Prayers for my Dad, Please?

I found out last month that my 81-yo dad is full of cancer.

Throughout his bones and lymphatic system and more.

He has seemed physically the healthiest of our 4 parents. But I went to my siblings two years ago, wanting to record his life story on camera, telling them I feel like we’re running out of time.

My dad is not an ordinary guy. I’ve written about him before. That he’s the best man I’ve ever known.

He lost his mom at age 11; he was on his own at age 16; and he went to war when he had two little children and a pregnant wife waiting at home.

Growing up, we were told to tell people asking what he does, to call him a “defense intelligence agent.” We were adults, long past his retirement, when we found out what that really meant, which is that he was an elite spy, with State Department-level security clearance, in the Pentagon.

He did Oliver North’s job, only instead of Iran, his speciality was Eastern Europe. I could tell you stories, but then I’d have to kill you. ;-)

My dad values being “tough” so much that he won’t tell you it hurts. Till it takes him down. Currently, he counts the success of his day, by how few Tylenol he was able to get by with.

But before how much pain tolerance he has became his #1 conversation starter, the first thing he’d tell you is how many miles a day he’s been jogging.

From the time I last saw him, Dec 27, to two weeks later when he was diagnosed.

He’d gone from 2-4 miles a day, to 2-4 miles a couple times a week. What kind of man is out jogging, with cancer in almost every bone in his body?

My dad is sort of superhuman. I wasn’t there at two oncologist appointments, but my local siblings went. The ones I talked to, I asked them to please tell the oncologist NOT to hex our dad.

As in, don’t tell him when he’s going to die. Since undertaking a worldwide research tour of 20 alternative-treatment cancer clinics, my pet peeve (putting it mildly) about allopathic oncology, is when they go full “witch doctor” and tell people how long they’ll live.

Sorry if this offends anyone, but I think it’s actually evil. Especially if you didn’t ask for the man in the white coat to predict the date of your death. Even worse, when you specifically ask him NOT to.

The first oncologist, when one of my brothers asked anyway (something to the effect of “how long does he have?”), the doctor said,

“I don’t engage in those silly predictions.”

(BRAVO. But, wait. Then there was the next guy.)

The next guy, my mother asked him NOT to hex my dad. And the doctor did it anyway.

I’m not even going to repeat the short length of time he told my family that my dad had left. I’m not going to give it that power. People tend to die right on cue. So why on earth would you tell someone how long they will live?

But how they do it, the “slash-burn-poison” doctors, as my grandmother called them, is they give you the hex, and add that you have this short period of time, “without treatment.”

By saying that, family members listening ASSUME that you’d live longer, WITH treatment.

(Should we assume this, however? What if the treatment makes your life SHORTER? And what if you sacrifice quality of life?)

So my parents, with some of my siblings in attendance, for whatever reasons, chose the oncologist who pronounced the hex. I had told them that they would not, for this diagnosis, prostate metastasized throughout lymph and bones–prescribe chemo and radiation.

If you try to kill cancer with poison, when the cancer is everywhere, all you’re going to do is kill the patient faster than the cancer would.

I know it’s tempting to tell me the Mel Gibson-Joe Rogan anti-parasite drug protocol, or whatever. I know there’s testimonials about it. But it’s four drugs–two anti-parasite, and two mistaken for vitamins, but actually poisonous (cholecalciferol, falsely called “Vitamin D,” and the tar-based substance falsely called “Vitamin K.”)

There’s a researcher in the Square One course tracking people using this protocol, saying it seems to slow cancer for a while, and then it comes back ferociously, and metastatic. Which is also true of treatment with chemo, in general, for cancer.

But I’ve been researching natural cancer treatment for 28 years, and helping thousands of people through it (and other health challenges) has been my career for many years.

And yes, of course, I am helping them with all the needle-moving “natural” anti-cancer strategies they are willing to do.

And I imagine my many siblings are giving their opinions, too. Which may not be my opinions.

Some of them trust the guys in the white coats more than I do. They may tell you that chemo and radiation aren’t indicated for Stage IV metastatic cancer like my dad’s–

–but oncologists also don’t let you out of there without selling you SOMETHING.

A drug used on sex offenders in the prison, also used to put women with endometriosis into menopause–is what both oncologists told my dad to do. I very officially reject the idea that testosterone feeds cancer and therefore the body must be forced to stop producing hormones.

God made men’s bodies make testosterone to support muscle mass, bone mass, and not just sexual energy, but energy in general. So that’s my opinion, but of course, the patient gets to choose his own path.

I had a multi-part blog post series on prostate cancer, that I noticed after my dad’s diagnosis, a former employee removed.

I guess sometimes my employees feel they need to “protect the brand” from … me. And my opinions.

It chronicled (with permission) the journey of a former boyfriend who was given prostate cancer treatment without being told he’d never have sex again. Among other parts of his awful saga. I was there with him when he died.

And so it was that, not even a week after diagnosis, my dad was in this treatment that I will refrain from using adjectives for. Because that would just be my opinion, and I have a big one, and I wrote up my research and shared it with my family.

