Dear Lindsay,

I had no idea what awaited me the day I arrived at the Psychology Clinic nearly 18 months ago. Fresh out of the hospital, deeply distressed about my existence, and wanting so badly to stop the tears that poured from my eyes at the slightest mention of cancer, I landed in your care. How lucky for me.

I arrived fragile -- perhaps already broken -- with emotions that were wildly unmanageable. I was anxious, worried, consumed by panic. In search of peace, I told you I wanted more than anything to acquire an easy state of mind, to survive the cancer that faced me, to live without fear that I may once again encounter this disease.

You told me my search could be successful and with a healthy dose of your guided therapy -- and a whole lot more than our intended eight to 10 sessions -- I happened upon the gift of serenity. And my mind is now easy. And I have you to thank.

Thank you, Lindsay, for tending to my wilting spirit, for bracing my fall, for helping me reshape my thoughts and visions, for offering me an abundance of coping tools, for coaching me back into a world where I can bloom.

Your work may be done -- officially. But you will always be at work in my mind. You will always be the one who saved me from a lifetime of darkness. And for that, I am honored to have been your client.

Forever grateful,

Jacki

My own oncologist did it just two days ago. He checked in on my mental health, asked how I was surviving, and eased my fear of cancer recurrence and possible death. He reached beyond the medical scope of our relationship -- literally. He placed a hand on my shoulder. He offered me a hug. He cared.

Yet many doctors refrain from reaching too far into the lives of the patients they treat. They stay at a distance. They focus on merely replacing illness with health. This is, after all, the purpose of medicine -- to fix people.

Dr. Jeremy Geffen, author of The Journey Through Cancer: Healing and Transforming the Whole Person, shares in his book that "at present, doctors focus primarily on the physical characteristics of their patients -- bones and organs, tissue samples, test results, height, weight, and age. Yet in each of us, there is a rich mental, emotional, and spiritual reality that influences, even directs the course of our lives."

Conventional medicine responds to cancer patients with surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, and other treatment protocols to essentially get rid of the cancer. Physical signs, symptoms, and responses are carefully monitored -- while other areas of patients' lives receive little attention.

A whole component of true medical care is missing -- as doctors may feel unprepared to address emotional issues, and time restraints allow for limited interaction between doctor and patient.

Geffen believes the ultimate purpose of medicine is to help all beings "experience unbounded love, joy, and inner peace, and to know this is the essence of who we truly are." This purpose, he believes, deserves as much attention as the purpose of treating symptoms and curing disease.

And so Geffen created a program based on his Seven Levels of Healing -- a program that includes both the relative and ultimate purposes of medicine, both the doing and the being.

Level One: Education and Information -- provides basic information about cancer and treatment options and encourages patients to actively participate in and obtain benefit from their care.

Level Two: Connection with Others -- explores the importance of reaching out to others for comfort and support on the journey through cancer.

Level Three: The Body as Garden -- invites patients and family members to see the human body as growing and evolving, as a complex garden rather than a machine. This level touches on good nutrition, exercise, massage, acupuncture, and a variety of complementary and alternative approaches to healing.

Level Four: Emotional Healing -- enters the realm of the human heart, shedding light on fear, pain, anger, self-love, and forgiveness.

Level Five: The Nature of Mind -- examines how life with cancer is influenced by our thoughts, beliefs, and the meanings we give events.

Level Six: Life Assessment -- delves into aspirations, goals, and purposes of our lives.

Level Seven: The Nature of Spirit -- embraces the spiritual aspects of the healing process.

As a physician, Geffen aims to bring his vision of medicine and healing to cancer patients everywhere. And he uses his book as an instrument of communication -- so readers can participate in his vision, so they can learn to settle for nothing less than medical care that centers on the whole person. And not just the parts.

To read previous posts on the same topic, visit:
The Journey Through Cancer: Introduction
Sunday Seven: Seven Levels of Healing on Cancer Journey

Stay tuned for:
The Journey Through Cancer: Beverly Is Every One Of Us

I love it when seven of something lands before me, offering me potential material for the Sunday Seven series. In fact, it just happened. And I can't wait to start writing about the Seven Levels of Healing common to cancer patients and those who love them.

