But then I had never 
before been in any situation to warrant that kind of thinking. Never had I grasped the 
full significance of someone wishing for death. Never, that is, until now. The increasing intestinal spasms, diarrhea up to thirty times a day, bleeding, pain, 
poisonous effects of the drugs on my mind and body, plus a few other incidentals, had 
put my life at such a low ebb that I finally did contemplate taking my life--suicide. Suicide? It was difficult for me to realize that here I was considering something I had always abhorred. The thought would creep into my mind at various intervals during the day, but more 
often on my "bad" days. As I recall, at this time, in the latter half of 1963, there were 
no "good" days. I tried desperately to rid my mind of these thoughts, to think of 
pleasantries and to see things in a positive perspective. But for me there were no 
pleasantries and I had already become a negative person. Only 33 years old, but I had lived a lifetime. Corinne lived in constant fear and anticipation that each day I went to my office 
might be the last time she would see me alive. I don't think she realized the 
justification for these feelings because she never knew my inner thoughts, my deepest 
and most private thoughts, although I believe she knew I was capable of causing my 
own demise. But could I? It was this uncertainty that kept her in a constant state of tension and anxiety. After all, I did have the means. The necessary pills were in a drug cabinet in my 
office. Being an expert pistol shooter and enjoying the sport, I owned a revolver. There were many days I would sit in my office and weigh in my mind which method 
would be better. How would it feel with an overdose? How would it feel with a 
bullet? I found it impossible to use my imagination with either method, though I 
finally reasoned that the pills might be too slow. Quickly! That was the way I wanted 
it to be. The decision was made. Now, do I have enough guts to do it? I knew I could not go on in the same manner. I was tired of pain, tired of suffering, tired of 
vegetating--was tired of life. In my spare time at my office, I would sit back and 
fondle the gun, hefting its weight and tossing it from hand to hand. Once in a while I 
would mockingly place it to my head, then quickly pull it away as if it might accidentally go off by some quirk of fate. "It would be so quick," I thought. I 
wondered if there would be much pain. Even so, "It wouldn't last long," I surmised. The weeks and months rolled by and I was still playing my little game, but I could 
not bring myself to pull the trigger. Call it fear, cowardice, ethics, or whatever. Perhaps it was my moral and religious background. I knew that other people would 
suffer for the rest of their lives--my moth er and father, my close relatives, my 
children, and my wife. I couldn't do that to them. There must be another way. Subconsciously, believe it or not, I still had hope. And there was to be another way 
soon, a miracle, but not just yet. There was still more agony to experience. It was as if I had to fulfill certain requirements before  I could "graduate," before I would be 
permitted to have body and soul reborn. About this time, along came another complication which I could have done without-
-hemorrhoids. This almost reinforced my suicidal contemplation, but it kept me too 
busy to think about it. I had had some small hemorrhoids during the last year or two, 
but because of increased rectal spasms and diarrhea with much straining, the small 
ones got worse and many more developed, both internally and externally. This was 
accompanied by bleeding and intense pain. The pain became intolerable with each 
B.M. attempted. I couldn't determine if the bleeding was coming from the ulcerated colon, the hemorrhoids, or both. Dr. Kale tried to be conservative in the management of this problem since I was still 
tapering down the steroid doses. I was advised on hot Sitz baths and instructed to use another drug called Anusol-HC, which is a suppository with cortisone, to be inserted 
several times a day. Talk about pain! I worked up a cold sweat each time I tried to 
push one of the suppositories past the hemorrhoids. I eventually had to stop this part 
of the treatment. Of course, my ulcerative colitis was still under medical care and the many drugs 
were regularly shifted from one dose to another. But the most enervating experience 
now was the fact that each time I would see Dr. Kale, he would have to use the sigmoidoscope. This caused so much pain as it was pushed past the hemorrhoids that I 
had to be all but held down during this procedure, which left me depleted physically and emotionally for a day or two. I found it very difficult to sit and also stand due to the severity of the hemorrhoids. The pain was almost unbearable. Cushions did not help. There was almost no 
comfortable position except over on my abdomen, but this position caused pressure 
on my colon, which forced its spasm, making it compulsory for me to rush to the 
lavatory. Dr. Kale was unhappy--but not as unhappy  as I--with this situation. He referred me 
to a surgeon who, after much poking around, decided to needle them--inject them 
with a medication. I recalled having this procedure performed in 1961 by Dr. Evans 
and I didn't look forward to having it done again. Anyway, Dr. Cuttem, the surgeon, 
instructed me onto the table. He told me to relax and then, with the accuracy of a 
marksman, plunged the needle into the hemorrhoids. When I let out a scream he said, "Does that hurt?" How does one answer a stupid question? With watering eyes I said, 
"You get up here and let me do it to you!" This injection therapy was not too successful and Dr. Cuttem hesitated to repeat the 
treatment, probably at the risk of a broken nose. He wouldn't consider surgery at this time due to the severity of the ulcerative co litis, plus the fact of possible danger from 
the effects of the still present adrenal cortex atrophy from the cortisone (steroid) 
drugs. This decision relieved my mind somewhat, because I did not relish the idea of 
a hemorrhoidectomy. I was referred back  to Dr. Kale for follow-up care. The Thanksgiving holiday of 1963 had just passed. I remember it well because, 
other than my lovely wife, three-year-old son, and soon-to-be-born child, I had very 
little for which to be thankful. The onset of what can only be classed as exquisite pain made itself manifest in the hemorrhoid area. I mean pain that caused my eyes to tear. It felt as though the entire "grapevine" was on fire. I like to refer to these hemorrhoids as a grapevine, for sentimental reasons. For the next week or so, I tried various home remedies in addition to hot 
compresses. Nothing helped. In fact, the pr oblem worsened in spite of any treatment. The pain grew so severe that it became intolerable. This necessitated my calling Dr. 
