The Procedures

As Philip was under age 18, a doctor-friend got us a last minute appointment with a pediatrician, a Dr. Hirshfield. We were on our way in a hurry, with me preceding Phil down the stairs to try to break his fall, just in case he did fall, for he was extremely weak. Phil lay down on the back seat of the car and I drove down State Street, heading for downtown. About two miles into the trip, we stopped and picked up my husband who had walked from his office to State. He took the wheel.

Dr. Hirshfield made a fast but adequate examination and said Phil had to go into hospital immediately. At St. Luke’s, he was assigned a room with a bright red-painted door with a small glass window in it, a “contagion room.” John and I were not allowed inside at this point, for they did not know what Phil had. Blood was taken for various tests, and we watched through the window as a giant (it seemed to me) needle went into his sternum while Phil never flinched. It would take awhile to get results, so John and I went home for a quick supper, stopping by his office to pick up his car. After a while we got a call to come to Dr. Hirshfield’s office. It was after 5:00. We realized it could not be good news he called us about.

Phil had acute lymphoblastic leukemia, one of the worst kinds, and an oncologist was already on the case. He asked us if he could be the one, alone, to tell Phil what he had. We mindlessly agreed. Later I asked Phil what the doctor told him. He said, “Dying from leukemia is not painful.” How my heart broke as I heard this. If the statement were true, that was not the time to bring it up. Later I learned that doctor told my husband Phil had about two months to live. I was so thankful John kept that information from me. I suppose that doctor told Phil the same thing. But Phil lived another two and a half years, continued in sports as long as he could, made the honor roll, graduated from high school, and pre-registered for college. And he kept his great sense of humor.

When word got out about Phil’s illness, an acquaintance from yet another town, where I had taught for 18 years, came to see us and told about his wife’s treatment for brain cancer in Mexico. It was too late for her, but Laetrile kept her pain-free as she weakened and died. He took her from a Boise hospital, ostensibly for one last weekend at home, rushed her to the airport where a private plane waited to take them to Mexico. This man suggested we take Phil to Tijuana. As soon as chemotherapy got him into his first remission, we drove down to the home of dear friends who lived near San Diego. On that visit, Phil swam in our friends’ pool with their daughter Nancy, and one night the six of us saw a pro baseball game at Padre Stadium. Phil and Nancy had a radio on which they also heard the broadcast of the same game. We took sack suppers with us and had a wonderful evening together. Another day we visited the San Diego Zoo, one of the best in the nation. Phil was delighted.

Before the summer was spent, John had a confrontation with the oncologist about the use of Laetrile. He maintained that treatment was experimental, without acknowledging the authorized drugs for cancer are also experimental. So we switched hospitals and switched doctors.

Laetrile did not save Phil’s life, but it did keep him from ever having any nausea which almost 100% of cancer patients suffered at that time from chemo. We brought Laetrile home from Mexico and John learned to give the injections intravenously. When Phil awoke one morning to find a handful of his hair on his pillow, we saved it in a jar, and bought him a wig though it was not the exact shade of his beautiful red hair.

To be continued.

♥