|
Contact
Us Dr.
Allen's Inspiring Survival Story
"The
definition of failure is not falling down, but staying
down"
Dr. Ann de Wees Allen’s Story of Survival
by Dr. Ann de Wees Allen, N.D.
One
morning, in 1983, I woke up unable to swallow. By the end of
the day I could not even swallow water. My fiancée Jeff and
my mother had to jointly “drag” me to the hospital
emergency room because I kept saying nothing was wrong. Jeff
replied, “Then why can’t you swallow?” And I said,
“Oh, for heavens sake, something small is stuck in my
esophagus and I’m sure it will pop out.” It didn’t pop
out.
They
admitted me to the emergency room of the local hospital, and
by the next day they had scheduled surgery. I awoke in
Intensive Care to a nightmare. I was lying on a table and nine
hours had lapsed. Nine hours? Nine hours for just a little
something stuck in my throat? What went wrong? I felt cold and
then the pain began to wash over me. I looked down at my body
and saw huge metal staples covering my torso. The staples
appeared to be holding me together. Inch-wide incisions ran
the entire circumference of my body – somewhat like a peach
that had been sliced in half and opened up. Another incision
ran from my sternum to my naval. An incision ran down the side
of my nose and a tube had been inserted and sewed to the skin.
Two large tubes ran into my side and they also were attached
to the skin. I was too frightened to speak.
The
surgeon appeared and said, “I’m sorry.” I said, “About
what?” He replied, “About the cancer.” “What
cancer?” “You have stomach and esophageal cancer and we
have removed your distal esophagus, stomach, rib cage, and
diaphragm portions.” I couldn’t think of a thing to say.
My brother Philip came in and calmly took my hand. I hadn’t
seen my brother cry since we were children. That’s when I
“borrowed” his Zorro cape to use as a tablecloth for my
doll and in the process ruined it.
I
was diagnosed with stomach and esophageal cancer. I was the
youngest person ever diagnosed with this type of cancer. The
survival rate was less than 2%.
How
could I be dying of cancer? I was young, healthy, and very
athletic. I had never smoked a cigarette, didn’t drink
anything other than an occasional glass of wine, jogged every
day, and perhaps more importantly, had no history of cancer in
my family.
In
college, years earlier, I received a scholarship in
Environmental Chemistry and Engineering from the Environmental
Protection Agency. This scholarship included working on EPA
contracts in an environmental research laboratory. The longest
research project I worked on was a toxic guidelines study of
polychlorinated byphenols (PCBs). Every day for two years, I
condensed samples to extract PCBs from them. Following the
two-year study, the EPA banned PCBs from the market labeling
them as carcinogens. I had breathed PCBs every day for two
years.
The
pain was relentless and agonizing. I didn’t know that a
human could survive such pain. It took every ounce of strength
left in my body to get through the day. I was receiving
morphine shots in my legs every two hours, twenty-four hours a
day. I was still begging for more. This went on for thirty-two
days. I could not even have a sip of water during this time.
My mouth and lips craved the sensation of liquid. Hunger,
pain, and thirst were my constant companions. It was difficult
to think of anything else.
After
over a month of this torment, the doctors came into my room to
announce it was time to test the new system they had
constructed inside me. They took me downstairs to “test the
new system.” I felt horrible and dehumanized. I looked like
a Frankenstein monster. Visitors in the hospital elevator and
hall were staring at me.
They
had given me an extra morphine shot so they could hang me
upside down like a bat and take pictures of the “new
setup.” My "new setup" was designed to replace my
regular organs. I made the mistake of asking the technician
what would happen if this “new setup” didn’t work as
planned. He said, “Well, you will die.” I was impressed
with his subtlety.
The
surgeon appeared all aglow and said, “How about that!
Everything works fine. You are really a strong girl.” I
squeaked out, “Now what?” He said, “You go home.”
“But
I can’t eat.”
“I
know.”
“What
will I do, how will I live without food?”
“Try
to sip a teaspoon of soup once an hour.”
“Can
I live on that?”
“Most
people do not survive this disease past six months.”
“The
cancer?”
“Yes.
The survival rate is less than 2%.”
“How
will I die, will it be painful?”
“I
have to go now, I have other patients to see.”
My
family (Mom, Dad, two sisters, and a brother) came to see me
daily. They just sat there looking at me or trying not to look
at me.
There
were two people, however, I could not allow to see me in this
condition: my daughter and my fiancée. I married my first
husband at the age of eighteen when I had not one brain cell
working. The idiot child-bride (me) gave birth to an adorable,
precious daughter. I made my mother promise not to let my
beloved daughter Octavia see me or know how sick I was. I did
not let my fiancée, Jeff, see me the entire time I was in the
hospital because I could not bear to see the look on his face.