Kale for an appointment to see him immedi ately on an urgency basis. I was ushered 
into the examining room where I awaited the arrival of Dr. Kale with my fears 
elevated and my trousers lowered. He took one look at my posterior, gasped, and said 
alarmingly, "I don't like the way this looks. I want you to see the surgeon." The fact 
that Dr. Kale wouldn't tell me anything upset me. So I went down the hallway to the office of the surgeon, my old friend, Dr. Cuttem. After a thorough examination, which I did not enjoy, including the insertion of a 
well-developed finger plus a smaller steel tube called a proctoscope, which caused 
extreme discomfort as it was forced past the hemorrhoids, he calmly informed me that 
three of the hemorrhoids in my grapevine had gangrene. This was very serious and presented a grave danger to my life. For some reason I thought back to the ye ar and a half I spent with the army medical 
corps in Korea during the Korean War. We had seen thousands of problems, including gangrene of the fingers and toes, but never ha d I seen or even heard of gangrene of the 
hemorrhoids. My thoughts returned quickly to the present. I really needed something like this, as 
if I didn't have enough complications. Leave it to me to be unique. After the initial 
shock of the news wore off, I could finally listen to what the doctor had to say and it 
was hardly music to my ears. He told me I was going into the hospital immediately. I 
called my wife from Dr. Cuttem's office, announced the news and waited as she recoiled (she just couldn't believe anything else like this could happen to me), and told 
her to pack a bag for me and meet me at the hospital. Corinne was due to have our 
second child almost anytime and I was afraid all this excitement might trigger things. I just could not visualize her being admitted to the hospital with me while our three-year-old son was at home. Luckily, that didn't happen. I was admitted to the hospital, went to my room accompanied by my wife, put on 
my pajamas, and got into bed. Corinne then departed for home. Sometime later, the laboratory technician came in and drew some blood. Then an orderly came in with 
shaving cream and razor and proceeded to shave the essential parts. I assumed he was rather new at this job because his hands we re shaking slightly. I nervously asked him 
to be extra careful because I didn't want th e surgery started ahead of schedule by an 
accidental slip. He nicked me only once, so I considered myself lucky. My surgeon visited me to discuss the operative procedure. He said that because my 
ulcerative colitis was so severe only the three gangrenous hemorrhoids would be cut 
out. He could not take a chance on a total hemorrhoidectomy with more trauma and 
larger rectal packing, which I would pr obably blast right out with my almost 
uncontrollable B.M.s. (An amazing thing happened, many months later, to all the remaining hemorrhoids, 
due to the body's own ability to heal itself, as you will see. This occurs only after I 
have left the usual medical programs.) Later that evening, the anesthesiologist came to discuss the anesthetic I was to 
receive the next morning. It was to be a spinal anesthetic, which didn't thrill me too 
much. I never did relish the idea of those long, fat needles being pushed into my 
spinal canal. I was also told I would be given a whopping dose of a cortisone drug to 
prevent any possibility of my going into shock on the operating table. This tidbit of 
information also didn't thrill me too much. Finally, everyone was gone from my room. No nurses, no orderlies, no doctors, and 
no laboratory technicians. Just silence remained. It was a pleasure for a while, until I 
found there was time to think. Then all sorts of morbid thoughts came to my mind concerning the surgery and spinal anesthesia. After all, for years I've heard people talk 
about their hemorrhoid operations--all bad. Now, here I am faced with it. How else 
could I think? Well, before the evening was over I was completely tensed up over this 
entire idea of surgery. I could feel the intes tinal spasms coming, and before I went to 
sleep I must have made a dozen trips to the lavatory. But finally sleep did come about 
11:00 p.m., at which time I was awakened by the nurse to take a sleeping pill. This 
was one of the things I found difficult to understand, but when I inquired of others, 
they told me the same story. After falling asleep, these people were eventually 
awakened for a sleeping pill. Morning came and I was awakened at about 5:00 a.m. by an orderly holding an 
enema. I said, "Is that for me?" He nodded approvingly. There's nothing so refreshing 
as to wake up early in the morning in a half stupor to have an enema poked into you, 
mildly crushing against exquisitely tender hemorrhoids on the way in. That's got to 
wake you up! A few other steps in preope rative preparation were carried out, which 
took the clock to about 7:00 or 8:00 a.m. About this time, a nurse entered the room with a hypodermic and said to me, "This is to make you relax." She plunged it into the 
upper and outer quadrant of my well-cared-for and sought-after hind-end. I knew the only thing that could make me relax was to be anywhere but here. My wife, my mother, and a friend arri ved shortly after the injection. I was so 
nervous that my hands and feet were blanched, but the sight of familiar faces eased 
some of the tension. It wasn't long after that two orderlies came in with the cart to 
take me to surgery. They helped me onto the cart, covered me, and began to wheel me out. I waved goodbye to Corinne whose expression was funereal to say the least. I 
don't know what was in that hypodermic, but I left the room totally unrelaxed and wide awake. In fact, I really did not want to go, but the intense pain from my posterior 
kept reminding me there was no alternative. When we arrived at the operating room, my cart was wheeled over to the operating 
table where the two orderlies aided me onto it. I gazed up at the large spotlights and then scanned the room. I had always been at the surgeon's position when I performed 
foot surgery and did not give much thought to the patient's perspective--until now. I 
was very apprehensive. Soon I was given the injection of the cortisone which would 
lessen my chances of shock. Then I was rolled over on my abdomen, prepped, and 
draped. I could never lie on my abdomen because the pressure would stimulate bowel action and I would have to dash for the lavatory. I concentrated very intently on not 
having a B.M. on the operating table and it paid off. But it did remind me of a few 
incidents when I had scheduled foot surgery. I was already scrubbed, gowned, and 
gloved and either ready to operate or al ready operating when I'd feel a wave of 
intestinal spasm giving me the usual uncontrollable urge. I would, of necessity, break sterility and get the hell out of there to a lavatory. Then I would return, enervated and 