Some of whom trust the oncology profession, and some of whom don’t.

I personally see them as commissioned salesmen required to follow a pharmaceutical recipe, to the letter. Some believe that the recipe must be dictated by “what works.”

If so, I’d love for someone to explain to me why we have the same success rate against cancer that we did in 1974, when Nixon “declared war on cancer.”

(Except in a few cases, where cancers are detected very early. To me, these slightly better outcomes are not proof of the efficacy of slash-burn-poison:

it just shows that healthier people, found in screenings with “stage I” cancer, are more likely to survive the toxic treatment.)

I do not believe for one minute that my parents would have agreed to this treatment, had they spent some weeks in research, prayer, and settling in with the diagnosis first.

But this is part of how oncology, a for-profit profession and an industry, gets nearly 100% of its customers to comply:

You get diagnosed, and you’re in treatment, a matter of just days apart, with little or no time to reflect and research.

They act as if you just suddenly got the cancer, and you therefore must decide immediately to get the treatment.

In my research at 20 “alternative” (non-toxic) cancer clinics around the world, I heard over and over that by the time your cancer is diagnosed, it’s been growing for an average of 8 to 10 years.

And it’s true, of course, that eventually the cancer does grow very fast. But that’s also the stage at which chemo and radiation are generally not recommended, either.

Note to my children and husband, since this is on my mind, and you may want to communicate your wishes to your loved ones as well:

Do not make medical decisions for me in the first two weeks after any diagnosis. If it was that urgent, I would have died anyway.

If I’m not of sound mind, please be mindful of my lifelong aversion to toxic drugs as an approach to my health. I would rather die sooner, than die by being poisoned and burned. There, now it’s in writing.

Also: Please be mindful that we don’t make good decisions when our neurological system is hijacked by fear and shock. Also: do not even walk into an oncologist’s office and sit down, until and unless he or she has committed to NOT predicting the date of my death.

The only thing I’d want to go to an oncologist for is analysis of a scan, for type and staging.

Luckily, my dad seems to see the hex as a challenge to beat.

I have all these great memories and photos of me running 5k’s and 10k’s with my dad. Mostly he won.

I was sad, the first time I beat him. Running has always been a huge part of his identity. (And it’s not mine. I don’t much like running.)

If I ran a race with my dad, it was just to spend time with him. I didn’t really like fishing, either, as a kid, and I would rather go hungry, than eat fish.

But I always wanted to fish and camp with him, because that was time I got to spend with him. He was always “on the go”; he worked so much; plus he had to spread his time around, to so many of us. As he was the sole provider for our family of 10.

So a camping and fishing weekend was a treat I got very excited about. I had my dad all to myself, for a couple days.

Because to fish, you have to sit still for a long time. Mostly my brothers wanted to run around and explore, but I’d sit and fish, and listen to my dad’s stories about his own childhood.

Still to this day, one of my favorite things in the world, listening to the stories of his youth.

When my dad walked in the door after work, I knew I was safe. He seemed so strong and certain, that I never thought about how one day I’d have to consider he might not be here forever.

I always knew my dad loved me. From my earliest memory, I just knew I was loved, and whatever else happened in life, I had that.

My dad got an MBA, while working full time in his military career, with 5 children at home. He also got up, ran 6 miles, did a paper route, for extra money and to teach my brothers a work ethic…

…and then made the long drive to work, at Andrews Air Force Base, or later, where he retired, the Pentagon.

He never drank alcohol or smoked, in his life. His own dad had been an alcoholic chain smoker, and my dad just never touched either one.

I’ve also never known my dad, in my entire life, to “go out with the guys.” He was all about us, his family, and especially my mom.

I got this hand-written letter from my dad, a few weeks before his diagnosis. He showed up to all my protests, during covid, carrying a sign that said, “I didn’t fight for my country, for this!”

(He was furious about the government response to covid, and gave up his BYU basketball tickets in 2020-2021, rather than be forced to wear a mask. He and my mom also refused the vaccines. They got covid, and they got over it, as we all did, unless we were forced onto a vent and 40 drugs in a hospital.)

Last time I remember my dad writing me a hand-written letter like this one was on my 30th birthday. His handwriting wasn’t shaky back then.

In that letter, he told me how awesome I had been as a daughter, until I turned 16

(Which is a lot funnier to me now, 28 years later, having raised four 16-yo’s, than it was when I was 30.)

I don’t whatsoever believe the hex. The length of time some guy in a white coat who just met my dad, “gave” him to live. He doesn’t know how extraordinary my dad is.

I write this because I believe in the power of prayer. It can only help to ask you to pray with us.

My dad is still very much needed, as the full time caretaker of my mother, who has completely lost her vision. He seems to absolutely love taking care of her.

And so, as the first child who was supposed to be Robert Junior, I ask you to pray for my hero-dad, Robert G. Openshaw.

Thank you for your support of this blog, and thank you in advance for your prayers.