Energy Warriors - Bob Ellal

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of Western medicine, he overcame the statistical odds of surviving Stage Four cancer. Yet, even more remarkable, he averted the fatal consequences not just once, but four times.

      Bob’s courage and determination to practice The Standing Post meditation, visualization, and breathing, helped him cope with the demoralizing ravages of chemotherapy, depression, and chronic pain. As such, Bob is an Energy Warrior, providing insight for others incapacitated by health challenges. He introduces the practical benefits of Qigong as a supplement to conventional treatment to help others alleviate physical pain, diminish emotional anguish, and, perhaps, triumphantly survive.

      We are not proposing that Qigong is a panacea for cancer or disease. Like many re-discovered ancient secret methods, there are extravagant claims on the so-called supernatural martial and healing powers of qi touted by enthusiasts, well-intentioned but misguided. Much is nonsense based on pseudo science, wishful thinking, or uncritical reasoning, and perpetuated by unscrupulous experts for ego gratification or commercial benefits. Some are charlatans. Be prudent.

      That said, there is real power and magic to Qigong. Sadly, the great value of this holistic knowledge for stress control, enhanced health and healing is not yet appreciated in the West. Our Energy Warrior Qigong Manual is a basic introduction to guide you to practice, discover, and experience the magic of qi for yourself. Qigong’s still and moving meditations are simple to learn and easy to do. Millions of people worldwide practice Qigong every day. Won’t you join us?

      PART ONE

      ENERGY WARRIORS:

      Overcoming Cancer and Crisis with the Power of Qigong

      BY BOB ELLAL

       Dedication

       To Geoff and Dylan, my sons, now men and on brilliant paths, and to Sheryl—we made it. A different direction for all of us, but survivors all. Survival is like virtue—it is its own reward.

      ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

      The land of rugged individualism? It’s a myth—no one makes it alone. This book would not have been possible without the guidance of my good friend and mentor John Joss. At a time when my confidence was at an ebb, John gave me the courage to press on. Courage is something John possesses in great measure—it takes much to fly F-14s on and off carrier decks. Then write about it in brilliant prose. John’s impeccable courage and impeccable writing skills inspire me.

      Thanks so much to Marilyn Richard, who believed in me when few, if any, did. And you, too, Joanie St. John, for spiritual support. And to Mike, my chess master at the “99,” for always listening.

      Many people helped me beat cancer. My father, who was a real soldier bringing me to my chemo sessions. My ex-in-laws, Ed and Annette Stradczuk—we never would have made it without you. I was extraordinarily lucky to have you as a second set of parents for so many years. Ed and Annette—you’re the two best people I ever met. Geoff and Dylan, my sons, who always wanted me around no matter what the other kids thought—even when my hair fell out and my head was swollen twice its size from steroids. You gave me courage. Mostly, my extraordinary ex-wife, Sheryl: beautiful as sin, highly intelligent, tough as nails. You stuck with me through the cancer battles and beyond—no one else could’ve taken it.

      Doctors and nurses: Dr. Denis Miller, absolutely the best doctor I’ve ever encountered—and I’ve been around more doctors than any man ever should be. Dr. Stacy Nerenstone, brilliant oncologist—I’m glad you were calling the shots. And to Laurie, my chemo nurse—and to all the oncology nurses who kept me from going around the bend in those transplant rooms.

      With greatest respect to the Kung fu masters, such as Dr. Yang Jwing-Ming, for bringing the knowledge of Qigong to the West.

      Finally to Master Lawrence Tan, a great Kung fu master and innovator, who infuses his Qigong with the all-important martial spirit—and teaches with clarity, humility, and humor. And of course, to his partner/wife/producer/second-in-command, Toni Tan, who provided beautiful photos, kept the project on its inexorable course, and always kept me laughing. You are my friends and teachers; without you this book would not have been possible.

      CHAPTER 1

      SOUL BROTHER BEOWULF

      Unless he is already doomed, fortune is apt to favor the man who keeps his nerve. The maxim from the ancient Anglo-Saxon epic Beowulf reverberated in my skull, like a mantra, until the words no longer made sense and were simply a collection of sounds. My breathing slowed and deepened; my mind felt calm. I felt far away from the isolation room in the bone marrow transplant ward, though high-dose chemotherapy drugs dripped through IV tubes into a catheter implanted in my chest.

      Minutes ago I’d been anything but serene; anxiety had welled up inside my chest like a giant palm pressing on my diaphragm.

      I watched the nurse open the plastic levers on the IV lines and prepare to exit the room. She stood briefly to give me words of encouragement when she noticed the small stack of books on the wheeled tray near my bed.

      “Beowulf?” She picked up a translation of Beowulf with a photo on the cover of an ancient Anglo-Saxon war mask, iron mouth smiling, spaces for a warrior’s eyes hollow.

      “God Almighty, you should be reading something lighter, like War and Peace.”

      “I can’t help it—Beowulf is my soul brother. You see, we’re both born monster killers.”

      “Oh, I see.” She shook her head. I forged a smile on my face, hoping it looked grim and determined like the mouth on the iron war mask. As she closed the steel door to the tiny isolation room, signaling the beginning of the month-long transplant process, I scanned my surroundings.

      Fifteen years ago the room was state-of-the-art, built specifically for the transplant procedure. At that time, the medical experts thought that any hint of a germ would be fatal for the patient after his blood counts dropped to ground zero, so they designed the room to resemble something out of the space program, a combination of the sterility of a NASA “clean room” with the roominess of an Apollo space capsule.

      The walls and ceiling were composed of aluminum sheets joined by riveted metal strips, all painted hospital white; the room itself was about 12' by 12' and perhaps 6-1/2' high. The bed dominated the workspace, leaving room for only a single chair, medical monitors and equipment, and the portable commode with its high back and arms for comfort (useful when diarrhea struck every 15 minutes).

      A single window provided a view of the outside world, in this case the hospital parking lots. Its double-paned glass slightly warped the vista and was dense enough to be bulletproof. Terrific—no assassin’s bullet would find me! I was really worried about that possibility….

      Those were the old days; today the human contact is slightly less antiseptic—the nurses and doctors condom themselves with disposable gowns, gloves, and filter masks, bypassing the screen entirely.

      Panic. Shallow, quick breathing and thoughts of death pinball through the mind. It’s that door—once the door clicks shut and the air no longer flows naturally into the room, the panic sets in. The noise of the compressor blowing filtered air into the cramped room increases the sense of claustrophobia and constriction in the chest. Is this how the gas chamber feels?

      Quick: rip the tubes from your veins and escape into the corridor. They can’t hold you here! From outside you hear the sounds of the workmen’s tools as they modernize other rooms on this floor to accommodate future transplant patients.

      Steal a hardhat and a pair of coveralls and escape into the working world. It’s Friday, and you imagine returning home after a long week of work… your sons meet you in the driveway, riding circles around the car on their bikes as you pull up to park.

      Then the scene switches. Several boys ride bicycles, including your two sons. They seem oblivious

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