I had been a beautiful young woman, full of laughter and
health with a life to look forward to.
On
the last day of my hospital stay, the nurse said to me,
“Well, you are going to have to let Jeff in here now,
because he will see you being wheeled out of here. Don’t you
want to let him in now? He’s been sleeping on a gurney
outside this room for thirty-two days. He doesn’t leave. He
eats BLT sandwiches all day. All the nurses chat with him.
They like him. Let him in.”
“OK,
but not until my sisters come in here and fix me up. I know I
weigh 78 pounds and I am 5’6” which isn’t the most
attractive state of affairs, but they are really good with
makeup.” So, my sisters Macrae and Elizabeth brought their
makeup kits and went to work. They even fixed my hair with
lovely barrettes and stuck a sexy negligee over the
stick-body. They went out to get Jeff, who was perched in his
usual place, on a gurney in the hallway right outside my room.
He came in and they went out. Jeff came over to the bed and
said, “Hi. Can I get in?” Pretending everything was
normal, he carefully got into the hospital bed with me, put
his arms around me, and proceeded to talk about his cousin’s
escapades, getting me a dog and the pretty new sheets he had
bought for me to come home to.
I
thought to myself, “Is he crazy? Can’t he see what’s
going on here?” So I said, “Do you want a corpse for a
bride?” He ignored me and said, “Let’s go home now.”
So we went home. I was glad he took me home with him because
even though I love my parents dearly, the thought of smelling
my father’s scrapple every morning (he never varies his
choice) made my head throb.
After
I had been home for a few weeks, Aran (my young nephew) asked
me why I looked like a preying mantis. I realized that I had
to do something. I couldn’t eat, and I didn’t want to end
up as another statistic. I wanted to be included in the 2% of
stomach/esophageal cancer patients that manage to somehow
survive. There really were only two choices: lie there and die
or fight.
I
made a pact with God, Jesus and the Universe (just to cover
all bases). If "They" would let me live, I would
reciprocate by working with cancer patients. I promised to
discover "things" which would alleviate the
suffering of humankind. I didn't even know what
"things" I was talking about, but I made the promise
anyway. Please God, either let me die now or let me live with
dignity and without pain.
With
survival as my motivator, I solicited everyone to bring me
medical books. The bed was covered with medical books and
research papers. I became obsessed. It was like the story
"Lorenzo's Oil" only the patient and researcher were
one and the same.
For
some unknown reason, I could understand and process all the
scientific and medical data at terrific speed and with total
comprehension. This was baffling to me because as a dyslexic,
processing technical information can be a challenge. I
requested more and more advanced books and research. I
couldn't get enough. Complicated scientific concepts became
simple to me. Many of the chemistry books I read were authored
by Linus Pauling.
I
decided to call Dr. Linus Pauling at the Linus Pauling
Institute in California. Well, why not? He was the most
brilliant human alive. Two Nobel prizes are credentials enough
for me. I had devoured his books and research on vitamin C and
cancer. I called the Institute and they connected me to him.
He spoke with me at length and was extremely patient and kind.
Dr. Pauling and I talked about the less than 2% chance of
survival, and we discussed his research on vitamin C and
antioxidants. Dr. Pauling recommended a protocol of
antioxidants, vitamin C, and amino acids (using L-arginine as
the main amino acid), According to Pauling, no one had
previously tried using L-arginine as an anti-cancer agent.
My
father arranged to have me evaluated at the Lombardi Cancer
Center, Georgetown University Hospital. Following the
evaluation, three oncologists met with me and my family. They
had examined my case carefully and had concluded that I could
not have chemotherapy and I could not have radiation. You
cannot radiate the heart, and my new stomach was right up
against my heart. They felt chemotherapy would only make me
lose more weight, and in reality, I had no more weight to
donate. "So, what's the plan?" I cheerfully
inquired. "We don't have a plan." They were kind,
but blunt. My mother looked frantic. On the way home from the
hospital she said, "Remember that red striped dress I
made you wear to a party when you were fifteen?" How
could I forget? I looked like a decorated flag pole.
"Well," she continued, "I'm really sorry. Will
you forgive me?" That scared me more than anything the
doctors had said.
I
pled my case to Dr. Woolley at Georgetown University Hospital;
let me follow the Linus Pauling Protocol and take L-arginine
and other nutrients. He agreed, with the stipulation that they
would monitor my progress and continually test for clinical
signs of overdosing. At my low weight, nutrient megadoses had
toxic potential. I began the protocol with the assistance and
direction of Linus Pauling and Dr. Evan Cameron, his associate
at the Pauling Institute. Dr. Cameron's Scottish brogue was
both soothing and fascinating.
