Inner Fire: Your Will to Live : Stories of Courage, Hope, and Determination - Softcover

Rosenbaum, Ernest H.; Rosenbaum, Isadora R.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1889762121 ISBN 13: 9781889762128

Publisher: Plexus Pub, 1999

Synopsis

A collection of highly inspirational, first-person stories from people facing cancer and other life-threatening circumstances.

About this title

About the Author

Ernest H. Rosenbaum, M.D. is Clinical Professor of Medicine, University of California, San Francisco; Associate Chief of Medicine, University of California, San Francisco / Mount Zion Medical Center; Medical Director, Better Health Foundation, San Francisco.

Dr. Rosenbaum's career has included a fellowship at the Blood Research Laboratory of Tufts University School of Medicine (New England Center Hospital) and M.I.T. He teaches at the University of California, San Francisco / Mount Zion Medical Center, and was the cofounder of the Northern California Academy of Clinical Oncology.

His passionate interest in clinical research and extraordinary communication with patients and colleagues has resulted in the publication of more than 15 popular books on living with cancer (including "Living With Cancer" and "Everyone's Guide to Cancer Therapy") and over 50 articles on cancer and hematology in various medical journals. A frequent guest on radio and television programs, he also lectures widely to various medical and public groups.

From the Back Cover

What is the will to live? How do some people faced with major life-threatening illnesses not only survive, but experience a profound deepening of their lives as a result? Oncologist Ernest Rosenbaum M.D. asked his patients and colleagues about their own will to live and has brought their stories together in Inner Fire. The contributors speak for themselves in their own unique voices, and each story will touch you deeply. From the group of breast cancer survivors climbing one of the world's highest peaks, to facing cancer as a Buddhist spiritual practice, to surviving a Japanese POW camp during World War II, these stories will inspire everyone who reads them to make the most of the life they are living now.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

FROM CHAPTER 14 BY DIANE BEHAR From the moment I touched what felt like a flat piece of chewing gum almost floating on my right breast, I knew I had cancer. It was November of 1988. I was lying peacefully in bed recuperating from a bad bout of the flu when I unexpectedly came across a strange, foreign presence under my skin which I hoped would simply not be there the next day. But it was. And the day after that. And the day after that. Terrified to the core, I ran to my gynecologist who, after feeling it for some time, announced that it was probably a cyst and I was a spring chicken and that I shouldn't worry about it. Nevertheless, I insisted on having a mammogram and was told that everything was okay. But I never read the radiology report. If I had, I would have discovered that this worrisome new addendum to my breast was "probably benign." Months passed. The lump did not go away; one day in the shower, I felt it very carefully with my soapy fingers and realized that it had grown. I felt the blood rush out of my face and into my frozen feet.

This time I made an appointment with a breast specialist who examined me briefly and told me, "It's a good thing you came here." When I asked him exactly what he meant by that, he said, "There is a very good chance you have a malignancy." His words went through me like a hot bee sting. I began crying and couldn't stop. My jaw was bobbing up and down and I had the sensation of falling through space. He told me to get control of myself as "we can't have the other people in the waiting room see you like this." Shocked even further by his cold statement, I asked him if he had a back door and ran out of the office.

As though in a dream, I wandered over to the East River and cried and cried and cried into the water. I wanted to crawl out of my skin, which felt like a tight jumpsuit. I knew my life would never be the same.

I eventually found a very warm and caring doctor who put a little pillow under my head while examining me and said, "I would like to see this under a microscope." A week later, he did. While I slowly awakened from my biopsy, he came into my room, stood in front of my bed, and said, "My dear, we have a problem. The lump on your breast was cancerous."

"I know." He continued, "You will need to have a mastectomy, followed by chemotherapy and probably radiation, and, if you wish, reconstruction. And then you will be fine."

I will never forget those powerful, positive words at the end of his sentence, "And then you will be fine." They almost magically canceled out all the other uncomfortable words that preceded them. They were to be the starting point of my will to live.

For the next year, as I went through the experience of losing my hair, losing my boyfriend, and often my self-esteem, those wonderful words rattled through my brain like a welcome life-raft in a turbulent sea. Eventually, they worked their way into the deepest parts of me, even into my bones where I can still feel them today.

In spite of all my ups and downs, I have never doubted the validity of those words. They sustained me through a recurrence of the disease several years later. They have sustained me through metastases to my liver, lymph nodes, and bone. They have sustained me through office visits with our doctors and less-than-rosy medical reports. They sustain me more than eight years later as I approach my 60th cycle of chemotherapy. I know I will be fine.

This does not mean that I don't have my dark hours. I do. Sometimes often. They visit me like unwelcome guests when I least expect them. They often can consume me to the point where I feel so helpless I don't know how I can possibly go on. This is when I turn to the other tools of support which give me strength, courage and hope.

One of these tools was a welcome guest who visited me when I least expected it. Several years ago, I was taking a bath, feeling very vulnerable and sorry for myself. There is something about the experience of not having hair and sitting like a baby in the bathtub which can bring out some very strong emotions.

At one point, I remember crying so hard that there was nothing left to cry with. Suddenly, I felt a warm, benevolent presence enter the room and fill it with a radiance that startled me. I thought to myself, "So this is what it's like to go crazy." But the presence felt healthy and good and it stayed with me the rest of the day. I stopped worrying about myself and, when I smiled, it was a reflection of this calmer, inner state. If I felt the presence begin to drift away, I would close my eyes, quiet my thoughts, and ask it to come back. It always did and would replenish me with a sense of well being, a feeling that everything would be all right.

Gradually, I began to take a little time each day to become quiet, close my eyes, and focus my thoughts. Over time, I realized that what I was doing was praying, and I would like to believe that the radiance I've come to know is God's love and healing warmth. My close friends tell me that I have a newfound serenity about me. From my point of view, it is my faith in God which is shining through and tells me I will be fine...

Edition details

• Publisher: Plexus Pub
• Publication date: 1999
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1889762121
• ISBN 13: 9781889762128
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1