I have a new book. It's called The Journey Through Cancer: Healing and Transforming the Whole Person by Jeremy Geffen, MD.

Dr. Geffen knows cancer. He lost his father just three months after a stomach cancer diagnosis. He became an oncologist. He founded a cancer research center. He travels and speaks and writes about health and wellness. And inside the pages of his newly revised and updated paperback, he details the Seven Levels of Healing -- a blend of conventional and complementary principles-- and the true stories of cancer patients who have directly experienced them.

It occurred to me while first flipping through this book that I might read it in its entirety and then write a review of the material. Then I determined it would take much too long for this approach. With two small children, a few jobs, an exercise routine I must revisit, and all the other bits and pieces of life that keep me occupied, this would be quite an undertaking -- the actual reading, the remembering, the writing. Somehow, this would be too much to manage. But small steps. I think I can handle small steps. So this is how it's going to work.

I will present to you in this post the Seven Levels of Healing. I don't know much about them yet -- although by title alone, I am sure I have lived most of them in my own cancer journey. So I will simply lay the groundwork. And then I will start reading. And as I read, I will write. This will be my own one-woman book club -- with an open invitation for new members. Read my posts and reflect on them. Agree. Disagree. Leave comments. Buy your own book. Read with me. Apply what you learn to your own life. Share what you learn with others. The possibilities are endless as I journey my way through this new book in search of peace, clarity, and comfort -- all of which flow from these seven levels.

Level One: Education & Information
Level Two: Connection with Others
Level Three: The Body as Garden
Level Four: Emotional Healing
Level Five: The Nature of Mind
Level Six: Life Assessment
Level Seven: The Nature of Spirit

And so that's what I have to offer for now. I'm sorry to keep you hanging. But rest assured, I am hanging right along with you, eager to find a moment to dive into this book. To sink my teeth into the words, sentences, paragraphs, chapters. To relay it all to you. I can't wait -- to really understand the Seven Levels of Healing.

Stay tuned for:
The Journey Through Cancer: Introduction

Some mechanism has been at work in my body for the past month, some sort of filter that has somehow warded off the crippling panic that typically overcomes me during health scares. It's the panic that allows me to turn a simple cough into a symptom of lung cancer, a stomach pain into a sign of ovarian cancer. It's the curse of surviving cancer, I guess -- the continual worry that the disease is coming back, that it is going to strike someone dear to me.

Yet cancer never entered my mind when my husband and I began noticing our three-year-old Danny's strange eye movements, the strikingly odd manner in which one eye rolls upward when he gazes toward the ceiling -- this is normal -- while the other only crosses -- this is not normal. Surprisingly, I was not overly worried about this and was sure it was something that with glasses or eye exercises could be fixed. Never did I fear cancer.

We started with our pediatrician who quickly knew this issue was out of his league. I was calm. He moved us on to a pediatric eye specialist who was stumped by these eye movements that are typically congenital and occur much earlier in life. If not congenital, it must be something acquired, this doctor told us. He looked around a bit at Danny's eyes, dilated his pupils, and tested his vision. He determined his eyesight is perfect. And his gaze is a complete mystery. He ordered an MRI.

Still I was okay -- until my husband shared one evening with me that he was worried about a tumor. Why I hadn't yet obsessed about this is its own mystery, for which I am thankful. It allowed me to function for a short time independent of fear and anxiety and only a short time ago did I let panic seep into my consciousness.

When I scheduled the MRI for Danny and was told it was an urgent case that must be scheduled quickly, my stomach sank. When the doctor who would read the MRI met with us this morning to talk about this diagnostic procedure, he shared that a mass is what they would be looking for. I'm not sure how for all these weeks I missed this opportunity to get all worked up. But I did. And I got to act like a normal worried mother, not an over-the-top this must be cancer obsessed mother. It felt good.