Georgetown
Hospital decided to try hypnosis as an alternative treatment
to chemotherapy and radiation. My mind and body were so
traumatized that they felt hypnosis might help. The hypnosis
was to serve two purposes. One was to deal with the remaining
cancer cells left following the surgery. They were not able to
remove all the cancer, and without the possibility of any
further treatment to eradicate these aggressive cells, they
could continue to spread. So, under deep hypnosis Dr. Molly
Jones had me visualize Pac-Man-like creatures eating up the
remaining cancer. I spent countless waking and dreaming hours
sending cartoon figures into battle to attack and destroy the
cancer cells. Two, Dr. Jones felt that something was
preventing me from enjoying food. During the intense hypnosis
sessions, Dr. Jones discovered that my subconscious mind
believed food would get stuck in my esophagus and I would
choke to death if I ate something solid. I was, in fact,
afraid of food.
She
gradually removed this misconception, and I eventually began
to eat tiny bits of food. Though I could not eat normal food
for two years, I could sip liquid and eat soup, Jello and
Italian ice at the rate of 1 teaspoon per hour. I got so tired
of this regimen and of being hungry that I would dream of
consuming huge Thanksgiving dinners. I thought about fried
chicken a lot.
Dr.
Jones would hypnotize me and then she and I would prepare
"pretend" meals involving wonderful food. In my mind
I would eat and eat. It was like watching Emeril on the Food
Channel, wherein you don't really eat the food, but you surely
enjoy the process. When she brought me out of the hypnosis, I
would feel less intimidated by the thought of eating. As soon
as the session was over, Jeff and my mother and sister would
rush me to a nearby cafe and coax me to take a bite of
something. The whole process was really absurd, and I'm sure
people at the other lunch tables thought I was anorexic. But
after all the trouble everyone had gone to, I knew I should
take a few bites. I kept thinking about a book I had read
about bizarre phobias. One man had a "fear of
purchase" and could not bring himself to buy anything.
Another case involved a woman who had an abject fear of
donkeys. If she saw one, or even a picture of one, she would
run screaming bloody murder. Fear of food put me in the same
category, so I tried to eat.
Because
of the new stomach-setup, eating was not pleasant. It was
painful and weird. The food went in the mouth, but then it
took a different path from the normal route, and went...Lord
knows where. I didn't want to know and didn't ask. If the
doctors tried to explain it to me, my mind would go "La,
la, la, I don't hear you." Years later, I would read my
entire medical files, and recoil in horror.
Aside
from the food issue, the position issue loomed large. The
doctors had told me I would never be able to lie flat again
and had to sleep sitting up. Jeff had placed blocks under my
bed, but I kept sliding out. The bed resembled a ski slope. We
eventually made a better setup using huge pillows, which were
certainly more comfortable than blocks. The problem was, when
I fell into deep sleep, I would slide down, and end up lying
flat. Acid from my stomach would then creep into my throat and
mouth and burn like fire. They had removed the distal
esophagus and sphincter, which keeps acids contained in the
stomach. This particular problem had no solution other than
drugs to suppress the acid or stay in an upright position all
the time. We tried the drugs, but for some reason, they made
my head jerk, somewhat like the Exorcist, and at odd times.
Naturally, we were out in public the first time it happened,
at a movie, and you can imagine the remarks from the people
sitting behind us. So much for the drugs. I decided it would
be better to sleep sitting up than have my head go off like a
rocket at inopportune moments.
I
continued daily to drink the concoctions I had made from L-arginine,
vitamin C, and antioxidants. Gradually I began to improve and
to eat small amounts of food throughout the day. Eventually I
could eat enough to feel full. Though I will never be able to
eat large or even normal amounts of food at one time, I can
eat enough during a 24 hour period to stay alive and healthy.
Fried chicken is now on my permanent menu.
The
person that went into the hospital was not the same person who
came out. I don't know what happened, but some miracle
occurred. Having this gift has not made me arrogant, it has
made me humble. I have not abused or wasted this gift. I make
the most of every day and continue to thank God and the
Universe for letting me live to create products, formulas, and
patents that help mankind.
I
am now happily married to Jeff. Octavia is a beautiful and
brilliant young lady in college studying Environmental Law and
Policy. I am healthy and free of cancer. And I have kept my
promise.
Click
here to read about other leaders
| 
Jaguar
Enterprises