embarrassed, re-scrub, re-gown, and glove again, and continue where I left off. When I returned to reality from this reminiscence, I overheard two nurses, who 
thought they were talking quietly, discussing my case. One said, "Is this the 
gangrenous hemorrhoid case?" The other answered, "Yes it is, and they sure are 
messy." This did not do anything positive for my morale. It seems when patients are 
in the operating room, unless they are under general anesthetic, they acquire 
supersensitive hearing and everything is magnified. While one anesthetist was strapping my right arm to a board prior to hooking me up 
to an intravenous solution that would go into a vein on the back of my wrist, I tried to 
take my mind off it by playing meaningless games. I glanced around at the doctors 
and nurses all masked and gloved and I thought to myself, "Now I know why they wear masks. So they can't be identified. And they probably wear the rubber gloves so 
they won't leave any fingerprints." A sharp pain in my right wrist brought me back to reality as the anesthetist was 
inserting a needle into my vein to begin the intravenous feeding. I was then jolted by 
another needle jab which went deep into the lower part of my back between the 
vertebrae and into the spinal ca-nal. This was to anesthetize the lower portion of my 
body. First of all, it hurt like hell; secondly, I didn't get anesthesia; and thirdly, I had to be poked repeatedly until the needle was in its proper position in the spinal canal. Then I went "dead" from the waist down and could finally relax a bit because there 
was no longer any pain. My mind wandere d briefly for a few moments and I 
wondered how hemorrhoids were cut out before the advent of anesthesia. But the 
thought was too horrible for me to imagine at this particular time, so I returned to the 
business at hand--worrying. A syringe full of something was now being injected slowly into my intravenous 
tubing. I asked the doctor what it was. He said it was a drug to allow me to relax and 
go to sleep. So I figured I'd like to do that. The anesthetist then said, "As I inject this, 
I want you to count to ten." I began counting, anticipating a well deserved rest, with 
my head down and my eyes closed. When I got to ten, I lifted my head and said, 
"Now what?" "You're supposed to be asleep," the doctor blurted, somewhat puzzled. "Well, I'm not," I responded rather nervously . "I'll give you some more of the drug," 
he said. So he proceeded to inject another dose into my intravenous tubing. As he did 
so, he instructed me to count backwards from ten. I quickly thought to myself, "Aha, 
this must be the secret. I should have counted backwards the first time!" I put my head 
down, closed my eyes and began to count backwards from ten. Ten, nine, eight, 
seven--it was so comforting to know that any second I would be asleep--six, five, 
four--any second now--three, two, one. Within a few seconds, I raised my head and said, "So now what?" The anesthetist, very startled, said again, "You're supposed to 
be asleep!" "Well, I'm not," I repeated. "I'm as wide awake as you." "I can't give you 
any more drugs. I've given you enough to knock out a horse," stated the anesthetist. I 
assumed he was speaking figuratively, because I knew he was not pleased. But by the same token, I wasn't exactly elated. There is no doubt in my mind that this incident was due to the effects of my body 
being poisoned with the many drugs I had ingested over the past five and one-half 
years, some drugs potentiating one anothe r, others antagonizing each other, some 
neutralizing others, and many interacti ng. Who knows what detrimental changes 
occur in our bodies. Obviously, among other things, I seemed to have built a type of 
immunity or resistance. This was dangerous because it meant I would have to have larger doses of drugs, which can be just as hazardous as being allergic to them. So during the course of the surgery, while Dr. Cuttem did his thing on my lower 
end, I chatted with the anesthetist at my upper end. All the while, I could hear various cutting and clicking sounds. I didn't particularly like it, but there wasn't much I could 
do. After what seemed like hours, in reality it was only about 45 minutes, the surgeon 
said the most endearing words, "All done, Jack." I was rolled on my back, put on a 
cart, and wheeled to the recovery room where my blood pressure was taken at regular 
intervals and I waited for sensation to return to the lower half of my body. The nurse told me I would be here an hour or two, depending on how soon I could wiggle my 
toes. It wasn't 20 or 30 minutes and I could feel my feet and wiggle my toes. I called 
the nurse and told her I was ready to be ta ken back to my room. She said, "Oh, not 
yet. You must be able to wiggle your toes." "Pull back the sheets and take a look," I 
told her. She looked and I wiggled. "You're  not supposed to be able to wiggle this 
soon," she said in a rather surprised tone of voice. The doctor was informed of this 
situation and he agreed to send me down to my room. This little episode was, again, probably the result of biochemical changes due to the years of drugging my system. On the way down to my room, I could feel the pain starting. By the time we reached 
the room, the pain was so intense that I became unreasonable and ordered my wife and my mother to "get out of the room." I rang for the nurse and told her to give me 
something to ease the pain. A few minutes later I received some morphine (1/8 grain) 
and some kind words from the nurse, who was very sympathetic. My wife came back 
into the room and sat beside me. I tried to keep my mind off the discomfort, but after 
30 minutes not only did the pain not ease but it increased in intensity. I rang for the nurse while Corinne tried to hold me down. The nurse said she could not give me any 
additional painkiller because of doctor's orders. Well, in language not fit to print here, 
I demanded she locate the doctor and have him change those orders because the pain 
was driving me wild. The nurse returned shortly with the news that the doctor did not 
want me to have any more drugs. When I asked the reason, she explained it was because of possible danger to me due to all the cortisone I had been taking. The answer satisfied everyone but me because I had the pain; but that's the way it was. So 
for the next couple of hours I thrashed around in the bed, screamed, and literally beat on the walls with my fists while Corinne cried and was hysterical in her helplessness 
and fear. As all things do, this came to pass and I fell asleep from exhaustion. I was spent. This experience, too, was a result of years of drugging. The amazing thing is that after 
all these years of disease, of poisoning by the drugs, this hellish surgical experience, 
