded.

“What came up?”

It must be so hard to be the bearer of bad news, I thought, as I took in what she was saying. The spot on my T4 had grown. The cancer activity in my breast had progressed. More lymph nodes were now involved, and there was a new lesion in my sternum that hadn’t been present on the last scan.

“But the good news,” she said, “is that your organs are still clear.”

Fuck.

I was confused, because how I felt didn’t echo what she was telling me. I was acutely aware of Al’s breathing quickening beside me. He had just had shoulder surgery and couldn’t use his dominant arm, with a long healing process ahead. For someone so active, it was a big decision to trade time, patience, and willingness now for a hopeful future without restrictions. It had already been such an adjustment. And now this- with me.

“So, what now?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer. It was the one I’d successfully avoided since the day I was diagnosed six and a half years ago. My healing journey had been defined by carving an alternative path, one of discovery, challenge, and growth, that ultimately led me here, to finally accept chemotherapy as my choice.

It had come to this.
To face my fear.
To allow it to become my medicine.

I couldn’t shake the certainty that this was my next step, and in that certainty, I could see just how much healing I had really done.

My voice was steady. There was no frantic searching for escape routes in my mind, no more alternative therapies to seek out. Fear was present, but my strength was greater now, strong enough to alchemize it by saying yes.

I write to continue the ceremony of alchemy as I prepare for chemo tomorrow. I am finally here. It took me this long to say yes, not from a place of being cornered, but from willingness and the space in my mind to choose differently this time. From trusting the truest part of me, the solid, unchanging light can only exist free from fear.

What I also know is this. I am not canceling my dream.

My experience has taught me to trust what surfaces moment to moment, to follow rather than assume, and to release resistance instead of bracing against life. I’ve learned to move where energy flows. For now, that means adding an elixir of healing to my life, not subtracting from it. My life will remain what I make of it. I will know when I know.

I could be angry. After all this, finally getting my life back, finally getting my wild, thick curls back after losing my hair, returning to work and rebuilding my massage clientele, only to consciously choose a treatment that may take it all away again.

Yes, it’s easy to become a victim of circumstances that feel unfair. But I always have a choice in how I perceive my life. If I accept this as my curriculum, if I believe everything happens for my benefit when I respond with peace and seek love in every situation, then that is what my life will be centered around. Not the effects of what appears on the outside.

Everything is happening at the level of my mind. The way I choose to live with what’s happening is the ticket to staying free. It’s the only way to do this. It’s the only way to keep going.

My latest painting was guiding me toward this choice. Without realizing it, I painted myself embracing my beloved, who also represented my shadow self. Sometimes the only thing we can offer another is to truly see them beneath the veil of suffering and in turn we do that for ourselves too. To see the perfect, invulnerable creations of love that we are, no matter what’s happening on the surface. To remember for them when they can’t.

The figure I’m holding also represents what needed healing, my fears, my past, the fragmented parts of me longing to be seen, held, and made whole. Within the embrace, they both return home to what cannot change.

This is exactly how I feel now. Safe in my decision. Knowing I’m cutting the cord of an old loop that kept returning. Now it’s cut. I’m breaking free.

I go with peace.
I go with gratitude.
I’m surrounded by love.

And that is the medicine I will receive.

“I See You”- Painting by Maasa

LIFE WITHOUT ANSWERS

by Maasaisis

I’ve been expecting the report from my most recent breast MRI to land in my inbox. I’m still in training—to receive these notes without letting them hijack my inner state. Reports that arrive like tarot cards, capable of projecting a future reality that contradicts the one I’m living.

My laptop rests on a tabletop made from massive slabs of hardwood, in a large tiled kitchen overlooking a garden of lush tropical plants that look as if they’re on steroids. We are halfway through our vacation in Mexico, escaping Nelson’s long winter in the laid-back village of Lo de Marcos. By now, we had acclimated to the unstructured rhythm where nothing happens in a hurry, and where the sun shines even on unwanted news.

