My Healing Journey: The Grim Reaper Gave Me Mushrooms

My doctors would say that my terminal cancer prognosis was the catalyst to explore alternative treatment modalities and discover psychedelic medicines. Which is true. And accurate. And completely appropriate language for my medical chart.

But I prefer to say that the grim reaper gave me mushrooms. Because I’ve seen black-hooded death stride into my life. Its fleshless face smirking. And I’ve watched it raise a gnarly fist, extend a bony arm and opened an arid palm to reveal . . . mushrooms. Yes, magic manna from heaven. Yes, nourishing food for the journey. Which is also true. And accurate. And completely appropriate language to describe psychedelic medicines in my journey. 

Because that’s the thing: every cancer journey is unique. And each person living with cancer gets to choose how to tell their story. We get to create our own narrative. We get to choose our metaphors. We get to make our own myths. Because these self-mythologies enable us to find meaning in cancer. To find meaning in death. To find meaning in suffering. Stories are part of how we survive. Stories are part of why we live. I’d like to tell you my story. 

Let us go then, you and I?

I don’t remember much about the day I was diagnosed with cancer. But I do remember the painting hung behind the doctor’s desk. I recall it as an old-fashioned oil painting. A drab scene captured in a gaudy gold frame.

And I remember that painting because it was my only anchor as the world disintegrated around me. It was the only anchor as the doctor’s words flowed past me in currents of unreality. Cancer, surgery, chemo. Latin, Sanskrit, Old English. Dead words in dead languages swirling over and around me. Cancer, surgery, chemo. Those words spinning and spinning and spinning and pulling me down into a cold vortex. Cancer, surgery, chemo. 

And that strange painting was the only anchor as those words washed everything else away. My wedding plans. Washed away. My career goals. Washed away. My life aspirations. Washed away. Cancer, surgery, chemo. My life as I knew it was over. Sucked down, down, down into the Existential Vortex. So I clung to the comforting permanence of that strange oil painting. I was 26 years old.

That was 20 years ago. Since then, I’ve lived a long litany of medical interventions.

I’ve had 11 surgeries. And I know this because my body is a topographical map of that surgical journey. I count the scars on my body: 2-inch pelvic scar, 14-inch abdominal scar, 5-inch thoracic scar, etc, etc, etc. And I remember that journey because I live with the lingering pain of those surgeries. Pain from those scars. Every minute. Of every day. Of every year. Year after year. Pain. 

And I’ve had 7 months of chemo. The old-school chemo. The kind of chemo that made my hair fall out. All of it. Everywhere. Yes, everywhere. The kind that made me vomit and gave me neverendingnausea-neverendingnausea-neverendingnausea-neverendingnausea. Like the worst hangover you’ve ever had. Every day. For seven months. And four of those months were in-patient chemo. So I lived in a hospital. At the peak of Covid. When there was no vaccine. And I had no immune system. And it was a coin flip on whether cancer or Covid would kill me first.

And somewhere along the way I was diagnosed with a second type of cancer. We thought it was just another relapse of the first cancer. The biopsy said otherwise. And so, two cancers. Surprise - it’s twins! And that second cancer brought its own host of treatments. Surgery, radiation, etc.

And those are just the big things. The multiple cancers, surgeries and months of chemo are just the major destinations on my cancer journey. There isn’t enough time to describe all of the other small things. For instance, the needles. And the needles. And the needles. To draw blood. Or to inject medication. For instance, the CT scans. And MRIs. And x-rays. Enough radiation to make me glow on a dark night. For instance, the minor procedures. The biopsies. The portacath placements. The incessant, intrusive poking and prodding of chronic cancer care. Much of it involving needles. Have I mentioned the needles? Yes, I have. 

And so: 2 cancers, 11 surgeries, 7 months of chemo and countless other medical procedures over the last 20 years. 

Am I boring you? I must be boring you. Because my medical litany, like all litanies, becomes mundane in its repetition. And the repetition dulls the shiny horror of cancer. Yes, I understand. I am also exhausted by all of this. 

But please know that each of these interventions amplified my suffering. Each intervention created physical pain, both acute and compound chronic pain. Each intervention created fear and uncertainty for me and for the people that love me. And each intervention pulled my world back down into the Existential Vortex that I experienced on the first day that I was diagnosed. 

And all of that happened before the terminal prognosis. Because I was lucky. Somehow, I had survived for twenty years. The chemo and the surgeries and the radiation had kept me alive. Yes, those medical interventions created suffering. But they kept me alive. And gave me twenty really good years. And a family. And a beautiful wife. And two lovely children. And rowdy friends. And a business career. And innumerable moments of transcendent joy, awe and love. I am forever grateful for the medical care I received.