and a host of other things related to medical treatment, I had not blown my mind. I still had my sanity. I awoke early in the evening with the bowel spasms present and an uncontrollable 
urge to have a B.M. I rang for the nurse; but before she could get to me I jumped out of bed in a wild dash for the lavatory. I didn't make it because the sudden drop in 
blood pressure caused fainting and I hit the floor! I was picked up and carried to the 
lavatory where, because of fear, I tried to hold myself back. Finally there was no 
controlling it and in a few seconds the packing was blown out, accompanied by 
extreme pain. From here on it was all downhill. The worst was over, but the immense enervation added another emotional scar to my psyche, not to mention the harm to my 
debilitated physical condition. Discharge from the hospital came on December 9, 1963. I remember the date well 
because I no sooner hobbled home and into bed for a well-earned recuperative period, 
when my wife kissed me goodbye and entered the hospital for the birth of our second son. There I was, left to fend for myself and care for our three-year-old son, when I 
could barely get around. But my main concern was whether or not the new baby 
would be born with any mental or physical defects as a result of my system being 
flooded with poisonous drugs over the last five and one-half years. In fact, Corinne 
and I debated on whether to have a second ch ild for just this reason. We both thank 
God that he was born normal in every respect; a little noisy, but normal. A week later, Corinne returned from the hospital with our new son. We slipped back 
into the routine of things. I went back to my office and tried desperately to put in as 
much time as possible, which wasn't much. I found no joy in getting up in the 
morning to face the day. I had no desire or enthusiasm for my work--or anything else 
for that matter. The new year had arrived. It was 1964. I wondered what this year had in store and if 
it would be as bad as last year. What more could happen to me? I wondered! But the 
next four or five months brought progressively worse changes in my physical condition. I celebrated a birthday in February--34 years of age, but an old man. It was 
tough watching others my age enjoying themselves, taking trips and loving life while I vegetated in my small world. It seemed there were no lulls or quiescent periods during these trying years. There 
was always something to prevent an even pattern in our lives. It was very difficult for 
Corinne to teach school, raise the children, take care of the house, and to try to adjust 
to my problem. It matured the both of us and that was to our benefit since we were soon to make some major decisions 'that were to affect the rest of our lives. These 
years bring to mind Frank Ward O'Malley, the famous journalist, who was asked for his definition of life. His answer was classic. He said simply, "Life is just one damned 
thing after another." How true! I saw my doctor regularly every week or two for dietary changes, decreases and 
increases of my drug dosages, and regular sigmoidoscopic examinations. Nothing seemed to help anymore. The spasms and diarrhea were increasing again and there 
was more bleeding. I was running to the lavatory 20 to 30 times a day. I was already 
anemic. Now I was becoming dehydrated and losing weight, having dropped a total of 
25 pounds. That put me at about 145 pounds. Low back pain was almost constant and 
annoying, as were the ever-increasing cramping and spasms in my feet and legs. This was preventing me from obtaining proper and much-needed sleep, since it would 
awaken me several times during the night and I would find my legs contracted right up against my thighs. Migrating arthritic pains were becoming prevalent. The aching would travel from 
one joint to another, affecting several joints  at one time. Because of all the drugs I was 
ingesting, it was all but impossible to take painkillers. If any contained aspirin or even 
if it was just plain aspirin, the pain and damaging effects on my stomach made it prohibitive. If the drug had no aspirin, and I tried many, then the potentiating effects 
of the other drugs caused many untoward reactions, not the least of which were 
confused thinking and a state of stupor. So there was not much I could do except 
"tough it out." These previously mentioned symptoms are common in colitis and particularly advanced ulcerative colitis. C'est la guerre! It was late spring, 1964, and I seemed to be heading for what I sensed as some 
horrible ending. Our family life had dwindled. Social life was virtually over. It took 
all the physical and emotional strength I could muster just to go to my office and try 
to do some work. There were more unhealth y changes in my personality. We weren't 
getting along. There were quarrels. The family  relationship was straining at the seams, 
but Corinne had a bountiful supply of inne r strength. Although the body can and does 
take a lot of abuse, it is astounding how much physical, mental, emotional and even 
spiritual degeneration can occur in an individual as a result of illness. This disease, which Dr. Kale called one  of remissions and exacerbations, was now 
just one continuous exacerbation. There were no let-ups; just debility. I loyally 
continued, for a short while, with the treatment plan until I could see it not only had 
no value, but was complicating my problem. I shall never forget my last official visit to Dr. Kale's office. It was probably the most dramatic, indeed one of the most 
profound moments in my life. I waited for the doctor in an examining room. I felt 
terrible, but I sat there with hope that Dr. Kale would bring me news of some new 
drug to cure my problem. (I didn't realize it then, but drugs do not cure. They don't get 
at causes. Healing is a biological process that takes place from within the body, and drugs only interfere with the healing process since the body must direct its energies 
toward neutralizing and eliminating these poisons.) Soon, Dr. Kale entered the 
examining room, sat down with all my records in hand, asked me a few questions 
concerning the course of treatment and then, after several minutes of thumbing 
through my records and weighing many things in his mind, he paused and looked up 
at me. He wore a look of impending doom. Having always been perceptive, I sensed 
vibrations that what he was about to tell me I had subconsciously dreaded for a long time. "Jack," he said, "I've done all I can for you. There is nothing more." Dr. Kale did 
consider a course of treatment, the rational e of which I've never figured out, using a 
drug called nitrogen mustard, a bone marrow depressant. This was used at that time (I 
don't know if it is now) for leukemia to drastically reduce the white blood cell count. My white blood cell count was dangerously low from the years of drugging and it was 
