Enter the Integratron & This is What Happens

I finally made it to the Integratron in Landers, California, and can say unequivocally, it's awesome.

The owners describe the domed shaped structure as a "resonant tabernacle and energy machine sited on a powerful geomagnetic vortex in the magical Mojave Desert."

UFOlogist George Van Tassel came up with the idea for the building in the mid-50s as a place for rejuvenation of the human body, sort of a time machine for people's cells.

He said the design was based on Moses' Tabernacle, the writings of Nikola Tesla and telepathic directions from extraterrestrials. Did I mention Van Tassel was a bit eccentric? Unfortunately for Van Tassel, he died just a couple weeks before completion.

The Integratron thrives today as a curiosity, sure, but also as a serious venue for sound therapy and meditative healing, thanks to three sisters who bought it a couple decades ago, and decided to open it to the public.

Co-owner Christine, who played the bowls for my session

They came up with the sound bath idea because the acoustics in the dome are truly spectacular.

A visit to the Integratron may not be for the closed minded, but you don't have to believe in extraterrestrials to have a fascinating or spiritual experience. By experience, I mean, a "sound bath."

I'm a skeptic, but open to almost anything healing, calming, joyful, inspiring or uplifting, so I took the plunge.

First, know this:  There's no water involved. I'm guessing the name came about because the idea is the sound is washing over you, and indeed, it did kind of feel like that.

When you enter the structure, you're immediately struck by the wood. It's made without a single metal nail or screw, for magnetic scientific geological vortex type reasons, resulting in a construction quite similar to that of a boat hull. As someone who grew up with a boat building dad, I found this architectural design fact fascinating.

But the sound bath! After putting your shoes in a bin, each participant enters the sound chamber via a short ladder to the upper level.

About 30 comfy thick mats are on the floor, with blankets if you need one.

Prior to beginning the sound therapy, Christine talked a little about Van Tassel, the history of the structure, and about the bowls. She explained they're tuned to musical notes, which she said basically align to our "chakras." She took a swirl around one of the bowls to give us a sample of the sound.

When I say she "plays" the bowls, she uses a thick, short drum stick-like instrument with rubber knobs on each end. She takes the instrument and swirls the rubber tip part around the bowl rim and sides to create the sounds. Her first swirl was loud, powerful, and sustained long after she put the instrument down. I had to remind myself there was no microphone. It was pure sound reverberating around the dome.

It was loud enough, in fact, that I panicked. What was I thinking?! I hate loud noise! Is it going to be pleasant, or like fingernails on a chalkboard? What if I find it excruciating? I was crazy to think this was a good idea! I already have ringing in my ears! How come I didn't think this through a little more? But just when the panic was setting in, and I was starting to map an inconspicuous emergency exit in case I needed to escape, I relaxed and sunk into the experience.

It wasn't like fingernails on a chalkboard.
It wasn't excruciating.
It wasn't irritating loud noise.

I was lying on my back, arms at my sides, palms down, eyes closed. Soon, with my arms still at my side, I was compelled to open my palms, instead of having palms down. It seemed the energy was racing up my arm and into my body via my open palms.

The sound was hypnotic, deep.
It was soothing.
It was meditative.
It was moving.

As I let the sound wash over me, a sliver of sunshine from one of the windows diagonally sliced across my legs. It was gloriously warming, just as I was wishing I had grabbed a blanket. Then, Mother Nature continued to make her presence known as the thunderbolt of sunshine slowly, imperceptibly, moved up my body, to my upper thighs, my hips, my stomach, my chest. I opened my eyes at one point and watched clouds floating past the window above me. It was indeed a magical, beautiful moment. A tear trickled from the corner of my eyes, down the side of my face.

Christine played for 25 minutes and then put soothing music on to gently reel us back to reality.

Slowly, people began to sit up and take stock.

As I stepped onto the ladder to leave, I was already thinking about a second visit.

Me, after the session, "Integratron'd"

The New Me is the Real Me

The paramedics arrived right before I began retching again and I could hear one of them on his phone relaying to the hospital that I was “healthy as a horse” until the cancer diagnosis last December. Two thoughts crossed my mind. 1) That sure is old news; and, 2) what a great night it was when I saw Patti Smith singing Horses on a small San Francisco nightclub stage decades ago.

My thoughts are disconnected and nonsensical, and I’m confused. It’s been two months since chemo and I’m three weeks outside of surgery. Why the hell am I having this intense dizziness now?

The surgery was my first ever, and it was major. Two breasts sliced off. Although I feel incredibly and deeply sad for my body - for the trauma it’s had to endure - I was okay with losing them, and this nonchalance about having a double mastectomy has me thinking, am I not in touch with my true feelings?   