But medical treatment always has its limitations. And I eventually ran into the limits of my cancer treatment. After twenty years of cycling in and out of remission and relapse and remission and relapse and relapse and relapse . . . I ran out of treatment options. Yes, a cat has nine lives. But it does not have ten.

I wasn’t surprised when the oncologist patiently explained the end of the road to me and my wife on that tearful day. I knew that my next relapse was inevitable. I knew that I had exhausted my treatment options. I knew the mortal equation.

And yet, those words from the oncologist were a magic spell summoning the Existential Vortex. Terminal cancer. Existential Vortex. My family. Washed away. My business. Washed away. My plans for future moments of joy, awe and love. Washed away. Existential Vortex. Terminal cancer. 

And here, the grim reaper strides into the room. Smiling. The angel of death enters stage left. Grinning. Welcome, dear friends. 

And if you are still reading, please ask yourself: What will you say when the angel of death whispers in your ear? What will you do when the grim reaper beckons you with bony hands? I have heard the angel of death. And I was afraid. I have seen the grim reaper. And I quaked. Perhaps you will be strong. And brave. And fearless when death comes calling. But I was not. 

And if you are still reading, please ask yourself: What would you do with a soul full of fear? A mind full of dread? A body full of pain? What will you do in your time of suffering? I cannot answer these questions for you. But I have asked myself those questions. And I can tell you what I did. Shall we continue on this journey together? 

Suffering sent me seeking. And I discovered psychedelic medicines. Let me explain. 

Perhaps ‘discovered’ is not the right word. No, finding psychedelic medicines was not a single event. Instead, it was a series of small revelations. A set of tiny epiphanies that gradually evolved my relationship with these substances. 

I had always thought that psychedelics were bad. Dangerous. Morally wrong. And of course I held those beliefs. 

After all, my government classifies psychedelics as Schedule I drugs. Schedule I classification is my government’s message that psychedelics have no medical use. No healing value whatsoever. None. And Schedule I classification is my government’s message that psychedelics have a high potential for abuse. A risk for addiction in the same category as heroin or cocaine. A risk for morbidity and mortality supposedly higher than legal alcohol and tobacco. And Schedule I classification is my government’s unsubtle message that it can and potentially will put people in prison for a very long time for simply possessing these substances. 

Of course I believed that psychedelics were bad. Because my culture has always stigmatized psychedelics. Yes, I graduated from the DARE program. Yes, I still remember the ad with an egg sizzling in a frying pan. And yes, I still subconsciously associate psychedelics with left-wing anarchist hippies. Because the war on drugs was a literal war that claimed too many human lives. But it was also a propaganda war that conquered many human minds. Nice work, Nancy Reagan.

But my thinking began to evolve after reading Michael Pollan’s book ‘This is your Mind on Plants’. There was a chapter about mushrooms. I don’t recall any specific details that I read in the mushroom chapter. I do remember that the chapter about caffeine is better than the chapter about psilocybin . . . but that is beside the point. My point is that Michael Pollan’s book didn’t necessarily educate me. But it did make me aware of psychedelic medicines. And more importantly, it began to erode my long-held stigmas. Hilariously, Michael Pollan is the both the reason I stopped eating meat and the reason I started taking psychedelic medicines. Nice work, Michael Pollan.

And my eyes and my ears and my mind continued opening to psychedelic medicines. Gradually. Slowly. But they opened nonetheless with more news articles and podcasts and research papers about psychedelic medicines. Gradually. Slowly. I learned about other psychedelic medicines beyond psilocybin. Like ibogaine and ketamine and LSD and MDMA and DMT and a whole alphabet soup of acronyms and chemical names that I still can’t pronounce. I learned about the promising medical outcomes of psychedelic medicines, like healing PTSD in veterans of war. I learned about clinical trials with promising efficacy and safety outcomes, like research suggesting that a single dose of psychedelic medicine is more effective in treating depression than current standard of care. And I learned about other people living with cancer who benefitted from psychedelic medicines. 

But as I learned more, it was often hard separating real science from media hype. Because suddenly, it seemed like Timothy Leary, Ram Dass, Andrew Huberman, Joe Rogan and RFK Jr were all saying pretty much the same thing about psychedelic medicines. Maybe psychedelics had solved polarization and united everyone across the political spectrum. Or maybe psychedelics had reached peak-bullshit. It was really hard to tell. And it still is. 

And one day, I went to a death fair. Yes, a death fair. If you haven’t been to a death fair, it’s pretty much what you’d expect. Whatever weird and wonderful vision of a death fair that you’re currently holding in your head is . . . absolutely correct. And at the death fair, I met a beautiful group offering psychedelic medicines to people who were coping with the trauma of their own mortal reality. This beautiful organization was offering healing medicines to people like me who were caught up in the sucking, swirling currents of the Existential Vortex. 