I had requested a breast-specific MRI to give my body a break from medical imaging that uses radiation. I accepted that this meant traveling to a larger hospital in another town in order to have a look inside without that cost. There were two possible destinations, and one happened to be in the same city we would be flying out of for our trip to Mexico. The stars aligned. I booked the appointment for a Saturday—the day before we flew to Puerto Vallarta.

I decided to let it go. I wouldn’t give energy to anticipating the result until it was quite literally in my face, which is today. A deep meditation this morning left me with a quiet certainty: no matter what, I would continue on the path laid before me, guided by a way of interpreting my life that keeps me safe under all circumstances. I admit this is easier in the absence of pain or imminent danger, but experience has taught me it’s the only way forward without letting this disease take me hostage. I dropped my shoulders on the out-breath, repeated my A Course in Miracles lesson for the day, and clicked open the report.

The MRI confirmed what I already knew. It felt far-fetched to imagine a different outcome when I can still feel multiple lumps in my breast, embedded in scar tissue left behind by ulceration. Like barnacles clinging to the memory of my wound, they remind me of what I’ve been through—and that I’m still in it—even as my life continues to shine beyond it.

Any wish to one day receive the words cancer-free is no longer the destination of my path. Instead, I anchor myself to what fuels my soul and continue choosing the path that leads me toward peace now. Wishing does not belong in the present.

It makes sense to me that what was once a large mass, as my body broke it down, may have left small remnants scattered through the surrounding tissue. The scan also showed nearby lymph nodes in the right armpit that are likely involved. The left breast and its surrounding lymph nodes, which were affected not long ago, remain clear. I’m grateful there are no new frightening surprises, and that what miraculously disappeared on the left after the wound on the right closed has remained that way.

Given my history, the radiologist can only assume these scattered lesions are active cancer. Once labeled metastatic, that designation tends to stick, shaping future assumptions and forming the basis of treatment decisions. The only way to know for certain whether these current lumps are cancerous would be through biopsy. Because my cancer has mutated before, it’s possible I’m dealing with another variation. The familiar questions arise: Is my current treatment still effective? Do I undergo another biopsy? Would surgery even be an option? Would I have to consider a more aggressive treatment plan?

The analytical mind tries to navigate its way out of this maze, searching for certainty. But what I’m really seeking is higher ground—a vantage point that allows a wider view.

I haven’t thrown the baby out with the bathwater, per se. Years of learning about the disease process through German New Medicine, and experiencing its stages in my body in real time, have offered me an alternate way of understanding what my body might be doing. I hold this perspective as a lens—one that helps broaden my view and keeps fear from narrowing it.

In GNM, there isn’t a distinction between hormonal cancers and others, but rather an interpretation of how specific biological programs unfold through phases of conflict and repair. Much of what I came to understand was shaped through lived experience, recognizing patterns as they appeared in my own body. I only have my experience to reference. There is no right or wrong way—only the way I am no longer trying to dominate, especially since studying A Course in Miracles.

Because of that, I remind myself that decision-making has to come from a place not ruled by fear. I try to create enough space for difficult choices to settle, rather than forcing them into shape. That means listening beyond my conditioned thinking and first examining where the real conflict lies—always beginning in the mind.

What I’ve found is that when the way forward becomes clear, even if it isn’t what I wanted or expected, a sense of peace follows. There’s no pushing, nor being pushed. Instead, a quiet certainty settles in. I no longer hold many absolutes, except for the one thing that keeps me free in any situation—and that does not depend on my body.

I do not sense imminent danger. Quite the opposite. I feel vitally alive—nourished by sunshine, purified by the ocean, held by the abundance of love that surrounds me. What is yet to come has not arrived, and so I stay here, present, basking in the now. As the year closes, I recognize the same truth that has carried me along the river of life: let go, let God, and remember that nothing real can be threatened, and only love endures.

LESSON: MY SAFETY LIES BEYOND MY BODY.

Above painting “Alchemy” by maasa.ca

MIRACLE SHIFT

by Maasaisis

“Your CT scan shows that you’ve responded exceptionally well to treatment,” my oncologist said excitedly over the phone. “There doesn’t appear to be any tumours in either breast although, It’s hard to assess the right one due to extensive scar tissue from the ulceration. What spread into your chest wall has receded, the thickening in your upper sternum is stable, and your lymph nodes look clear.”

