Day #3 at Marinus—Memories of Boot Camp This day at Klinik Marinus was highly reminiscent of Army Boot Camp in late 1968. It was hustle and scurry all day from appointment to appointment. Breakfast at 8:00, as usual, then in for two quick shots, one in each butt cheek. One was thymus, which I’ll get every day but which is small and not painful, and the other was vitamin B, a whopper they drain into you over the course of a minute. From there into a treatment room to sit with a device that alters a tumor’s magnetic field pressed against it like an egg on a muffin. You can’t feel this, you just sit for 20 minutes with it subtly fouling the tumor’s biological processes. From there around a wall to lay on a table and breathe oxygen for 20 minutes through two small tubes, one in each nostril. Remember, my free radical count is too high due apparently to stress overloads going way back (not surprising with my lifestyle), so it has to be driven down with extra oxygen, which also happens to debilitate cancer. After oxygen came the “jiggle belt” that vibrates your midsection to make the lymph move properly. I’m told you can get the same effect at home by bouncing—not jumping, just gently bouncing—regularly on one of those small circular “rebounder” trampolines. This is today’s hot tip to everyone: invest in a rebounder and use it. Your blood has a heart to circulate it, but your lymph does not. It circulates when you’re active. If you’re not active enough, you end up with sluggish, stagnant lymph movement that can lead, as I can attest, to any of several kinds of lymphoma. After 20 minutes with the jiggle belt I went into another room for “infusions.” This is where they remove the half-pint (I’m just guessing here) of your blood and then spike it with oxygen and ozone, then slowly drip it back into you. And then today came a full bag of concentrated vitamin C (in high doses like this it is very good against cancer), whereas yesterday it was selenium. At 11:15 a nurse met me in our room to apply a “liver pack,” which as its name suggests is a hot pack applied to my entire abdominal area, which I kept in place for 30 minutes. After that came an excellent lunch (the food here is always good, and sometimes excellent), a half-hour off in our room to handle emails, and back down for my first round of radiant heat, which I’ve heard and read a great deal about and was really looking forward to it. I know it is one of the most effective treatments I will receive here to combat my cancer. This time you lay on a waterbed (a nice touch!) under what looks like a light green car-making-robot with a plate-sized bag of whitish gelatinous material attached to it. It’s lowered onto your specific cancer area to be treated, which in my case it was where John Hurt’s “Alien” burst up from. I have to admit, initially I was disappointed. I felt no heat from it at all. The red light was on, indicating it was working, but I felt nothing from it. After ten minutes I pressed the call button to ask them to be certain it was working. They assured me it was, to be patient. Sure enough, around the half-hour mark I began to feel something. By 45 minutes I was definitely feeling the heat throughout my upper abdomen. By 50 minutes I was beginning to feel stress from it. And for the final 10 minutes I would put it at about 3 on a pain scale of 10. Not critical, but I was VERY glad when the bell went off and the treatment subsided. After an hour of that every one of my internal organs—stomach, liver, pancreas, spleen, and gallbladder—were heated up, and I, while not necessarily sweating like a pig, was glowing like one. The heat therapy was a bit more of an ordeal than I expected, but I’m certain my monster came out of it in worse shape than me or any of my organs. This kind of heat kills cancer, nobody doubts that, and since human organs are accustomed to steep rises in body heat (that’s what high fevers are for, to kill pathogens in you without killing you), I feel sure my monster wished I’d stayed in bed. My last treatment of the day was one of the oddest they do here. It’s called a “foot bath detox,” and I think it must serve in place of enemas to remove internal junk from your body. Yes, I know there is a lot of strum und drang (since we’re in Germany) about the efficacy of those foot baths, but I saw several people having them yesterday, and today I had one and they threw a freebie in for Vivienne during a mid-afternoon lull. Everyone ends up with varying amounts of crud in their foot-bath water, and veterans of it claim the color of your detox residue will lighten quite a bit by the time you leave the clinic. I hope so. Mine ended up the color of coffee with the tiniest amount of cream applied to it. Vivi’s was more like Guinness Stout. After all treatments were completed, we faced the most important moment of the day: A meeting with Dr. Weber to discuss the procedure for tomorrow’s first round of chemotherapy for me. Rather than the five huge loads I would have received in the U.S., which would have wiped me out and laid me low, this will be three kinds of chemo in low but effective doses, all of them buffered with various agents that will protect my lungs, heart, liver, kidneys, bladder, and colon. Remember, chemo kills everything it touches. The difference is that your body can repair itself, while cancer cannot. Dr. Weber assures me, and I believe him, that he only resorts to chemo when the need is clear and dire in a patient. There are several others here in vastly worse shape than me, nearly all of them in Stage 4, and nearly all of them burned out from previous rounds of treatment in the U.S. and Europe. Very few have come here first, as I have. And I’m the only one I know of getting chemo. Remember, chemo works on only a handful of cancers, and lymphoma happens to be one of them. For the rest of the cancers out there, mainstream doctors are usually hoping for miracles as hard as the patients, and receiving the hoped-for result no more often than doctors did in 1950. I know, it’s shocking. Anyway, I’ll have one dose tomorrow, then another dose just before I leave here at the end of August. Depending on how I’m doing at that point, I might well have to come back at the end of September (from where I’ll be staying in London) for a third round. If the first and second rounds have the effect Dr. Weber thinks they will have, then a third round could evaporate the monster. This is our goal right now, to try to eliminate every vestige of cancer in my body, and also to alter my biochemistry to make certain no new ones sprout up in the wide field plowed by this first lymphoma. It’s a tall order, but we can’t win if we don’t play, so tomorrow we roll the dice. Fingers crossed! Lloyd Pye Klinik Marinus Brannenburg, Germany August 7, 2013
Posted on: Wed, 07 Aug 2013 21:59:44 +0000