for this reason Dr. Kale decided not to try this method. He did not want to lower my 
white count any further because of the potential hazard that I could succumb to an 
infection. (White blood cells are needed to fight infection.) Now came the moment of truth. This was the culmination of six years under 
medical care. I turned cold and my stomach knotted-up at what Dr. Kale told me. He 
said I had two choices: The first was to do nothing, and I would die from the disease. The second was a recommendation to undergo a total colectomy, which is a drastic 
surgical procedure wherein the entire large intestine and rectum are cut out and the 
end of the small intestine is sewn to an opening in the abdominal wall. The body wastes would then continually empty into a bag attached outside the body. Having 
this surgery would not guarantee my survival, but one thing was certain and that was 
the fact I would be a physiologic cripple the rest of my life--however long or short it 
would be. (According to statistics from the National Foundation for Ileitis and Colitis, 
about 25 to 35 percent of patients operated upon require subsequent drastic surgery to remove more of the bowel higher up as th e disease progresses.) Neither of these 
choices appealed to me. Choices? It was more of an ultimatum. Like the old saying goes, "You're damned if you do a nd you're damned if you don't." It hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn' t utter a word for a minute or so. It was too 
overwhelming. I did not want to believe this was happening to me, but deep down in 
me I knew the score. How would Corinne react? Many fleeting, morbid thoughts 
raced through my mind. I could not make any decision at this point. The shock of this distorted any rational thinking. I wanted only to be at home with my family now. As I 
was leaving the office, I told Dr. Kale I needed time to think. He told me not to wait 
too long. Subconsciously, I wouldn't accept this entire plan. I was disenchanted with the medical profession. I went home to tell my wife. She took the news with a 
calmness befitting a person with a deep i nner strength. Corinne has always been a 
fighter and she was not about to give up at this point. In fact, she was more 
determined now than ever before to lick this thing. She didn't know how yet, but there 
had to be some way. It is just because of this determination that I'm here today and in 
one whole piece. Corinne revealed to me, years later, that she knew it would take a miracle to help 
me; and she was hoping and praying for that miracle, which finally began to 
materialize as the pieces fell into place in the puzzle of my life. Chapter 4 -- Discovery  
   For the next couple of months I drifted along from day to day trying to make a 
decision. I continued to take the many drugs, which at this point did more harm than 
good. My diet was very restricted; I was allowed only cooked-out mushes and purees 
( foodless foods); I had not had any fresh, raw fruits and vegetables for the last six 
years. But because of the nature of the disease, it was all but impossible to tolerate 
these necessary and vital raw, fresh natu ral foods. A normal person cannot maintain 
health on this type of regime, so how can a sick person? I was becoming more discouraged and depressed with each passing day. There were 
always situations which arose to frighten me out of making a decision on radical 
surgery, such as meeting people who had already undergone this type of surgery. The 
stories they told me were like nightmares. These people weren't living; they were 
existing. Sure, there were some that seemed to get along, but they were in the 
minority. Another situation arose in a department store, where I sometimes went to take my mind off myself. It really did not divert my attention because invariably I 
would get the tremendous urge to "run" to the lavatory and I would have to stop what 
I was doing and dash wildly to the men's room, which of necessity I had scouted out 
when I first entered the store. There were times I didn't quite make it and there were 
times when I did get there and found people waiting ahead of me. It doesn't take much imagination to realize what happened, but it was a depressing experience and one 
which occurred frequently and at any time, regardless of my location. It was in one such department store th at I met a friend who was a surgeon. I had not 
seen him in a while and he remarked how ill I looked. I told him the decision I was 
contemplating and he coolly told me that he performed this type of surgery. I vividly remember his words of advice as he said, "Jack, if you can avoid this type of surgery, 
do it at all costs." Well, that stuck in my mind as though it was branded there. I bade 
him goodbye and he wished me good luck and gave me some parting advice. He told 
me to "hang in there and maybe one day a drug will be discovered to cure this terrible disease." It took me a while to realize that drugs neither cure nor remove cause. It was during these two months that a friend, Carol Leib, suggested to my wife that I 
look into a way of life called Natural Hygiene, which had helped her as well as others she had known. I think if it was not for Carol, I wouldn't be here today--or at least not 
in one piece. Anyway, Carol planted the seeds in Corinne's mind through frequent 
discussions, unbeknownst to me. Blessed with an uncanny sense of intuition and 
insight, Corinne knew that what she was learning from Carol was right. It was logical 
and made sense, and without analyzing it any further at this point, she knew that here was the help we had been seeking. This was the miracle for which she had been 
hoping and, praying. Corinne had only a superficial knowledge of Natural Hygiene, 
yet it was enough for her to become excited and elated--more than she had been 
anytime during these past, depressing six years. She could not wait to finally correlate this knowledge and present it to me. The day came when she decided to tell me. She was full of enthusiasm and hope as, 
wide-eyed, she related this new-found knowledge to me. There were numerous facets that made up this way of life, but the two items that stuck in my mind were the 
vegetarian diet and particularly the use of the "fast" (just water) for the elimination 
and/or prevention of disease, with the eventual involvement of a high degree of 
health. I sat there in disbelief. Could this be my own wife advising me to do 
something which goes against medical principles and philosophy? The very principles and philosophy I had studied years to learn? The principles and philosophy in which 
all medical doctors are trained? I wouldn't hear of it. As far as I was concerned, this was so me sort of quackery, chicanery. I would not 
even open my mind enough to read any literature on Natural Hygiene. If it was not 