It seems odd that I can be so indifferent about losing body parts, especially those that define sexy and femininity in our boob obsessed society. Yet, here I am. I’m okay. My attitude astonished one surgeon who got angry when I told him I didn’t want reconstruction. He’s pretty damn sure I’ll come around and see the error of my thinking after the dust settles.

I don’t think so. 

In the 10^th grade, a boy in my class cracked a joke about me being “a cave miner’s dream,” because of my “buried treasure.” I didn’t get it at first, and then I realized he was making fun of my flat chest.  His joke didn’t bother me at all though. I had absolutely no problem whatsoever being small chested. I was athletic and somewhat shy, and didn’t have a big boob personality. Small breasts suited me just fine. The joke turned out to be on him, however, when my late blooming body blossomed with 34C’s by the time I graduated from high school.

My small breasted teenage body

Ever since, my semi-large breasts had always been a bit of a burden. It may sound shocking, but I find it kind of a relief to be rid of them. I can wear snug tank tops now and not look vulgar! I no longer have to wear clothes that hide shirt-bursting voluptuous breasts! Of course, being disfigured is not at all the same as having small breasts, and I don't mean to trivialize the trauma and depression that many women experience after mastectomy. These are just my feelings, and in spite of the disfigurement, I'm comfortable with this new me, which feels very much like the old me, the real me.

I did wonder how I should say goodbye to the girls though. It seemed like I should do something to mark their departure. The day soon arrived and I hadn’t figured out what to do to bid farewell, so at the last moment before heading to the hospital, I simply took a couple photos of the girls in a bra, because, well, they were damn nice breasts, even if I'm a small breasted woman at heart.

Now, weeks later, a vertigo attack has me at the mercy of paramedics. While I’m trying to maintain some sort of civilized behavior in my nauseous stage, I realize one thing this former healthy horse doesn’t have to worry about are boobs popping out of my pajama top. As the paramedics load me into their truck while their red flashing lights create a dazzling psychedelic show on our street, I close my eyes and remember that night so long ago when I was unimaginably young in a small San Francisco nightclub with Patti Smith screaming into a mic painful and poetic lyrics that made me feel anything was possible.   

Not All Sugar Plums & Fairytales

Jumping for joy, for real. Taylor Sherrill photography. 

Today is my last chemo treatment before surgery, and I should be celebrating. After six months of toxic cocktails, my tumors have shrunk enough to make surgery possible. But I’m not celebrating. I’m crying and it’s pissing me off.

My plan was to be the happiness you want to see in the world. If I don't feel happy, I fake it. Cancer doesn’t like happy. Cancer likes stress. Besides, no one likes a sour puss.  But there’s a glitch in my happiness groove, and it’s spelled H-M-O.  I’m in a battle with them for a specific surgeon and it’s not going well. I’ve been denied by the HMO, and Blue Shield. The case is now being reviewed by the state.

All I want is a breast cancer specialist surgeon. Is that too much to ask? Apparently, yes.

The surgeon they’ve assigned me is a General Surgeon, not a specialist. He’s not even board certified in Surgical Oncology. During my consult with him, he didn’t look at my latest test results, which was weird because how can he decide what surgery I should have if he hasn’t checked my latest tests? Well, he doesn’t need no stinkin’ tests to determine what surgery I should have! That’s how good he is! He’s recommending a “simple” mastectomy. He also said there would be no need for any additional testing before the surgery. That seems weird, too. 

I can’t help but think, am I being punk’d?  Here's the kicker. The HMO and Blue Shield denied my request for a third consult because they said the two surgeons I already consulted with are recommending the same thing. But they’re not! So the denials are based on inaccurate information, which for a journalist who deals with fact checking everyday is a mighty frustrating situation. Accuracy? The case reviewers don’t need no stinkin’ truth to deny, deny, deny.

I ended up paying out of pocket for the third consultation with a local breast cancer specialist. Pending further testing, she is recommending a more extensive surgery than the general surgeon that includes intricate and select lymph node dissection, similar to what the second surgeon is recommending. The second and third surgeons also said they would want an additional test or two prior to the surgery to be fully informed and prepared. That makes sense to me. To the HMO, no. To the General Surgeon, no.

I’m in the infusion room. My oncologist just came by and told me the exact opposite of what the HMO told me about a particular part of the appeal process. Ugh. Another catch-22. 

I'm running out of time. It's important to have the surgery before I'm too far out from my last chemo, before the tumors start growing again.  

This hard ass, cynical news desk maestro is trying to hold back tears. It’s not the chemo, it’s not even the cancer. It's the HMO. A nurse tells me everything will be okay. I so want to believe her.

Insert fake smile here. 

