Cancer and Eastern Medicine: Gaining the Advantage

What if when we are born, we are asked to make a vow with our bodies. “Do you take this body, for better or for worse,” the pledge would go, “in sickness and in health, till death do us part?” Pledging ourselves to our bodies may sound absurd but our bodies are what define our lives more concretely than anything else. Without them, we’re dead. 

There’s a teaching in Chinese Medicine known as The Mud Pill. It addresses the commitment we make at birth to our bodies and to our lives. When a baby takes its first breath, it metaphysically swallows a pill made of mud - a symbol of the Earth element. At that moment, the baby switches from being completely dependent on its mother and surrenders itself to the outside world.  That first breath ignites the embodiment of spirit into matter. At that moment, the contract with life is signed and the commitment to inhabiting the body begins.  

Most of us cherish our lives and our survival, but devoting ourselves to our bodies is not something we’re taught to invest in – especially when family, partnership, education, and work demand our attention. It wasn’t until I was lying in a hospital bed in 1997 at the age of 42, on oxygen and struggling to breathe, that this lesson was driven home. A team of oncologists told me I had Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, an aggressive blood cancer. I’d be ‘dead in a week’ they said, if I didn’t start chemotherapy immediately. That was ten years before I enrolled in the Acupuncture Master’s program at the Swedish Institute in New York City. The Lung Channel - the first of the twelve primary channels or meridians - is about survival. Without the lungs, we die in a matter of minutes. In the hospital, I realized how much I’d put my lungs and the rest of me in jeopardy.

For over a month, I’d ignored what I thought was a stubborn cold to finish a story for the season premiere of the “60 Minutes” broadcast for CBS News. I'd promised myself I’d see my GP after the piece aired and when I finally got to her office at Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital – now New York Presbyterian – my lungs were so deprived of oxygen, I passed out on the exam table.  My doctor suspected pneumonia and admitted me to the hospital immediately. After a week of antibiotics, my lung capacity was worse.  Suspecting something far more serious, she ordered a lymph node biopsy. When the report returned from the lab, she put aside her upbeat persona and told me to summon my family to New York.  We would soon learn that the Lymphoma was Stage IV.  It doesn’t get any worse.

Jeffrey C. Yuen is a Daoist Priest from several traditions including the Lao Tzu sect which goes back to the ancient Chinese philosopher and poet.  One of his areas of specialization is cancer and Chinese Medicine. He began his studies as a child and is internationally recognized as a master teacher of Chinese medical modalities including Acupuncture, Herbology, Qi Gong, and Tai Chi Chuan. He founded the Acupuncture Masters program at the Swedish Institute and Daoist Traditions College in Ashville, NC.  Yuen is a leading voice in integrating the spiritual and classical roots of Chinese Medicine into modern practice. I had the profound experience of studying with Yuen at the Swedish Institute from 2007-2011, right before the program was discontinued. Yuen says that a cancer diagnosis can “put a patient in a state of anaphylactic shock. You can die from the fear of cancer rather than cancer itself.” 

When I received my diagnosis, I wasn’t the only one in a state of shock; so were all the people in my life. There was no history of cancer in my family – at least not that we knew of then. My colleagues called me “the healthiest person at CBS” based on my cafeteria selections. I was a vegetarian at that time and a former ballet and modern dancer who ducked out for classes on nights when working overtime wasn’t required. 

The diagnosis was the beginning of a dark night of the soul as I struggled to choose the right course of action. The oncology unit was advising chemotherapy, radiation, and a highly toxic stem-cell transplant. Some were suggesting I begin with the transplant. A New Yorker article from that time which reported on the procedure was titled  “A Healing Hell [that] may be the worst treatment in all of modern medicine – and the best.” There was no time to waste, but I wasn’t ready to sign up for the Healing Hell just yet.  I’d seen what extensive chemotherapy had done to others and I feared the cure would kill me. I had so many questions. Was this my only course of action? What would happen to my ability to have children? Were alternative treatments an equally effective option and would my insurance cover them? Waiting for my parents to arrive, I didn’t sleep much in the hospital as I tried to piece together how this diagnosis came to pass.

As a broadcast news editor experienced in medical and investigative reporting, I was trained to search exhaustively for clues. Somehow, I’d missed some big ones. I realized ignoring the messages of the body was a heroic, romanticized mindset – something that garnered attention and praise. “60 Minutes” editors would boast about how many all-nighters they’d put in to get a story on the air.  That’s how a lot of us made the bigger bucks – when we had to “crash” a story that required hours of overtime, sometimes days on end. Extended work hours are not only a requirement in the news industry; many industries routinely operate in “crash mode” where workers have few hours to rest and recuperate.

A seemingly insignificant discussion I’d had years ago with my college boyfriend wouldn't let me rest that night. He'd been so taken by the stoicism of a young woman he’d traveled with that he shared a story while we were on a camping trip. He told me they’d been trekking in the mountains a good while when she asked to stop and rest.  When she took off her boots, he was aghast to see that her socks were covered in blood.  When he asked if she was in pain, she told him she’d be fine, it was nothing to worry about.  