I was surprised by how calmly I received the wonderful news—perhaps because it simply confirmed the profound shift I’ve been feeling lately.

Three months ago, my CT scan showed disease progression from my right breast into my chest wall, in the sternum, and in my lymph nodes. The tumor in my left breast was also evident. Due to my chronic infections, I was able to forgo the chemotherapy portion, which would have depleted my immune response, and instead gave my body the chance to fight back against the infections. With stage four metastatic breast cancer, the recommended treatment was aggressive. My unique situation gave me the chance to stumble upon a miracle.

After two targeted immunotherapy treatments with minimal side effects, all four of my tumor markers dropped below the normal range for the first time in five and a half years. I requested a CT scan after my third treatment, knowing I’d likely be recommended to add chemotherapy for the following round since my infections had cleared. I needed to know if my insides reflected how I was feeling—and they did! My doctors believe that the targeted immunotherapy was solely responsible for this miraculous turn of events. I have my own belief, which I attribute to a higher order I’d placed my bet on.

“I still advise you to do chemo and take advantage of this window to clear out whatever may be left of the cancer,” my oncologist continued. I’m incredibly grateful to have been matched with an oncologist who respects my decision-making process. For now, I declined the chemo, as my body is relishing the vitality that had been absent for so long. The thought of compromising my entire system, just as it was moving towards homeostasis, felt more like a risk than a benefit. However, I’m careful not to cling, as I need to remain open to pivot when necessary.

The only “barometer” I’ve put my faith in is the level of peace I feel in the choices I make. I’m talking about the kind of peace that can’t be manufactured for safety’s sake—the kind that is all-encompassing, a ‘yes!’ that I can fall into and feel held by. That’s what I felt after I declined chemo for my next round.

I’m learning that the only power worth giving is the Power I lovingly surrender to. Time and time again, I’ve been shown that when I do this, I’m being taken care of. I know when I’m not doing this because I feel a tightening around the reality I want to control. So, when I notice, I let go again and again, praying to be shown the way. The way has at times been scary, painful, confusing, and messy- it’s only from this vantage point that I can see the meaning in all of those experiences. This is what I need to trust as I keep following the way. This is what Da calls a miracle shift.

I hadn’t disclosed to my doctors the other ‘therapies’ I believe contributed to my ‘exceptional response.’ A fringe protocol, showing great promise as a cancer cure, came onto my radar last year. I began it as a last-ditch effort to make a difference on my own before seeking help from the conventional system. However, I didn’t use it long enough to give it a fair trial. The use of repurposed drugs—existing drugs originally developed for one condition but used to treat another—was gaining momentum and showing great promise for healing even the most aggressive and untreatable cancers.

The research I’ve done has given me enough confidence to test these therapies on myself, especially since, based on what I’ve gathered, they won’t interfere with the efficacy of my treatment and are relatively harmless. I’ve also been taking Artemisinin, derived from the sweet wormwood plant, often referred to as ‘herbal chemo’ due to its potent anticancer properties. Alongside this, I’ve maintained a steady regimen of herbal tinctures, teas, vitamins, high doses of anti-inflammatory supplements, and antioxidants to neutralize free radicals.

I also take time for my daily ritual of forest bathing and prioritize having meaningful, heartful connections. I can feel the power of the prayers from those who pray for me. I’m sure all of these have contributed significantly to my current state, but what I give the most credit to has nothing to do with what I put into my body.

My day begins with aligning my will with the greater will of God. It is only from this place that I can live fully and flourish, even with this disease. I need to recalibrate throughout the day because it’s so easy to get lost in our mortal predicament. So, I keep coming back, and I keep placing my faith in what I can never fully understand but can trust. I trust because I keep finding my way.

LESSON: PEACE IS THE CONDITION OF ALL MIRACLES- ACIM

Banner painting “Of The Same” by Maasa. In the spirit of our Sameness, we celebrate what can’t be threatened or taken away. What we thought we forgot is redeemed in the remembrance that was never lost. More of my art mine may be seen @ http://www.maasa.ca