And it felt good when the doctor read the MRI right in front of us this morning, sharing that there is no mass. He was not able to share what is causing this mystery eye condition that still must be investigated, but he assured us it's nothing serious, nothing life-threatening, nothing like cancer.

Perhaps the fact that my handful of recent health scares have not resulted in malignancies is allowing me to cool my guns a bit, to relax, to realize that not everything comes with a worst-case-scenario result. So maybe -- just maybe -- I am approaching some normalcy in my life, two years after my own worst-case-scenario sent me on the most terrifying ride of my life.

Kim Taylor is a 45-year-old single mother who lives in Suwannee County, Florida and is proud to have successfully raised one daughter -- a graduate of the University of Florida. Kim enjoys outdoor activities like camping as well as sewing, crafting, and carpentry projects. She is most at peace spending time with her family, working as a youth volunteer -- and raising awareness for breast cancer. It's a interest she acquired just two years ago, compliments of a personal encounter with the disease that has taught her to let the little things go, to appreciate every sunrise, to make every moment matter.

I have had a hard time keeping my counseling appointments lately. Life keeps getting in the way, and counseling keeps getting pushed to the side. The last time I called my counselor to cancel -- due to an emergency room trip with my three-year-old -- I mentioned that my inability to keep up with sessions was perhaps a precursor to an eventual termination of our counseling relationship. My counselor -- Lindsay -- said this was maybe an accurate assessment, that we should discuss the possibility of an ending point. We haven't yet discussed it, though, because I have not made the time to contact her. I have continued to leave counseling on the back burner.

But today Lindsay sent me an e-mail to check in. She wrote that I am probably going to be okay on my own now -- in the aftermath of cancer -- and that we should have one final session to reflect on my progress over the past 16 months. I have not replied to Lindsay -- not because I am busy with other things but simply because her words made me cry. They still make me cry, hours later. I'm not exactly sure why. And I'm not exactly sure how I will follow up on scheduling my very last session.

I assume my tears -- my sadness -- are part of the healing process, part of the separation anxiety I feel each time a part of my treatment ends and a part of my life moves on. I assume I am sad at the prospect of leaving a vital part of my recovery behind, about leaving the comfort of my counseling chair, about leaving Lindsay. The possibilities are endless. And I suppose we will cover all possibilities when Lindsay and I sit down for our last, final, concluding session -- when we recall how much I have grown since the day we first met, when I could barely mutter a word about cancer without weeping uncontrollably, when I could barely manage to find pleasure in my days, when I could barely imagine that life could -- and would -- offer me peace and happiness.

Today, life is good. And it's clear that counseling is no longer necessary for my survival. But that doesn't make it any easier to make my final appointment. To contemplate saying my last goodbye. To tackle life completely on my own. Which is what I will do -- in time -- so I can continue moving on, away from breast cancer.

The New Zealand Herald has quoted Nobel Laureate and principal scientist at Cancer Research UK Sir Tim Hunt as predicting that while targeted cancer drugs will continue to be developed, it is not likely that a penicillin-type wonder drug to cure cancer will be found. Basically, he explains that cancer cells work the same as normal cells do, but to eliminate cancer cells would mean wiping out normal cells in the process. At least, that is my understanding of what he said. Here is the exact quote, in case I am missing something vital in the translation:

"Basically cancer cells grow using all the same mechanisms that normal cells in the body use. So you could stop the cancer cell growing by standing the right distance from an atom bomb, but then all your other cells also stop growing at the same time." To me, that almost sounds like the standard chemotherapy we go through now.

I am not a Nobel Prize-winning scientist, and I respect the intelligence and training of any scientist who has achieved that honored status, but I do not know that I completely agree with his prediction. I don't know that there will be one specific wonder drug like penicillin, that you take and the cancer is gone, but I do think the advancements made in targeted therapies will one day make it seem as if there is a wonder drug. Cancer is over one hundred different diseases. It might simply be a matter of diagnosing the specific cancer, and then administering a specific targeted drug for that cancer. I realize this is a ways off, but I am hopeful for the future of cancer treatments.

