Is it really possible to reverse thepainful, debilitating symptoms ofasthma and to reduce your dependenceon doctors and medication--in Just 21 days?
Conventional medicine offers no real solution to the seventeen million Americans suffering from this disease. But in this remarkable book, Kathryn Shafer, Ph.D., and Fran Greenfield, M.A., share their natural alternative, the FUN program (Focus, Undo, Now Act!), that can help you break the bonds of asthma forever in only minutes a day!
Kathryn Shafer's triumph over life-long asthmais a testament to the power of mindbody healing. This approachallowed her to successfully run the entirety of the NewYork City Marathon without medication. Her astoundingvictory became the seed for the FUN program. Together,Fran Greenfield and Kathryn Shafer reveal the intimaterelationship between asthma and personal freedom in thisSelf-guided, breakthrough method, which many of theirclients have used with miraculous results.
This "masterful, innovative, and successful program for the treatment of asthma" (from the foreword by Gerald Epstein, M.D.) introduces:
Along with a wealth of real-life success stories, these strategies can prevent panic, clarify the meaning of symptoms, increase energy levels, and achieve a deeper healing than you ever thought possible. Whether used as a complement to conventional medicine or as a medication reducing alternative, this program empowers people of all ages to live more active, fulfilling lives.
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Kathryn Shafer, Ph.D., L.C.S.W., maintains private practices in West Palm Beach, Florida, and New York City, teaches courses in social work, and consults for hospitals, substance-abuse programs, and mental-health centers. A graduate of the American Institute for Mental Imagery, she lectures and conducts workshops throughout the United States and abroad.
Fran Greenfield, M.A., is a mindbody therapist with private practices in New York City and on Long Island. Creator of the renowned "Imagine Being Well" program, she conducts trainings and workshops for healthcare professionals and the public throughout the United States. She also writes for publications including the New York Times.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Chapter 1From Victim To Victor
I can see clearly now the rain is gone;
I can see all obstacles in my way;
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind;
It's gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day.
Johnny Nash, "I Can See Clearly Now"
November 6, 1996. It is the morning of the New York City Marathon. I wake while it is still dark. To protect myself from the unseasonable early autumn cold, I dress in several layers of running gear. Suddenly, moments from my past come flooding back. It's then and now all at once.
I am five, crying because I want to play outside with the other kids, and my mother forbids it. I am sixteen, sneaking away from my friends to take my medication. I am twenty-five, angry because I can't run without carrying my inhaler. Then suddenly, it's last night. I am watching them paint the finish line in a wide, red swath across the black pavement of Central Park. The lights of the city begin coming on in the surrounding buildings. I have a hard time believing I'm finally here.
I exhale and come back to now, to this minute, this second, to the sound of Sting on the radio. For a few moments I sit there with the music, just inhaling the sound. Then I close my eyes and imagine doing what I've been told my whole life was impossible: I see myself crossing the finish line triumphant, breathing freely, completing the race that for years I've hoped and prayed I would one day be able to run.
My goal is simple: to run through all five boroughs of my favorite, city, to have fun, to complete the race, and not to get caught up in the competition. How well I do, how long it takes, isn't important. Just running this marathon and completing it is enough!
At 10:45 A.M., twenty-nine thousand runners wait to begin. The sunlight glints off the Verranzano Narrows Bridge, and I feel an excitement so electric my body vibrates. At the sound of the starting gun, we begin the race. Through the noise of the helicopters overhead, I hear the voices of the crowds on the opposite shore, the pulsating music, and words shouted in more languages than I can count.
As I run I sense changes in the pavement beneath my feet, in' the neighborhoods, the odors, the play of shadows and light, and at' this moment, life is perfect. I am exactly where I want to be, doing what I have dreamed of doing for years.
The doctor's words stun me. "You will never run a marathon," -he! says. I ask more questions. I argue. He shrugs, looks at his watch, and reminds me that I am lucky to be alive. I have never forgotten his voice. Wish he could see me now.
I remind myself to go easy. After ten mites my right leg, the one I fractured during a nearly fatal accident two years ago, begins to hurt. I concentrate on maintaining my own steady rhythm. 11 imagine breathing in the blue tine painted along the course, the same blue line I visited the day before; somehow this eases my pain and carries me forward.
Thirteen point one miles. I'm halfway there. The summit of the Pulaski Bridge is quiet, suspended in time, with the towers of Manhattan looming beyond.
Fifteen miles. We approach the 59th Street Bridge. Thousands of us pound across the grating toward Manhattan, where crowds line the streets. They hand us chocolate, apples, and oranges that we reach out and grab. At 83rd Street and First Avenue, my sister waits for me, along with some friends. They smile and shout out my name; they are relieved that I'm still going strong. I use their encouragement as a talisman of hope.
My sister is playing outside with her friends. She is younger, but she can do things I can't. I am jealous. I wish for some kind of magic to set me free. I wait months, years. But the magic words never get spoken. The spell remains intact. I pray. I promise. I bargain. I dream.
Twenty miles. We enter the Bronx. The discomfort in my leg is intense, but I force myself to keep moving. I pass Yankee Stadium. I get a rush remembering their World Series victory. I begin to sing "I Can See Clearly Now," a Johnny Nash song I heard while driving to work a few months ago. It reminds me of the long journey I have taken to get here. Other runners join in. I feel energized and inspired.
We enter Harlem. I've been running five hours. The enthusiasm of the crowd pulls me along. It helps to keep the tiredness at bay. Not so long now, I think.
Five miles left. I begin to anticipate what they call the "dreaded hills" of Central Park. It seems only moments later that I see the Metropolitan Museum on 82nd Street and realize by some miracle we have passed them.
Toward 59th Street, the crowds thin out. As we enter the park, those still waiting outside the Plaza Hotel cheer us on as a pathway shaped by the late afternoon sun guides me to the finish line. Crossing it in slow motion, I wrap my mind around this moment, this feeling, this lifetime dream.
I am runner 26,948, woman 6,806, a champion! Without medication and suffering no ill consequences, I have completed one of the world's most famous marathons-me, an asthmatic since early childhood.
The spell is broken. The magic is real, and I want it to last foreverů
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