Integrative medicine and stage 4 cancer

Phase one: discovering qigong, acupuncture and herbs

October 2024: one morning, Sarah and I dance in the kitchen with my granddaughter, Maya. She is twenty-one months old, hilarious, joyful, spirited. She loves dancing, singing, hide-and-seek and telling us what to do; ‘More hidin’ Mels!’ We jiggle and leap around as the Fireman Sam theme tune bounces melodically along. Maya wiggles her hips left and right, waves her arms, laughs and spins. At one point, she slows down and floats her arms up and down with a serious, private intensity. Her arms are gently rounded, her fingers relaxed, her knees slightly bent, legs still. Quietly, gently she responds to an internal rhythm only she feels, a music only she hears. It is beautiful to witness. She is unusually peaceful, almost meditative. Sarah and I look at each other and mouth the word ‘qigong.’

Early 2022, a year after treatment: the pandemic and my vulnerable immune system mean social gatherings are still rare. We are terrified that I will get covid again. We don’t know how my one and a half lungs might respond and neither do the medical team. We meet friends outside and don’t hug. We meet friends inside with masks and don’t hug. What is this world with no affection, no physical demonstration of love? How will my body trust that touch is not just medical? How will I heal internally if my outside body is starved, denied and isolated? Sarah and I have experienced a crisis during a global disaster. As I emerge, nothing is as it was. I am not even sure that anything is as it is. The world seems to reflect my cancer experience. We humans are universally, to one degree or another, traumatised, unsure of how to interact in this new depersonalised world.

One dark, cold night, Sarah and I walk to a yoga class. The room is lit by candles. We are covid cautious and excited to enter this hallowed space. I have learnt not to say Sarah is ‘good at yoga’ as this is not in the spirit of yoga. She is a practised, embodied, yogic soul (who is good at yoga). I am noticeably less so, even before cancer. Sarah and her body engage with the teaching. Her body flows and balances in cat cow, tree and cobra pose, in eagle, crane and warrior. She is strong, thirsty for this movement, in harmony. I feel miserable as my poor, aching, disconnected body observes the animal movements I cannot do, the peace I do not feel. My body is weighty, awkward, non-compliant, at odds with the mood in the room. I slump on the mat disheartened and want to weep. I am less downward dog, more run over dog.

My poor nervous system, that walked out on me because I had walked out on it, can’t engage with what is offered. It sighs, ‘I am not ready. I am upset and I am delicate’. I feel my nerves scurrying around in the hot, dark insides of me. Hiding, not seeking. To them, it’s unpredictable and scary out here. I need help to begin to stitch together my delicate, injured interior, my external body and my spirit.

Flow yoga is a no-no for now. Is there a practice slower than yoga? Somewhere I can take my anxious nervous system to gently restore, to emerge from the soil, to crack open from the husk of me and move towards the sunlight? And lo a gift lands in my life.

I spot qigong on a yoga centre’s website. The words draw me in, ‘a Chinese medicine system of gentle exercises focused on the breath, the internal dynamics of the body and the circulation of qi (life energy)’. One Saturday, I attend the class with an open mind and meet the smiling teacher, Damián. He welcomes me at the door.

I listen as he explains the practice to the group, I watch as he moves. He speaks naturally, softly; demonstrates without ego. He is clear and patient, almost scientific. The three Es of teaching are in action: expertise, enthusiasm and empathy. We practise a series of gentle, slow movements. In one hour, we do a 20-minute warm-up and maybe a sequence of five moves. Just five. No rush.

My feet root to the ground, my weight begins to drop into my feet. My skeleton is upright but relaxed. Tension drops down, down. Muscles, skin, flesh, fascia all descend. I suspend my head as if I am a puppet, my chin is tucked. I am light but held together, solid. I am graceful. I am slow dancing with myself. I am taking my neurones for a gentle walk, holding their hand as I need someone to hold mine. And they are whispering to the neighbourhood royalty, liver, heart, spleen, lungs, kidneys to join us. Intuitively, they decide to join.