medical, I did not want any part of it. I was as close-minded as is much of the medical 
profession when it comes to new ideas that are revolutionary and may deviate from 
the dogmatic path. We seem to be enclosed in our own sphere where change cannot penetrate and, for the most part, is not welcome. It is too bad, because there is much 
help for people, based on principles so simple that it is overlooked by some, looked 
down at by others, while it stuns the minds of still others who are on such high 
intellectual levels that they cannot accept or even comprehend simplicity. It took me a 
number of years to realize this. When I did, I promised myself to keep an open mind 
and evaluate all facets of an idea. This has opened new worlds to me. Of course, I continued to receive various suggestions from well-meaning people: 
"Go to the Mayo Clinic," or "Go to the Cleveland Clinic," or "I know a famous doctor 
in New York." Frankly, I didn't want any mo re advice. I was tired of it. I had run the 
medical gamut and just did not have the desire, stamina, or money to run it again. I 
also did not want to submit to some of the "heroic" methods being used. I don't believe I could have survived it. Corinne wanted desperately for me to at least read a bit on this natural way of life 
and perhaps it would open my mind enough to motivate me to investigate further. But she knew I could not and would not be reached by discussing, nagging, or even 
arguing with me. So she devised a more subtle approach--a brain-washing without 
conversation! Let there be no doubt that a determined woman is one of the most 
powerful forces known. Every night she would write a little note and put it at the supper table alongside my 
plate of pills and cooked-out mushes. I coul dn't help but see it. There were only three 
words: "See Charles Dworin." But this was the key that could open the door to my 
enlightenment. Charles was the librarian of the Detroit Chapter of the American 
Natural Hygiene Society. He sold the books at the monthly chapter meetings and 
Corinne wanted me to go over to his house, meet this unusual person, and purchase 
some of the books. But each night I would take that small note, which rested next to my supper plate, 
crumple it, and toss it into the wastebasket. This was usually accompanied by a few 
choice words to my wife, bluntly advising her to put a stop to this nightly note 
business. She ignored me of course and continued her little game, even to the point 
where she would verbally remind me at various intervals during the day. She was a tough woman, but I didn't give in. So the next three or four weeks found me ripping up notes each night at supper, 
until one night when I was having a horrible bout with pain, diarrhea, bleeding, and weakness. I sat down at the kitchen table to eat the usual fare, which Corinne had set 
out for me a few minutes before she left the house for a meeting. She had slipped the 
familiar note under my plate, but left enough corner exposed so that I couldn't miss it. I had no desire to eat because I was just t oo ill, but I did stare at her note for several 
minutes. My children had already gone to bed and the house was quiet--too quiet. The kitchen clock sounded louder than ever as it ticked away the minutes. I reluctantly 
pulled the note from under the plate and fingered it a while as I studied its message. Thoughts began racing through my mind as I pondered the note. I recalled these last 
six hellish years and how life seemed to be ebbing away. Nothing had been 
accomplished. I also sadly recalled that over these past six years, hardly a day passed 
when I didn't shed tears over this nightmarish existence. Occasionally, Corinne would 
hear me in another room and would yell out, "Jack, are you alright? It sounds like you're crying." Of course I responded, nonchalantly, that it was just a coughing spell 
or some other of a dozen excuses so wouldn't discover the truth. She never knew. It 
was one of the few times I was able to hide  my deep personal feelings from her. As I 
read the note again, I thought: "Maybe I will call up this Charles Dworin and run over 
to his house and purchase a few books. My kids  are asleep. Corinne is not here, so I 
won't have to lose face and concede defeat to her. She need never find out. The kids 
will be alright since I'll only be gone a half hour or so." I hesitatingly picked up the telephone and dialed the number, secretly hoping he 
might not be at home. I tensed a bit when he answered, but I explained, very briefly, 
my situation. Charles insisted I come right over and said he would get a few books 
together to give me a start. On the way to his house, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. "After all," I 
thought, "I'm a doctor. What could possibly be in those books I don't already know?" As I pulled into the driveway, Charles was waiting by the door for me. We shook hands and went into the house. I felt a bit strange as we went down to the basement 
where the books were stored, because I observed huge jars of various raw nuts 
standing about. I had never been exposed to  a vegetarian before. Was I expecting 
some strange looking creature? He looked normal to me as I studied him 
inconspicuously, so I relaxed. I wanted to get back home as soon as possible because my children were alone. Irwin was three years old and Darryl was a bout five months old and they both had 
birthdays this December of 1964, which was about seven months away. But Charles 
had such an interesting story about his own experience that I stayed much longer than 
I had planned. He told me how he had undergone long fasts and became a vegetarian 
to elevate himself from the depths of illness to the heights of health. (As of this writing in 1976, Charles is still the librarian of both the American 
Natural Hygiene Society and its Detroit ch apter. He is still a professional house 
painter and decorator and climbs ladders al l day. He and his wife, Kayla, love to 
travel and they love to dance. Charles sti ll takes periodic fasts and when you consider 
he is 74 years young, though he appears a young 60, you've got to marvel at that. He has a twinkle in his eyes and a zest for living.) Anyway, I purchased four little books. These were all written by Dr. H. M. Shelton, 
one of the founders of the Society and the mo st prolific author of books about Natural 
Hygiene. I thanked Charles and bade him goodbye. I was finally enthused about 
something and couldn't wait to get home and begin reading before Corinne returned. After seeing the boys were safe, I settled  down in a comfortable chair and examined 
the books. They were: Fasting Can Save Your Life, Superior Nutrition, Food 
Combining Made Easy,  and The Joys of Getting Well. I decided to start with the 
fasting book, which I immediately opened a nd began reading, defensively I might 