And I accepted their offer. 

It’s meaningless to describe my experience with psychedelic medicine. Words break under the burden of that unreal reality. I won’t even try to describe the experience. I will say that it was not fun. But I will refrain from trying to describe it any further. And maybe the experience itself doesn’t matter. Because all of the things that really matter happened afterward. 

And let’s first be clear about what did not happen afterward. Psychedelic medicine did not eliminate my pain. Psychedelic medicine did not cure my cancer. Psychedelic medicine did not resolve my Existential Vortex. Alas. 

But the medicine did help me accept the reality of my own mortality. Because death is real. And my death is potentially imminent. But I had fought against that reality for a very long time. And I fought. And I fought. And all of that fighting didn’t change a thing. Not a damn thing. All that fighting just made me really unhappy. I believed that I was entitled to a longer life. I roiled in my entitled rage. But the medicine started a process to help me see death as the most natural thing in life. Mortal acceptance is liberating. 

And here, the grim reaper strides into the room. Smiling. The angel of death enters stage left. Grinning. Welcome, dear friends.

I promised that I wouldn’t try to describe my experience with psychedelic medicine. And I intend to keep that promise. But I will explain the meaning of that experience. Because the experience itself doesn’t matter. What really matters is the meaning-making that came afterward. And I eventually came to understand my psychedelic experience as a dress rehearsal for death. Yes, ego-death is good practice for real-death. And by practicing death, it becomes a little less scary. A little less traumatic. And that practice made it easier to accept the reality of my own mortality. Mortal acceptance is liberating.

And the medicine helped me be thankful for 20 years of chemo and surgeries and other treatment. Do you remember when I said earlier that I was ‘lucky’ to receive 20-years of medical treatment and that I’m ‘grateful’ today? (And I forgive you for not remembering because I know this is getting really long. Please forgive me. This will be over soon.) Yes, that treatment has caused tremendous physical and psychological pain. And I was angry. And afraid. And I still have some of that anger and fear today. But the medicine helped me reframe my treatment through a more positive lens. And today I feel lucky. And today I’m grateful for that treatment. And today I have a little less anger and fear. 

As of this writing, I have not died. As of today, my cancer has not relapsed. But I live with the knowledge that I will likely relapse. And die. But hopefully not too soon. And I live every day with the physical pain of surgery and chemo and other interventions. And the Existential Vortex continues to come swirling into my life once in a while. And so, I have continued to explore psychedelic medicines. I have explored different sets and settings. I have explored different psychedelic modalities and mechanisms of action. I have explored different dosage levels and protocols. And I intend to continue exploring psychedelic medicines as part of my healing journey. 

As of this writing, I confess to holding complicated and contradictory feelings about psychedelic medicines. I believe that people who are suffering should have access to treatments that alleviate suffering; but I’m concerned that completely unregulated access to psychedelic medicines could be harmful to public health. I believe that we need a regulatory framework to ensure safe access to psychedelic medicines; but I’m concerned that a strict regulatory regime could limit access for the people who need it most. I believe that we need more research to evaluate the safety, efficacy and optimal dosing of psychedelic medicines; but I’m concerned about the challenges of conducting well-controlled clinical trials with psychotropic substances. I believe that psychedelic medicines can be a legitimate spiritual sacrament; but I’m concerned that monopolizing psychedelics for religious communities could have unintended consequences. (Yes, I grew up Catholic. And no, I don’t agree that non-Catholics should be excluded from receiving the eucharist. Make sense?) And I believe in the efficacy of psychedelic medicines in achieving legitimate medical outcomes; but I’m concerned that the over-medicalization of psychedelic medicines could remove them from the healing communities that shape their efficacy. 

I don’t know the answer to any of these complicated issues. But I do know that people living with cancer carry tremendous wisdom in our bodies. Our cancer journeys have been arduous. But our struggle has made us strong. And wise. And powerful. And I believe that cancer patients are empowered to decide which medicines to use in our treatment journey. Yes, I believe that I have a moral and legal Right to Try psychedelic medicines. And I believe that an engaged community of informed, empowered cancer patients has a powerful voice. And I believe that we can be a powerful guide in helping individual people and our society determine the role of psychedelic medicines in our healing cancer journeys.

And if you’re still reading, please know that you’ve made it to the end of this long, strange journey. Congratulations. And now you get to decide what you will do. That is completely up to you. But I hope that you choose to journey with me. Whatever that looks like for you.

Let’s journey together. I look forward to hearing from you: community@healingcancerjourneys.org.