All is slow. As Damián says, ‘move almost as if you are doing nothing, try using the smallest amount of energy’. What a reassuring message to my fatigued body. There is no forced breath. Each person follows their own rhythm. The breath flows as it feels and will descend naturally to the diaphragm, the stomach. I picture myself in new landscapes as Damián introduces us to the evocatively named moves: The Queen Rises from her Throne, Pushing the Eight Horses, Pulling the Nine Oxen, the Wind Waves the Lotus Leaves.

Qigong, I didn’t know what I needed until I found it.

As I internalise the teaching, my eyes close and something magical happens. I lift my arms in front of me at shoulder height, palms facing down, elbows soft. I float them out slowly, slowly for seven or eight seconds; the same to float back. And again. And again. An exploration of moving more slowly than I have ever considered moving. I feel, hear, sense shifts in my body. An awakening through the gentlest, slowest of repetitions. I see tiny bolts of crackling electricity. Are these neurones? Are the nerves that were so hurt by the toxic, ugly sister drugs bravely lifting their heads and peeking out at me? Are they ready to do more than function? Will they join in a project to piece me back together?

I feel a bright, beautiful vibration from my fingertips to my shoulders. My shoulders are sending golden sparks to my spine. My cervical spine is hot-wiring to my thoracic spine and down to the lumbar. I am alive. I am actually alive. I brought my troubled body here, rooted down and let myself explore. I don’t need to think or understand it. I receive the gift of my body to myself with a new confidence. My old friend, missing for nearly two years. Welcome home.

At the end of the lesson, I speak to Damián. We sit on the bench and talk about my cancer treatment. Tears of relief drip drop down. He is not shocked. He trusts that qigong can help. I trust that he can help. I feel relief, less alone, less lost. There is invisible wisdom in the body. Here is a place where I can learn, grow and heal.

A few months later, I venture to Damián’s Chinese medicine practice. I am allergic to lying on medical couches and am unsure if I can tolerate needles invading my body. Associations are chemotherapy-monstrous, bashed veins, bruises, tears, pain. Bloods are always difficult to draw from my veins; sometimes two or three nurses or doctors try. It is always an ordeal.

We start gently. Chinese massage, called TuiNa on my upper back and shoulders. The treatment is vibrant, deep, rhythmical and curiously the deeper it goes, the quieter, more insular and safer I feel. I am deeply rested, my heart rate remarkably low. It is one of the mysterious contradictions of the Chinese medicine tradition. Alert and relaxed, slow yet vivid, yin and yang. All in balance, in harmony. I begin to have acupuncture with Damián fortnightly, take herbs daily, attend qigong most weeks. Qigong accompanies me to mountains, on walks. I have been known to throw a qigong move at airports. Damián and his wonderful, wildly funny better half, Julieta, have become dear buddies to Sarah and me. Part of the prescription is laughter and silliness.

Healing from any serious illness can be profound and prolonged. I feel immense and deep gratitude for this weaving together of ancient and modern medicines. I am awakened, actively engaged with my body. Last week we met with my oncologist at the mothership hospital. The miracle drug that I take at 10pm every night is working. Some lung nodules are what my cancer kin call ‘stable Mabel’. And some have shrunk, even halved. It is phenomenal to me. And I know in my heart that the work Damián and I do gives me the strength and qi to tolerate the drug well and to live with va-va-voom.

And a joyful update: I now attend yoga classes with a gentle teacher and do a mean downward dog. ‘More dancin’ Mels?’ Yes, yes, yes, Little Maya. More dancing. More life.

Note: I only use herbs recommended by my Chinese medicine practitioner. They are always checked for potential interactions with my drug by the hospital pharmacist.

Cancer research

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Oncogene Cancer Research

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Roy Castle Lung Cancer Foundation

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