I wanted to impress him, so I praised her mind-over-matter accomplishment. Soon afterwards, I adopted the mindset that speaking up about pain made you unpopular at best and at worst, a complainer.  Being labeled a complainer at “60 Minutes” meant no one would want to work with you.

That night, I also recalled the banter in the women's room at CBS. Making self-deprecating cracks as we eyed ourselves in the long wall of mirrors was something of a sport as we washed our hands. One woman would regularly complain about her ‘fat ass.’ Another revealed how she was “in over her head,” and would be out of a job in a matter of time. I joked about the bags under my eyes as I applied concealer - as if make up could disguise the years of exhaustion. Our sarcasm revealed all the ways we thought we didn’t measure up. 

I’d been setting myself up to fail – perhaps because I wasn’t allowed to give voice to my exhaustion. It wasn’t only my confidence that had taken a knock, but my body was suffering as well. A message came from deep inside that night, demanding my attention. 

“You need to stop this right now,” it said. 

I vowed that if I made it out of the hospital alive, I would never again take my body for granted. I prayed for guidance and as daylight crept into my room, I woke up with this remarkable dream: 

I am pregnant, smiling upon my full belly. I witness my child’s birth directly through my abdomen - not from a C-section, rather it magically passes through my skin like a cinematic dissolve and rises into my arms. It’s an Asian boy with a thick head of black hair. 

The meaning of the dream was beyond me at the time, but I was intrigued by the beauty of this ethereal child.  His visit seemed like a signal I was on the right course.

After my parents arrived, I had the first round of chemo, and soon afterwards was able to breathe freely without oxygen. I agreed to undergo the initial chemotherapy at first, hoping that a “less is more” approach would be the best protocol and took a six-month leave from “60 Minutes” to complete the five remaining infusions. As is the case for many chemo patients, my body suffered terribly but I had an advantage: I received acupuncture and herbal medicine in tandem with chemotherapy.  After each infusion, acupuncture brought me back from the brink. At one point, I was too ill to travel, so my acupuncturist made a house call. By the end of the treatment, the nausea lifted and I was well enough to venture outside the next day. I saw three different Eastern practitioners at the time. Many patients assume it’s best to commit to one. But just as we seek out multiple Western doctors for their areas of expertise, there’s something to be gained from having more than one Eastern practitioner. I benefited from all of their treatments. 

My first acupuncturist was Ken Kobayashi, whom I’d been seeing for shiatsu massages prior to my cancer diagnosis. He told me about a cancer patient who came for treatment and was sent home with bags of herbal tea he’d prepared especially for him. Kobayashi didn’t hear from the patient for weeks and called to follow up. The patient thanked him but said he wouldn’t be back, that he thought prayer would cure him. 

“That’s too much to ask of God,” Kobayashi said to me. In light of what I know now about Eastern Medicine, I agree.  Prayer is a powerful medicine and we need to consider every option we have, including acupuncture and herbs, to heal ourselves. We may not be to blame for our illnesses, but we are responsible for our healing.

After my sixth chemo session, my scans were clear and I was declared cancer-free and in remission. I returned to “60 Minutes,” but within a month, the cancer came roaring back. A tumorous mass appeared just above my left clavicle.  It looked like a small fist trying to push its way out. In Acupuncture school, I was astonished to learn about a point at this exact location. Its name is Quepen - The Empty Basin. It’s used to treat heat and fullness in the chest, cough, and to drain lymphatic fluid. This location is significant in Western Medicine, as well - particularly on the left side because It's a major drainage site for lymphatic fluids. When there’s lymphatic swelling here on the left, it’s considered a sentinel of cancer.  Since studying The Empty Basin, I have a special affinity for it - not only because of my history, but because of the way Eastern and Western Medicine are in sync. I’m thankful it signaled that my personal war on cancer wasn’t over.  But back then, a month after remission, I was horrified to see the mass growing larger each day. In ballet class, I couldn’t lift my left arm over my head into fifth position. I secretly feared I’d lose the arm completely and made an appointment with Dr. Gregory Mears, the head of Hematology at Columbia-Presbyterian.   

“It’s time to bring out the big guns,” he said. “We have to take aggressive action now. We’ll worry about the side effects later.”  When I told Dr. Mears I was afraid the radiation and stem-cell transplant would do me in, he reached across his desk and squeezed my wrist. 

“You have to do this,” he said. 

I underwent new chemotherapy, which did nothing to diminish the mass at The Empty Basin and weeks of exhausting radiation therapy, which did. Radiation brought the mass down to normal and I regained full use of my arm. The stem-cell transplant was next. The idea was to blast the cancer into remission – to “gain the advantage” so the stem-cell transplant, the last weapon in the arsenal, would be successful. Previously, some of my stem cells, the building blocks of all cells, had been harvested and frozen. I would be given high doses of chemotherapy which would obliterate any residual cancer cells. The chemo was so toxic, it would technically kill me – if it weren’t for my harvested stem cells which would be transplanted through an IV drip and raise me from the dead. No regular patient would be asked to undergo such a harrowing trial. But this was now my second terminal diagnosis and they were going for broke.

