From The Cancer Chronicles #17
İ Sept. 1993 by Ralph W. Moss, Ph.D.
After a hectic two years, my wife and I finally decided to take a much-needed summer vacation. We went to a secluded island for a couple of days, then followed that with a few days of meandering the blue highways of southern New England. "One condition," she said. "No cancer."
I knew what she meant. Our last so-called vacation had been a frenetic tour of the radio stations and health food stores of southern Florida. And so, I pledged to be good. No cancer. No motor-mouth lectures on the intricacies of the OAM.
But, unfortunately, cancer is in the air. In an island restaurant, people at the next table whispered "went in for a biopsy," with ominous looks all around. At a Connecticut tag sale, the suburban housewife was nervously selling "tumorous mice," two for five cents. "I donıt know what happened," she ponders. "We bought them as pets for my son, and then, these bumps appeared on their backs." Forgetting my pledge, I tell her about the rate of spontaneous tumors among such rodents.
We were having a leisurely Saturday brunch at a Middle East deli in Lenox,
MA when we heard the news about Dr. Atkins: a radio announcement via the
AP wire that "Dr. Bobıs" license had been suspended. My wife and I stared
at each other in amazement. You can run, her look seemed to say, but you
cannot hide.