add. But soon this defensiveness disappeared and the gates of my mind swung open. This book was not only fascinating, it was thought provoking, enlightening, and it 
made sense. For the first time in six years I was truly motivated. I couldn't put the 
book down. Hours later, when Corinne returned, I was still reading. I couldn't hide my 
elation from her. In fact, I wanted to share this knowledge with her. I could see she was pleased. Tired as she was from her meeting, and late as it was, Corinne selected one of the 
books and began to read. She, too, could not put the book down. We became obsessed with the idea we must read all the literature possible concerning Natural Hygiene. We 
purchased booklets, paper-backs, and hardcover volumes from Charles. I read aloud 
to Corinne when she was busy, she read aloud to me when I was busy, and we both 
read independently of each other when neither of us was busy--but we read. It took several months to study all the material we thought pertinent, yet there was 
still much to read, but we eventually accomplished the task. I began to realize 
something so simple that it is overlooked, but I feel it has a definite bearing on our 
general welfare. This "something" is the fact that doctors study disease, they don't 
study health. Of course, my mind analyzed these books critically from a medical 
viewpoint and I found the principles of Natural Hygiene physiologically sound. They are in harmony with natural physiologic laws as applied to man. I knew this was the 
proper way to live. (I knew it then and I know it now--only with more conviction.) It was late summer 1964 when I made my decision. I had to get involved in this 
natural way of life. I had the book knowledge and academic background, but now it 
had to be used, to be put into practice and experienced. Knowledge and experience 
must go hand-in-hand to form a symbiosis--a partnership. But how does one get involved? Who does one contact? My friend, Carol Leib, recommended Dr. Robert Gross in Hyde Park, New York, 
because she knew him and had undergone fa sts under his supervision. (There are 
Hygienic practitioners located around the country, all qualified and experienced, and I 
have come to know and love every one of them.) So I put together a letter informing 
Dr. Gross of my case history and expressing a desire to put myself under his care. I 
wondered how long it would take for him to answer. I was hoping it would be soon, 
because time was becoming a critical factor. I had dropped another five pounds and 
was down to 140 pounds, giving me a total loss of 30 pounds. A week or ten days later, Corinne called me at my office. She was excited because, 
as I had already deduced, a letter arrived from Dr. Gross. Corinne wanted to open it, 
but I said no. I wanted to be the first to read it. The day couldn't pass fast enough for me now. The clock seemed to stand still as a punishment to me for watching it so 
closely. I couldn't wait until my last patient left the office so I could rush home and 
open that letter. The drive home seemed to take longer than usual. The traffic seemed heavier and 
the distance further, but finally I was pulling in the driveway. I left the car and was 
through the front door of my home in record time. Corinne handed me the letter, 
anxiously watching as I opened it. I sat down and began to read. What my eyes saw, 
my mind refused to believe. I re-read the letter. Dr. Gross would not accept me as a patient. If I had been on the brink of a nervous breakdown, this letter would have nudged me 
over the edge. I had mixed emotions: disgust,  anger, depression, disappointment, and 
even self-pity. I was stunned; couldn't think ra tionally. It took a lot of strength to keep 
from bursting out crying at the realization that my last hopes were gone. I decided that within the next couple of days I was going to make an appointment 
with the surgeon and have my "insides" cut out, because I could no longer tolerate this 
type of existence. However, within these next couple of days I received 
correspondence from Dr. Gross. He told me to disregard the previous letter and that I 
should come to Pawling Health Manor if I still wished it, but to be prepared to spend three months away from home. Naturally, no guarantees were made; but he said as 
long as I was so determined, he was willing to work with me. I was elated! I felt I 
belonged to the human race again. After all, there was nothing to lose and everything to gain. I could always come back and have the operation if this failed, but I could 
not, with a clear conscience, undergo the surgery without first trying this last hope. Once the colon and rectum are cut out, they cannot be put back. (Bob Gross and I developed a very close re lationship over the years. It was after this 
relationship was established that Bob explai ned the reason for his initial refusal to 
accept me as a patient. To put it tersely, he thought because of the gravity of my 
physical condition, that I might die at the Manor. But there were several things in my favor that prompted him to take a chance: I still had youth and I had that all-important 
drive and determination to recover. But one other important factor played a key role, 
which I discovered for myself--Dr. Gross' deep compassion for the welfare of a 
human being.) I began planning for my three-month exile. Personal and private matters were 
settled, my wife and I discussed her getting along without me, and a very close friend, 
Dr. Newton Karp, offered to give up his day off plus one working day to run my 
office two days a week so I wouldn't lose my practice. Our other friends and relatives 
assured me they would look after my family while I was away--and they surely did! During the interval between making arrangements for my departure and the actual 
departure, I received phone calls from various well-meaning relatives and friends. They said such things as, "You're crazy--don't do it"; "You're making a mistake"; "It's 
quackery"; etc., etc. There were many other negative bits of advice given. But there 
were a few people who congratulated me on having enough courage to make a decision to break away from the "herd." Why is it that the biggest critics are usually 
those who know little or nothing about what they are criticizing? Advance train reservations were made and I was ready to go. The train was to 
depart from the Michigan Central Depot about 7:00 p.m. on September 2, 1964. The trip would take about 13 hours, arriving in Poughkeepsie, New York, at 8:00 a.m. the 
following morning. Poughkeepsie is about 15 miles south of Hyde Park and is the 
closest stop. It is necessary to take a northbound train back past Hyde Park and into 
Rhinecliff, which is five or six miles from Pawling Health Manor at the extreme north end of Hyde Park. A taxi is then taken direct to the Manor. I started saying my goodbyes several days  before leaving. I took time to visit Dr. 
