new-logo25W.R. McAfee, Sr.

Copyright  © 2013 by W. R. McAfee, Sr.  All rights reserved


Let me say at the onset that doctors have saved my foot and my life in the past.  They’ve also damned near killed me.

The earliest bo-bo (pronounced bow-bow) I remember was jumping off a kitchen counter after my buddy and I had climbed up on it to get a cookie out of the cupboard. A half-pound coffee can with no rim set on the floor as a water dish for their cat. My heel came down in the middle of that can, and the can embedded itself in the ankle bone on both sides of my foot.

It’s hard to run with a coffee can stuck to the bottom of your foot. But not to scream.

I awoke  momentarily with my head in a lady’s lap in a pool of blood while another lady wrapped towels around my foot; remember the ether at the hospital and that’s all until I woke up in a hospital bed the next day with my foot in a cast.

I had to learn to walk again when they finally took the cast off.

A young doctor just out of med school was on duty when they brought me in.  He worked more than six hours tying nerves and whatever else had been sliced in my foot back together. Nurses brought him fresh supplies and water and kept the sweat out of his eyes.

He saved my foot and the use of it.

My family thanked him.  Profusely.

* * *

In between then and now there have been minor bo-bo’s—pocket knife cuts, cracked vertebrae, broken arm, cracked rotator cup (when I landed upside down on it in high school); the usual boy stuff.

Fast forward now to the summer of 1996.  I went to the Texas Driver’s  License bureau to renew my license and took the standard eye test, reading the letters with my left eye covered.  When asked to read the letters with my right eye covered, I saw no letters and told the lady:  ‘There are no letters.’

She said, “Oh yes there are.  You have a problem.”

After a series of tests and an MRI, a tumor was discovered behind my left eye and the doctor informed me I would have to see a neurosurgeon and have the tumor removed.

I scheduled an appointment with the neurosurgeon.  He told me there were two ways they could remove the tumor.  One was to cut open my skull and go down into the nerves behind my eye where the tumor was  located and remove it that way.

The other was to lay open and lay back the left side of my face and go up under the nose and into the cavity behind my eye and cut the tumor out like that.  He didn’t think this would be possible because you have to have unclogged and open arteries and veins for this method to be successful. I was 54 and overweight.

Tests revealed my veins were clear.  This dumbfounded the doctors but was good news to me because anytime neurosurgeons have to open your skull up and expose the brain, the person—generally speaking—never quite gets back to his or her old self  again.

I don’t know how many hours I was in surgery, but I awoke as an orderly and young nurse were transferring me onto into an MRI tunnel on a lower floor.  I had multiple tubes hanging out of me and the young nurse helping scoot me onto the MRI conveyor belt apologized, saying this was her first day on the job and she wasn’t really sure what she was doing.  I was trying to form a coherent reply when the conveyor belt started.

From there I went into intensive care and stayed there for a couple of  days.  They informed me they had gotten most of the tumor, but had had to cut out an area that controlled the nerve that controlled my thirst.

No more hiking in the desert without a big canteen.

I’ve learned since to gauge about how much liquid I sweat and pee during the day and balance that with water intake.  Otherwise, I become dehydrated without knowing it.  This happened twice before I got my system down; the last at the end of a work day when two women who rode together to work were leaving saw me leaning against a wall. Dizzy.  No equilibrium.

“You need help?”

“Might need you drive me home if you don’t mind.”

“Want one of us to drive your pickup?”


Rehydrating and resting, it takes about an hour to get functioning again.

They doctors informed me the tumor was benign and if it had  continued to grow, it would have eventually blinded my left eye, put pressure on my brain, and caused complications it was better not to have.

The good news is the surgeon save the sight in my left eye.

And I found  out I was diabetic while in intensive care when they hooked me up to  glucose.  My heart rate, they noticed, was extremely high.

A bongo drum.

An Internist was called who studied my charts and heart rate, figured out I had diabetes, and told them to unhook me from the glucose.

My heart rate returned to normal. No idea where or what I would be today if he hadn’t caught it.

Shortly afterward, I was returned to a semi-private room.  While there, I noticed spinal fluid continued to flow from my nose; under which the nurses kept taping gauze.  The neurosurgeon saw me every morning, but neither mentioned nor asked me about it.

The second day I was there a tremendous pain hit me in my right lung; a pain unlike any I’d ever experienced before. By the next morning I was gasping for breath and could not lay down the pain was so intense. I sat in a chair and laid my head on the food trey; trying to breathe.

That same morning, my son’s father-in-law had been admitted to the hospital a block down from mine.  Hearing that I was next door, he got dressed, came over, and found me sitting up with my head on the trey, gasping for breath.  I acknowledged him and he told me “. . .you don’t look so good.” I told him none of the pain medications they were giving me were working.

He left and called my oldest son, a firefighter and medic, and told him he needed to come look at me—that nothing they were doing in the hospital was working.

During the interim, a family whose father had had a sudden stroke was assigned the room’s other bed.  Nurses slid him onto the bed.  One in the family was a preacher.  They prayed over their father, then turned their attention to me sitting at the trey with my head down, gasping.