Then again, who knows what scientists will stumble upon in their studies. Could there be a penicillin out there for cancer? Might be. I don't think we can rule out any potential possibility. That's my opinion. What say you?

Lynne began her blog on August 6 -- one week ago and two months after she endured surgery to clear a clogged bile duct and received the grim and frightening diagnosis of gallbladder cancer. Her cancer is stage IV -- not an uncommon staging for a hard-to-detect disease that many will only survive for two to six months. So Lynne is scared but still strong and hopeful and full of faith. Her goal is to live -- not die -- with cancer, even though her days may be numbered. So Lynne blogs her thoughts and fears and all the bits and pieces of information she gathers about a disease that is rare and resources that are scare. It helps her. And it will surely help others. And here is a glimpse into what she shared in her first post.

If you had only six months or a year to live, would you want to know? What would you do with the information? Would it make a difference in how you lived your life? These are questions I have been asking for the past two months. In asking them, I have also noticed how little guidance there is for this process. Who have I known personally who was able to anticipate their death? I can think of only two individuals, and I never asked them whether or not they were living differently in their awareness of their mortality.

So, those are the themes in this blog. I look forward to a dialog with those I know, and those I don't about this strange, life changing journey.

To Lynne -- and to all others who are faced with the disease -- may you find peace and comfort and strength in every step you take, every direction you follow, every path that becomes your road to recovery.

For fitness, the practice of yoga promotes balance, flexibility and strength. America loves yoga, according to a survey conducted by the Yoga Journal. The top four reasons given for the interest in yoga were: flexibility, stress reduction, strength, fitness and conditioning. As yoga grows in popularity, it is also becoming Americanized, and there are a number of hybrid yoga practices springing up like: Acu-yoga, Yogilates, Disco Yoga, Hip-Hop Yoga, Punk Rock Yoga, Aqua Yoga, Doga (with your dog), Yoganetics, Soul FlowYoga, Freestyle Vinyasa Flow, Sonic Yoga, Yogic Arts (yoga combined with martial arts) and Nude Yoga -- which is a good thing, or a bad thing, depending on who you are asking.

Of the survey participants who were asked , these were the top four good/bad statements made to the increasing popularity of yoga in this country:

• "Americans need to recognize that practicing yoga doesn't conflict with mainstream religious values."
• "The commercialization of yoga is a good thing. It attracts many more people to the practice who otherwise wouldn't know about it."
• "Innovation is good for yoga. The many different styles that are evolving make the practice accessible to everyone."
• "Yoga in America is becoming too commercialized."
  

Is yoga the current fitness fad? Maybe. Will it fade in popularity? I suspect it will for those who flitter from one new trend to the next new trend. But, for example, there have been years of research into the potential benefit of yoga in improving the quality of life for cancer patients and survivors, and the National Cancer Institute has recently awarded M. D. Anderson a $2.4 million dollar grant to study the benefits of Tibetan yoga for cancer patients and survivors.

According to M. D. Anderson researchers, cancer and its treatment are associated with considerable distress, impaired quality of life, poor mental health and reduced physical function. For thousands of years, Tibetans have been practicing a form of yoga that might help reduce treatment-related side effects that accumulate over time for cancer patients. As research continues, yoga may become an accepted alternative and complementary therapy incorporated into mainstream medical practice for the treatment of disease and improving health.

Realistically, I am not certain that some of the trendy hybrid forms of yoga will endure over time, but the yoga that has been around for thousands of years is here to stay.

If I could go back in time, I would not repeat my journey with breast cancer. I would choose a different path -- one free of disease and treatment and the fear that comes with it all. I would choose the route where my children would never hear me say, "mommy has cancer." The route where there would be less worry about dying, less worry about how my kids would do without me, less worry about how all my loose ends would be tied up without me here to tie them. I would choose another direction in a heartbeat. But there are some things I do treasure about my trip down breast cancer lane -- some things I do not wish to give back, even if given the chance to choose a different path. They are the hidden treasures I discovered along the way, in the midst of a harrowing, sometimes horrendous battle. There are many treasures that have come my way -- and I'm sure there are more to come. Here are seven of my valuable finds.

