I woke up on Planet Cancer again today.

That’s what my sister calls it, Planet Cancer. It’s a place where everyone is kind of skinny and no one has any hair—not even eyebrows. Residents of this planet move slowly and appear listless. It’s probably a combination of their disease and the side effects of the chemotherapy treatments they’re subjected to.

Since I discovered I have cancer, everything in my life has changed. Outwardly it’s easy to see the changes: I’m bald and have lost lots of weight, and my energy and stamina are much lower than it was a year ago. Inwardly I’ve gone from simply living — like we all do — to trying to survive for another day, another week. Which is not easy when eating is such a challenge ….

I’ve been going through the standard chemotherapy routine for about four months now and have felt both the benefits and drawbacks of these treatments, though the benefits are a little more nebulous. Has the cancer retreated? Am I being cured? How do I feel? I was told right up front by my oncologist that there is no cure for my kind of cancer, that there is only treatment and that, statistically, I have a couple of years — if I’m lucky.

The drawbacks are pretty easy for me to describe: I have a semi-permanent “port” in my chest where they both draw blood and pump in the anti-cancer-chemicals and, though the port is not obtrusive, it reminds me every day that I’m ready for another treatment. And of course, there are the side effects of the toxic chemicals that are used to try to kill the cancer cells: fatigue, nausea, weight loss and having to be in a hospital environment every week.

Strangely, one of the worst side effects is that it has altered my taste buds which makes everything taste kind of like metal —even water.

Because this cancer is only treatable, it means that I’ll be treated for the rest of my life — if I continue to choose this route. I’ve gone over to the city three times a month for over four months to receive these chemical infusions. I’ve had my blood drawn and tested too many times to count and I’ve had several CT scans to try to determine whether or not the cancer is responding to this attack. So far, the jury is still out.

So the other day, after some deep reflection, I decided to stop doing the chemotherapy and try something different.

Though I was told by the oncology nurse that instead of possibly extending my life for two years by subjecting myself to chemotherapy, and that I might live for only six months without it, I really don’t like the idea of pumping toxins into my body. I never have. But I felt that, if I didn’t at least try the allopathic Western approach to cancer treatment, I could not claim to have tried everything in my power to rid myself of this disease.

But I’ve had enough. I’m done. I’ve decided to stop taking the toxic chemicals in the clear plastic bag and have decided instead to follow a more natural and gentle treatment offered by a small clinic in Mexico. Our FDA does not allow some of these treatments, so if I want to explore other sources for a cure, I’m forced to travel across the country and across the border to receive protocols that feel right to me.

One of the appealing things about this clinic is that the doctors there did not essentially guarantee that I will die within two years; my oncologist here in Seattle did exactly that. And though I don’t want to cling to false hopes that I’m inching toward a cure, I feel more encouraged by this new approach. I have bought my plane tickets.

I’ve also started a regimen of rainforest herbs that, we all know, can have some amazing curative properties. Many of the pharmaceutical drugs prescribed today are derived from plants found in the rainforest — yet another reason to work to stop the destruction of the amazing forests in Brazil and across South America.

Am I concerned that I’m making the “wrong” choice and that I’m writing my own death warrant? Of course. Am I absolutely convinced that these new treatments will cure me? Of course not.

But sometimes we have choices to make and we have to follow our intuition, and after having undergone chemotherapy for the past four-plus months, I’ve decided to revert to how I felt about treating this disease when I was first diagnosed. I held my nose and signed up for chemo, but that phase of my journey is over.

I don’t know what my future holds — none of us do! This cancer that I have is pretty vicious and most would agree that there is no cure. All the more reason to stretch the boundaries of what’s considered “acceptable” treatment and to try something that is fairly unconventional.

Many people believe that one’s spirit is a powerful element in the healing process — that a negative attitude is akin to a death sentence. For me, it was difficult to have a happy, upbeat positive attitude while I was surrounded by oncologists offering me a slow decline to death, beeping machines and nurses in protective clothing, parking garages and elevators, wrist bands and blood tests. And though it’s a little scary turning away from what we all know is the “correct” treatment, I’m okay with that fear.

Since nothing in our future is certain, I might as well follow a path that feels right to me.

And one of the comforting truths about my choice to eschew the Western approach to cancer treatment is that I’m not afraid of dying. I’m even a bit curious about what lies on the other side, though I’m certainly willing to be patient in actually discovering what awaits me.

Until then, I plan to live each day with joy and appreciation for my family, friends and community, for my garden and my guitar. And for all of the elements that have made my life thus far so full and satisfying.

And I’m looking forward to feeling better and to departing from this world of Planet Cancer.

Scott Durkee is a freelance factotum, artist, and winemaker.