They walked over, asked if they could lay hands on my head and pray over me.  I said,  “. . .yes, ‘thank you.”  Because I been doing that myself. I thought I was going to die.  They prayed and I thanked them.  My son told me later I was close to checking out when he got there.

He arrived a few minutes after that and told the floor nurse, in his opinion, I probably had a blood clot in my chest working its way towards my heart. Which I did.

He and his father-in-law saved my life. I thanked them both later.

Nuclear x-ray, whatever that  is, found the clot.  The hospital hematologist was called in at midnight to place a metal blood filter in my chest to try and catch it.  He entered the large vein in my groin, traveled the filter upwards and set it ahead of the clot.  He told me before he went in:  “If these clots are coming from your lower extremities, the filter will catch them.  If they’re coming from the top down, all bets are off.”

He also told me not to have another MRI because if I did, it would cause my blood to clot at the filter.

The doctor inserted the filter and they returned me to intensive care.  There, the doctors informed they were going to pump me full of warfarin and that I would have to lie still for three days.  I asked them why and they told me to ‘…dissolve the clot.’

I refused the treatment.

Warfarin is used to coat corn and grain to kill rats and mice.  The rats eat it and the warfarin makes their blood so thin they bleed to death internally.  Having just had major surgery throughout my head and near my brain, I knew if I sprung a leak up there it was all over but the drooling if I lived.  That’s why I  refused the Warfarin.

The doctors told me ” . . .you can’t do that.”  I told them I just did, and to bring me the papers.

They transferred me back to a semi-private room.  Late the first night there I heard someone reading my charts and a doctor came into the room and sat down in the semi-darkness and asked: ‘How did you know not to take the warfarin?’

I told him.

He said: ‘How did you find that out.’  I told him, ‘I read.  It’s a classic case study in advertising.  The farmers all told the manufacturer it worked when it first came on the market, then suddenly stopped buying it.  Finally someone at the plant figured out the people at the local post offices were reading the label when it arrived and spreading the word in the community that farmer so ‘n so had rats and mice.

The manufacturer began advertising to farmers how effective it was through farmer testimonials, and that it was always boxed and shipped and plain box wrapped with brown paper with no labels.

Sales of  warfarin soared again.

I thought the doctor would laugh at me.  Instead he said:  “You made a damn good decision.”

When it came time for my release, I was still leaking spinal fluid from my nose.  Each day when the neurosurgeon came to check on me he asked me how I was doing.  I would mention my leak and he would leave. When it came time for my discharge, he came in for a last visit, asked how I was doing, and I mentioned the leak to him again.  He said,  “. . .Oh gosh, we’re going to have to go back in and operate again to stop it!”

He had been looking at it every day for a week.

I had good insurance at the time, thanks to my wife, who had put me on her company’s policy after examining the one my company offered. She specialized in policies for employees at the corporation where she worked and knew.

I had visions of a man in a white coat pulling the jackpot lever a second time on an insured slot machine; had doubts about even surviving another operation and so shared them with my wife.

“You’ll make it,” she said.

I did.

A week later the neurosurgeon  informed me I would have to have radiation treatments for five weeks to make sure the tumor didn’t return. I asked him if the radiation would kill  brain cells.  ”Oh, you’ll lose some,” he replied.

Two Chinese radiologists came and informed me where to report to set up treatments once I was discharged.

I reported a couple weeks later to radiology.  My  wife was with me. The radiologist came in and informed me they would be shooting radiation through my brain to where the tumor had been. He said they could focus the radiation much better if they could screw two metal rods into my skull.  He said they would protrude some, but I could wear a cap in public. A lady happened by in the hall while he was explaining the procedure and he summoned her and showed me her rods. Visions of My Friend the Martian came to mind.

I then asked the radiologist what were the odds of the tumor coming back without the radiation. He said about two in ten; one of which would be untreatable.  I told him those were acceptable odds and refused the treatment. I had watched four weeks of  intensive radiation kill a cancerous tumor in my mother’s neck.  But the treatment, in my mind, had generated a new (type) cancer doctors found spreading throughout her body a few weeks later.

The radiologist said, ” You’ll have to sign a release.”

I said, “Bring me the papers,” went home, convalesced for six more weeks, and went back to work.

That was sixteen years ago and I just turned seventy, still have what brain cells are supposed to be alive after seventy years, I think, plus whatever life is considered normal for men my age.

I think God gave me the knowledge —the Warfarin case, my mother’s intensive radiation treatments—I would need to survive that stay, and the prayers from the preacher, his family, and friends set the rest in motion.

It’s  the only conclusion I can come to.

Jon Rappoport later summed up /the dangers of modern medicine through his interview with Dr. Barbara Starfield after her research— “Is US health really the best in the world?”—was published by the Journal of the American Medical Association.

Eustace Mullins’, in his book, Murder By Injection, talks about the origins of the use of radiation and chemotherapy in the treatment of cancer in this interview and does an excellent job of looking at modern medicine’s MO as well.   )

A reprint of Dr. Barbara Starfield’s research paper is available here in PDF format with full references.

Copyright  © 2013 by W. R. McAfee, Sr.  All rights reserved.