Chasing Wellness

Two words:  Coffee enemas. Let me explain. I was late. I walked into a room full of people leaning forward, listening intently to a speaker. I took a seat. The speaker was an attractive older woman and she was talking about coffee enemas. I looked up, trying to confirm what I heard was what I heard (did she say coffee enemas?). Many in the audience were nodding in agreement. So it's a thing, I thought to myself. She did say coffee enemas, and people do it.  

The presentation was part of an integrated health cancer conference in San Diego, where all kinds of roads to wellness were being highlighted. The weekend long event offered a mountain of information about alternative health treatments, and some incredible stories of beating cancer without filling Big Pharma coffers (mainly, no chemo or radiation).  

But entering the Expo Hall of vendors hawking gadgets and gizmos with miraculous cancer curing promises made me wonder which vendors were selling Snake Oil and which ones were the real deal. Seriously, that tube necklace (photo above) is going to kill my cancer? Yet there are amazing stories of recovery from debilitating and deadly illnesses involving all sorts of odd equipment and curious treatment combinations, so I browsed and considered the products and devices, however wacky, with an open mind.

While sitting inside a portable sauna that claims to boost metabolism, remove toxins, and reverse the aging process,

I was trying to take it seriously but Lucy and Ethel popped into my mind... 

... the "I Love Lucy" episode where Lucy sits in a sweat box for an entire afternoon, determined to lose weight so she can be in Desi's nightclub dance act that night. When I got out of the sauna after four minutes or so, I didn't lose any weight or feel like doing the Rumba, but I can report that it was steamy.  

Anything having to do with medical marijuana was a big draw. From powders to oils, participants, including myself, were interested to hear about the latest studies. 

Constance Finley presented about her CBD oil, which she calls "Constance Pure Botanical Extracts." It began as an effort to heal herself from an autoimmune disease when conventional medicine almost killed her. She says her cannabis extracts have had astounding results saving lives and are currently involved in several studies. "Pure" is the keyword for her oils. Her extracts are not processed from byproduct often found in non-medical cannabis products, and she doesn't use butane or other illegal processes in the oil extractions. She only supplies her product to patients, and says her product can also help ill dogs. More information about Constance Pure Botanical Extracts can be found at www.cbdfarm.org.

Total Thermal Imaging was another popular vendor. Radiation free full body thermography claims to be a cutting edge technology for early disease detection, including periodontal infections often missed by x-rays. 

According to their literature, the FDA approved thermography back in 1982 as an effective adjunct to breast cancer screening. I'll put that on the list of things my conventional doctor never mentioned or recommended. More info at www.totalthermalimaging.com.

I tried the Porter Vision Mind Fit headset that is supposed to reduce stress by using light and sound therapy. 

The rep explained the device delivers gentle pulses of light through special glasses and the lights synchronize with tones known as binaural beats to produce deep relaxation. Unfortunately, all I could hear was the sound of the people and vendors having a grand time in the Expo Hall. My husband, on the other hand, put a headset on and practically fell asleep. 

It never occurred to me that you can have your own personal Hyperbaric Oxygen Chamber.

As for why, the therapy is said to enhance the body's natural healing process by inhalation of 100% oxygen where atmospheric pressure is increased and controlled. Sweet, but does my insurance cover it? 

Most memorable quote from the conference was from Elaine Gibson, of "Renewed Living":  

“Your bowel movements are your report card.” 

Which brings me back to coffee enemas. Some people swear by them! I'm going to be on the sidelines with this one, at least for now. I like coffee first thing in the morning, but not from the back end.

For why and how about coffee enemas, go to http://www.mindbodygreen.com/0-7065/10-reasons-why-you-should-try-a-coffee-enema.html.

Getting Wiggy

This morning my B started complaining about losing his hair - which he isn't, or anyway it's not obvious like my sad, balding head - and I told him, hey, you can borrow one of my wigs.

The thing about going bald is, it’s kind of shocking no matter how prepared you are for the shedding. I scare myself these days when I catch an unintentional glimpse of my balding head. 

Who is that odd, alien, bird-like creature staring back at me?! The time has come to wear a wig.

Maybe I'll take a lesson from Andy Warhol. No one wore wigs better than him. Sure there have been others since him, but he was the first to boldly go where no one else dared: Obvious Fake Wigdom.  

What began as an effort to hide his early male pattern baldness became his trademark persona. Warhol just wasn't Warhol without his iconic wigs.The more fake they looked, the better. So if he had to re-adjust his wig in public, no biggie. We were all in on it. There was absolutely no pretension that his hairpieces were real. 

I could go the Andy Warhol route...

... but I'm not looking for a trademark look. Mostly, I just want to blend in and not scare myself or others. But I do like the idea of not worrying about a natural look. Maybe I should skip the ordinary and adopt Japanese Harajuki style...