When I first started going to counseling, I was told I would need eight to 10 sessions of cognitive behavioral therapy to help me deal with my anxiety, my panic, my fear of breast cancer recurrence. My first session was in May 2005 -- and I am still going. Those initial sessions are possibly all I really needed -- and perhaps I could have stopped the therapy long ago. But stopping never came up and no one told me I had to call it quits so I kept on marching into territory I had never before traveled. I have a degree in counseling -- but I'd never been counseled. I know how to listen to others and share empathy and ask open-ended questions -- but I'd never been the one talking and sharing and venting and crying and answering questions. Until last May -- when I discovered the appeal and the comfort of the counseling chair.

I marched into one of my sessions yesterday and plopped into a brown faux leather recliner. I talked about my recent graduation from Herceptin therapy and about how I might manage in life now that treatment is over. I talked about my jobs -- as a writer and a preschool teacher -- and how they fit into my world. I talked about the level of stress in my days and about how my once constant fear that cancer was trailing me has largely diminished. I talked about how breast cancer is no longer my constant companion -- about how it is now just an acquaintance. And I talked about how counseling was once so necessary and about how it is now just a luxury that helps me maintain peace as I live forward.

I am not sure when I will stop going to counseling. But I'm not completely sure of much anymore. And I've learned from counseling to not really question the future -- to just live in the moment and to give thought primarily to the here and now. And right here, right now, I'm sticking with my sessions, my one hour every month, my comforting counseling chair.

One of the first books I read after my breast cancer diagnosis was issued in hardback in 1986 -- 20 years ago -- and then was published again and reissued and reprinted in 1990, 1998, and 2002.While the cover has changed and perhaps some wording too, the message in this book -- Love, Medicine, & Miracles by Bernie S. Siegel, M.D. -- remains unchanged.  And it is inside the covers of this book that I keep learning that I have the capacity and power to become an exceptional patient -- despite the fact that I've been faced with a life-shattering diagnosis of cancer.

I see and use my handmade quilt every day. It was created especially for me by more than 20 talented friends who crafted the lavender, pale green, and white patches into a flowered work of beauty and serenity and warmth. It sits at the end of my bed -- folded neatly and by coincidence matching the color scheme of my room -- until the time at which I turn in for the night and I spread it out and allow it to comfort me and warm me. It has covered me every night since the night it was delivered to my doorstep by a few of the friends who helped make it -- and the peace it brings me today is no less than the peace it brought me the first night I used it -- the night when I was weak and sick and struggling with breast cancer.

In November 2004, my husband I and decided to try to have a third child. But instead of getting pregnant, I got breast cancer. And with the aggressive treatment I would receive -- surgery, dose-dense chemotherapy, radiation, and Herceptin therapy -- becoming pregnant was not an option. Birth control became my only option -- an option that has many limits for premenopausal women surviving breast cancer.

There is something about reading stories about other cancer survivors that helps me in moments of despair. Sometimes I look to the blogs that I read regularly -- blogs that capture the essence of realities that are not my own -- and I feel somehow comforted. I gain perspective and can remove myself a bit from my own turmoil. I gather strength and hope from others who struggle like me. I absorb the words written in these journals and see the photos of real people with real struggles and the big picture becomes clear to me -- breast cancer is widespread and far-reaching. And because of this, I have a lot of company of my path of uncertainty. This is what soothes me.

Books help me too -- the kind of books with little snippets of advice and wisdom from other survivors. Like Hope Lives! The After Breast Cancer Treatment Survival Handbook. My favorite chapter is about recurrence. There are passages from women who have had breast cancer two and three times and these strong women remind me that I if necessary, I can fight again and again and again. This book is humbling, sobering, and powerful. The voices that inhabit the pages put a bounce in my step and peace in my head. Hope does in fact live.