At that time, even the agnostic and atheistic doctors that served on my case acknowledged that in the fight for cancer, medicine can only tackle 40% of the battle: that the other 60% of battle success must come from what some might call attitude or positive thinking.  They stressed that I must embark upon a program of meditative imagery, wherein I might regularly and through meditation imagine a good army attacking a bad army within my own body.

I advised them that I don't meditate... but I do pray.  And that I have worked in national defense all of my life, and would rather not spend any more energy thinking about "armies".  However, I would give it a try.  After that, every night and during my prayers, I would perform the imagery.  I settled on the image of a hummingbird: since they have seemed to have an affinity for me all of my life and they cavort, in abundance, in my backyard garden.  I have even had them land on my finger.  I began to imagine a hummingbird landing on the cancer within me and sucking out the strength from that malignant lump.  I tried this for two weeks, but at the end of each prayer the hummingbird image just didn't feel right.  For some reason, the image of a small, black woodpecker kept popping into my mind... right at the end of my prayers.  I didn't even know if such a bird existed.  There are no woodpeckers in our locale... never having seen one during my more than twenty years of residence here... and my only memory of ANY woodpecker was that of Woody Woodpecker: gray body, red head, white ring around his neck.  But I settled into the intrusive image anyway and began to imagine the little, black woodpecker pecking away at my cancer in my prayers each night.

I also made sure that I was on every prayer list that I could get onto.  I am a Christian, so most of my contacts were in that realm.  But I am also on prayer lists in the churches of Catholic friends and family.  Some former Israeli customers have me on a list that is read before the Wailing Wall each morning.  Some Buddhist friends of mine also keep my in their prayers regularly.  And I have prayed with Moslems in our mutual efforts at healing and well being.  Make sure you do this at every opportunity that presents itself.

Anyway, two weeks passed in the use of this new imagery.  One morning, after a particularly severe chemotherapy treatment, I was standing in my backyard in an attempt to gain strength via some fresh air.  I was so weak that I had to shuffle around, like a hundred-year-old man, and struggle just for breath.  After a few minutes, I had to go back into the house to rest.  But, when I tried to close the sliding glass door, a racket kicked up in the apricot tree at the far end of my tiny yard.  I opened the slider and the racket stopped, but when I tried to close it again, the tumult started again.  I did this three times... the squawking and branch-shaking reaching high pitch each time I tried to close that door.  Finally, I gave up and my curiosity surpassed my weakness.  I had to go see what was causing the ruckus.

It took me twenty minutes to travel that 40 feet to the apricot tree.  When I reached it, I moved the branches aside at the place from which the noise seemed to be generating.  There, not two feet from my hand, was a small, black woodpecker: just like the one in my prayers.  It looked right at me, nodded, turned toward the trunk of the tree (upon which it hung) and began to peck away at the bark: just like the image in my prayers.  After a few seconds it stopped, turned toward me again, nodded, then flew away.

Needless to say, I was bowled over.  But that is not the end of my woodpecker saga.

Several months after this last woodpecker episode, my mother happened to be visiting.  She brought a small package with her, which turned out to be a couple of figurines that she'd just purchased while on a trip visiting relatives in Pennsylvania .  Woodpecker figurines.

"They're not the same as your other woodpeckers," she explained (these were black with gray ticking on the wings) "...but they were the closest I could find."

I thanked her and placed them in my den.  One morning two weeks later... yes, once again after heavy chemo... the dog needed to be let into the side yard to take care of "doggy business".  Too weak to follow her, I just stood in the doorway and peered out from under the side porch overhang.  When the pooch returned to the house, and I was about to close the door, I noticed a small piece of something wafting down from above and beyond my field of vision.  It was a piece of attic insulation.  I attempted to close the door, but something... above my view and from where the insulation had fallen... let out a few squawky chirps.  Okay... it now had my attention.  I stepped out a few paces and looked up.  It was a woodpecker, just like the type that my mom had brought as figurines, perched atop a banana palm with another small bit of insulation in it's beak.

We all have our own particular "perches": especially those of us who are ill or incapacitated in some way.  The sort of place that... even after Uncle Edgar has passed away... you might still say "You know, I can still see him sitting in that armchair."  I have my own place: a spot on our sectional that faces the TV and another sofa where visitors usually sit.  A place from which I can still interact, in spite of my pain and fetal positioning, for days... and even sometimes weeks... after my chemo poundings.  The new woodpeckers seemed to be aware of that place.  For they built their nest in my attic just above the place where I "perch".  For days I could hear them clearing a spot and scratching around, placing nesting material and removing insulation which, I say with mixed emotions, began to be wind-strewn around my side yard in the days that followed.  After that, I could hear the female turning the eggs periodically within the nest.  And a couple of weeks later, I heard the nestlings chirp-begging for more food as their ravenous appetites were fed (thankfully, during daylight hours only!).  Now, they are all grown and gone.  But I haven't forgotten those woodpecker affirmations to my prayers.

Not by a long shot.  Do you realize what the odds are of anything like that happening coincidentally?  And I am no one special.  In fact, I believe this all happened to me not to serve me in any way, but to serve you in the telling of it.  God wants YOU to understand the importance of relationship with Him: and the absolute urgency of it to your recovery.  He didn't give you this disease, life did.  But He waits on the other side of life's doorway to be able to help you in the conquest of it!  That door has a knob only on YOUR side.  You must open it.  He is only waiting to assist you.

And that's why I'm here to urge you to become 60%'ers.  You will be running this relay for the purpose of raising funds for the conquest of cancer.  Those funds will cover the 40% battle factor that medicine can accommodate.  But you also have the phenomenal opportunity to cover the other 60% while you run that relay.  While your hearts and lungs and legs are pounding away for the 40%, spend the same time in thought... prayer, I say... in dedication to your afflicted loved one, or committed caretaker, or even yourself to cover the other 60%.  BECOME A 60%'ER!  I have, and I am here two-and-one-half years beyond that which they "allowed" me in their lifespan estimates.

And I intend to add another two-and-a-half to that, and another, and another... and on and on... as my grandchildren grown and graduate and marry to start their own loving families!  I wish you all peace and love and victory and plan to see you again at next year's Relay For Life!"

Bob has written a book, which will be released shortly, entitled "Customizing Your Cancer Conquest".  Advance copies are available through the publisher (Absey & Company) at a special price, and may be ordered via 1-888-41ABSEY (1-888-412-2739) or 1-281-257-2340, or through their website: www.absey.biz.  The book not only includes motivational stories of victory, but includes dietary tips, lifestyle adjustments, a glossary of side effects and their handling, and a number of other advisements important to the dispelling of the unknown and the fear that it tends to harbor.  An absolute treasure chest of hope for the newly-diagnosed.