Ode Magazine - Anticancer: A New Way of Life by David Servan-Schreiber

Greetings one and all. As most of you know, I have been pretty sick since my last chemo treatment. I don't like to leave the blog inactive for such a long period of time, so I thought I would share a discovery I have made (through a friend) with all of you. A new book by David Servan-Schreiber called Anticancer: A New Way of Life. I first learned about the book from a friend and member of my meditation group, Kate. I finally got around to ordering it, and I'm glad I did because it arrived today and I can't put it down.

Servan-Schreiber is a doctor. He was also diagnosed with cancer. His story is touching and informative. You must read the book.

Accordingly, while I'm recovering, I'm going to paste here the beginning of an article from Ode Magazine. At the end of the excerpt you will be able to read the entire article in the link provided. Enjoy this very important excerpt from a very important new book. You can also access a YouTube Interview with Dr. Servan-Schreiber here or you can watch it at the very bottom of this post.

My life is about to change, again. Peace, Tanya

***From Ode Magazine***

How to help your body help itself.

In this exclusive excerpt from his new book, Anticancer: A New Way of Life, French psychiatrist and neuroscientist David Servan-Schreiber describes how he survived cancer with medical treatment and by boosting his immune system’s natural defenses through diet, exercise and a positive outlook on life.

David Servan-Schreiber November 2008 issue

I have cancer.

I was diagnosed with a brain tumor for the first time 15 years ago. After surgery and chemotherapy, I asked my oncologist for advice. What should I do to lead a healthy life and what precautions could I take to avoid a relapse? “There’s nothing special to do. Lead your life normally. We’ll do MRI scans at regular intervals and if your tumor comes back, we’ll detect it early,” replied this leading light of modern medicine.

“But aren’t there exercises I could do, a diet to follow or to avoid? Shouldn’t I be working on my mental outlook?” I asked. My colleague’s answer bewildered me. “In this domain, do what you like. It can’t do you any harm. But we don’t have any scientific evidence that any of these approaches can prevent a relapse.

What my doctor meant was that oncology is an extraordinarily complex field that’s changing at breakneck speed. He was already hard-pressed to keep up with the most recent diagnostic and therapeutic procedures.

I know this problem as an academic physician. Each in our own specialty, we’re rarely aware of fundamental discoveries recently published in prestigious journals such as Science or Nature. Not until they’ve been the subject of large-scale human studies do we take note. Still, these breakthroughs may enable us to protect ourselves long before they’ve led to new drugs or protocols that will become mainstream treatments tomorrow.

When I found out I had a brain tumor, I was 31 years old, young and ambitious. I’d been out of my native France for more than 10 years, living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. With a friend, I ran a laboratory of functional brain imaging funded by the National Institutes of Health. Our goal was to understand the mechanisms of thought by linking them to the workings of the brain. We had a new theory—on the role of the prefrontal cortex in schizophrenia—and were rising stars of American psychiatry.

I discovered overnight a world that looked familiar but, in fact, I knew little about—the world of the patient. I’d known casually the neurosurgeon to whom I was immediately referred. We’d had patients in common, and he was interested in my research. After my tumor was discovered, our conversations changed completely. No more allusions to my scientific experiments. I was asked to lay bare the intimate details of my life, describe my symptoms in full. We discussed my headaches, nausea, the chances I would have seizures. Stripped of my professional attributes, I joined the ranks of ordinary patients. I felt the ground giving way beneath me.

I clung as best I could to my status as a physician. Rather pitifully, I wore my white coat with my name and degrees embroidered in blue lettering to my appointments. In my hospital, where hierarchy was often pronounced, the nurses and orderlies who knew your status called you “doctor” respectfully. But when you were on a stretcher and no longer wearing your white coat, you became “Mr. So-and-so” or, more often, “honey.”

Like everyone else, you waited in the waiting room that as a doctor you’d breezed through, head high, avoiding eye contact with patients so as not to be waylaid. Like everyone else, you were taken to the examination room in a wheelchair. What did it matter if the rest of the time you moved around these same corridors on the run? “It’s hospital policy,” the orderly would say. You resigned yourself to being treated as someone who couldn’t be trusted to walk.

You can read the rest of the article here.