... except I’m not 15 years old. 

I've never been a blonde. Maybe now's my opportunity to find out if blondes really do have more fun. 

So I gave it a test. I wore a blonde wig to a basketball game. Truth be told, I had fun, but did I have more fun?

I know I shouldn't be stressing about wigs. I need to concentrate on what's important (is the chemo working?).  Just get a wig already and be done with it! 

As it turned out, while I was procrastinating and putting off The Wig Situation, my dad called out of the blue. He offered to take me wig shopping, which we did, and it was probably one of the weirdest and more memorable things we ever did together.

So I got a wig. I got two. 

I was joking when I offered my B one of my wigs, but he let me put one on him and he looked, well, for a few minutes my B was my very own brunette Warhol.

Bruce Lee & Other Fighters

My hair is falling out, my left collarbone area is sore from surgery to insert a “medi-port,” and I have months of treatment ahead with a hazy prognosis.

Yet, I feel lucky. 

This path I'm on is well worn from others who have gone down this road. Others who have braved, and are braving, far, far worse.

Like Sam. He’s battling the deadliest skin cancer.  He has had eleven surgeries in the past three years. Half his nose is gone. His right arm has been sliced and carved to a pulp. His right ear had to be cut off. There’s a chunk gone from the top of his scalp.  But he says for all the hell and the dark places he’s been, and all the awful comments and stares he gets when he ventures outside, cancer has made him a better person, a more compassionate person.

This is serious shit, nothing to joke about. But I wish I had a good joke for Sam, something hilarious that will cut the palpable heartache in the room with uncontrollable laughter. Something so funny it will pierce through his horrifying ordeal and make everything okay, if only for a few minutes. Something so magical he will never have dark days again.

 

But I have nothing for Sam. I don’t have a joke, and I can’t stop thinking about what he just said about the cruelty he faces every time he walks outside his front door. Really, people?!  I wish there was a way I could give those people a piece of my mind. I want to block their path, unleash a fury and get all italicized UPPER CASE bold face on them.

I calm my inner Bruce Lee, and return my attention to the others in the support group.  Roger says he’s been battling his cancer for years. He’s been in remission six times. Six times. Sarah’s cancer is not responding to any of the treatments. She’s running out of options, but her smile lights up the room and she praises her oncologist. Brenda’s almost done with treatment and may soon return to her life as a dancer, but is worried sick the cancer will return and her decision not to have the final chemo treatment will come back to haunt her.

Nothing and no one is perfect in this group. Whereas before, in our pre-cancer lives, we could glide along on a cloud of perceived perfection and illusion of immortality, today our lives, our choices, our diseases, our strengths and weaknesses are all on display, some more visible than others.

Like Sam.

He tells us about his next proposed surgery. The panel of doctors he met with say they need to take off half his face, the left side, and it will have to remain an open wound.  It will be the most disfiguring surgery yet. Sam takes off his black panama hat and looks at the group of us. He says he cancelled the surgery at the last moment. The spiritual price tag was simply too much.  

Chemo on the Rocks

I’m new to this cancer thing, but there’s one thing I noticed right off the bat. Cancer is a real buzz kill.

What a roller coaster experience of everything I never wanted to deal with, clubs I never wanted to join and drugs I never wanted to take. (They could at least be fun drugs, but no.)

If you've never spent time in an infusion room, you’re lucky.  It’s not a bad place, really. It’s comfortable and clean with friendly staff at your beck and call, and you’re welcome to take a nap, which many do.  It’s practically a VIP lounge except for the fact that chemo cocktails are on the menu, and not martinis. “I’ll have the Taxol, please, with a dash of Carboplatin.”

Like I said, buzz kill.   

I’ve only had two chemo sessions, so I’m still chipper with a head of hair. I hear it’s the third session that can rake your scalp bald, but it’s different for everyone, and depends on your chemo drugs.

Where I go, I like the chairs that face towards the floor-to-ceiling windows. There’s a lovely view, especially hypnotic when the wind is blowing through the branches of an old eucalyptus tree, rustling the leaves, Mother Nature elegantly showing off her Zen moves.

Spending time in the infusion room, you notice another thing about cancer. It’s an equal opportunity disease. It doesn't discriminate. 

The chairs are filled with men and women, rich and poor, gangster to socialite, all with their own stories and their own unique cancers.

A lady walks in. She quickly takes a seat and settles in. For a second it feels like I'm in a scene from “Cheers.” Everyone knows her name. Turns out, she’s been coming to this place for a long time. She tells me she’s in her second year battling pancreatic cancer. She’s smiling like it’s no big deal.

Soon, she’s napping peacefully as the chemo drips into her veins.