As the first drops of Healing Hell entered my arm, I made a pact with my body. “You and I must pass through the eye of a needle. It’ll be grueling, but we're going to make it.”

I didn't know it at the time, but my doctors had given me just six months to live after the stem-cell transplant had been completed - essentially, long enough to say my goodbyes. I only became fully aware of this toward the end of my month-long hospital stay when my sister Emily, my health care advocate, burst into tears. 

“Dr. Mears says you’re ‘in denial’,” she said.  

I was in anaphylactic shock once again – this time due to the poor vote of confidence from my oncologists. My herculean effort played no part in their prognosis. To be clear, I’m immensely grateful for the efforts of all my doctors, nurses, and the employees at Columbia-Presbyterian. But the field of Oncology, I believe, has something to learn (or hadn’t yet learned at that time) about the nature of healing. It’s a systemic issue across the field. Some oncologists are reluctant to emphasize positive outcomes when the prognosis is dire for fear of giving the patient false hope. There’s no such thing as false hope.

Here’s something to consider: if my doctors didn’t think their best medicine would cure me, what did? Why didn’t I die?

The answer to that question may lie in a quotation that Jeffrey Yuen shares with his students which is attributed to the ancient Chinese physicians. 

“There are no incurable diseases, only incurable people.” 

It’s understood that the body is programmed for healing – unless and until something gets in its way and apprehends that process.  I believe my survival is due in large part to Eastern Medicine. That’s just one reason I enrolled in the Swedish Institute to study with Jeffrey Yuen. I wanted more cancer patients to have the advantage I had.  Too many of my dear “60 Minutes" colleagues, including the beloved correspondent Ed Bradley, were diagnosed with cancer and didn't make it.

No one can say why that is but I can’t help wondering what if they had received Eastern Medicine in tandem with their western treatments? In addition, I was compelled to address quality of life issues cancer survivors face. I struggled with devastating side effects from cancer treatment  – neurological side effects that affected my  balance and coordination which Western Medicine wasn’t able to address. Overcoming those injuries have proven to be more challenging than overcoming terminal cancer – as strange as that may sound. My progress has been slow but persistent.

After I’d embraced the decision to become an acupuncturist, it was clear that the Asian boy from my hospital dream represented Eastern Medicine. It took me years to see it, but the presence of the cinematic dissolve had special significance to me as a filmmaker.  A dissolve implies a lapse in time. So, not right away but in time, the dream seemed to be saying but, the Asian boy would rise from my belly and into my arms to become my own. 

Lisa Orlando, Lic. Ac. and Dipl. Ac. has been treating patients on Manhattan’s Upper West Side since 2011 with special interests in neuromuscular injuries and pain; balance, gait and mobility; cancer support; food as medicine coaching; longevity cultivation; and “whatever ails you.” She has a Master of Science (MS) in Acupuncture from The Swedish Institute – the first health college in

the nation. The program was founded by Jeffrey C. Yuen, the world-renowned educator, 88th generation Taoist priest, and a leading voice in integrating the spiritual and classical roots of Chinese Medicine into modern practice.

Orlando’s first profession was as a dancer-choreographer which gave her a strong understanding of the human body. She received a BFA in Dance from the Boston Conservatory and became a Certified Movement Analyst (CMA) at the Laban/Bartenieff Institute for Movement Studies. Readers may recognize Laban as the originator of Labanotation – a graphic system to record the

intricacies of movement which is used by choreographers, scientists, and researchers. She explored videography initially to document her own choreography and that of others and along the way, fell in love with the post-production process. She began her editing career on feature films such as “Eight Men Out,” by John Sayles, then transitioned to documentary films and news

magazine programs. Orlando likes to say she “served two tours of duty” at the acclaimed CBS News “60 Minutes” broadcast – as an editor in the mid-nineties where she worked with creator Don Hewitt and legendary correspondents Ed Bradley (who hired her), Mike Wallace, and Morley Safer, and as a producer-editor from 2012-2022 for “60 Minutes Overtime,” the weekly behind-

the-scenes webcast where she interviewed Oprah Winfrey and Anderson Cooper among others. She is the winner of two Emmy awards.

After surviving several terminal diagnoses of Hon-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma with the help of Eastern Medicine and Acupuncture in the late nineties, she wanted to become an acupuncturist to return to the body and to help others cultivate longevity. Her short film “ACUPUNCTURE: CHINESE MEDICINE GOES MAINSTREAM” featuring Jeffrey C. Yuen is on her website: YinYangChannel.com/media. She is presently working on a book about Eastern Medicine and the relationship we have with our bodies.