Kale and told him my plans. He said he couldn't see me wasting my time, but he did 
concede that if I was not going to be put on drugs (which I definitely was not--in fact, 
this plan of living shuns drugs and other poisons) and I was not going to eat (fasting) 
for a while, then it shouldn't be harmful. But Dr. Kale would not concede, in the 
slightest, that I could possibly be helped. I did discover that Dr. Kale told another doctor that I would be back to have the operation. The dawn of September 2 made its appearance. I was awakened by the sunlight 
streaming in through the window and dancing off the walls. I was very tired, since I slept poorly. It was the anticipation of what was to come, plus the fact it was my last 
night at home for at least three months. Running to the lavatory half the night didn't 
help matters any; neither did the half-dozen trips on awakening--another characteristic 
and daily occurrence for those with ulcerative colitis. Finally I got down to the business of packing. I began early because I wanted to be 
sure I had everything I would need for the next three months, including plenty of 
stationery, some light reading materials, a chess set, and a small radio with an ear 
plug. Other than the packing, it was a rather quiet day. I was somewhat nervous, but it 
was calming just to be with my family these last few hours. As train time drew closer, I began having second thoughts. I wondered if I was 
doing the right thing. I wondered if I'd ever come back. It was all so new to me; so 
anti-establishment. This Natural Hygiene way of life seemed to go contrary to many things I had been taught (brainwashed?) during my life. Did that make it wrong? Everything I had read and analyzed convinced me it was right and I had to realize 
that, even with truth on my side, it would be difficult to travel upstream against the 
current of society's one-way flow. I left my house one hour before train time, accompanied by an entourage consisting 
of my mother and father, my mother-in-la w and father-in-law, and my wife and two 
sons. A solemn atmosphere prevailed during the drive to the depot, which bore a resemblance to a funeral procession. Ever ything was running like clockwork. It was 
too good to be true. That's probably why there was a blowout in one of the front tires 
when we were halfway to the train station. At least things seemed back to the normal 
confusion. It must have been a sight for pa ssing motorists to see all of us scurrying 
out and around the car. Not having learned the art of emotional poise yet, I worked up a nervous sweat and became so tense, for fear of missing my train, that I thought I'd 
have a B.M. right there on the expressway. This had to be one of the fastest tire 
changes on record for a family car. We jumped back into the car and off we went, the 
solemnity now broken by this humor ous, yet not-so-humorous, incident. We arrived about 15 minutes before departure, so all of us walked over to the track 
where the train was waiting. We engaged in small talk for a while, until the conductor bellowed his, "All aboard." My heart began pounding as I said goodbye to everyone, 
especially my wife and children. (My mother-in-law revealed to me only recently how 
frail I looked as I boarded the train and she wondered if I would ever come back. Quite frankly, so did I.) As the train inched forward, we all began waving frantically and I wanted to get off. My parents and in-laws were crying as the moving train put a little more distance 
between us. Corinne didn't cry. She didn't, because she was happy for me, relieved for 
me. Corinne was optimistic and confident and knew in her heart that everything was 
going to work out. I continued watching through the window until the increasing 
distance made them all disappear. Then I sat back, unmoving for about ten minutes, 
and burst out crying. It was a release that finally allowed me to relax. (Corinne told me, years later, there were many times she cried at home while I was 
away. This occurred only when her confidence in what I was doing was shaken by 
someone challenging her on this natural lifestyle. She didn't know enough about it to defend it at this point, so she was easily swayed by well-meaning people, all of whom 
were misinformed or had no knowledge on which to base their advice. Each time 
these incidents would occur, it would leave her panicky and somewhat hysterical, 
thinking I had made a terrible mistake. Yet, deep down, an inner voice gave her 
strength and faith to overcome these obstacles and she came away from these 
experiences more imbued with the truth of what I was doing.) I had taken a roomette on the train, which is a tiny private room with a sink, a pull-
down bed, and a single seat. The fascinating thing is when this seat is raised, there's 
the toilet. This was heaven for me, but I think I spent more time sitting with the seat 
up. I felt secure being enclosed in this little room, gazing out the window and watching the changing scenes as the train whizzed along. I was enjoying the solitude, the absence of people, and the monotonous clickety-clack of the wheels as they 
passed over the seams in the track. I thought about the next three months. I knew I was going to be put on a fast, but I 
didn't know for how long. I tried to imagine what it would be like to abstain from 
food, with the exception of water, for a length of time, but I could not visualize it in 
my mind's eye. I knew, if I survived this undertaking, I would become a vegetarian. I 
wondered how that would feel, as I reached over for my bag of food. The fact that I was relaxed and not tens e contributed to a desire to eat. Knowing I 
was to become a vegetarian, I filled this large bag at home with what I called, 
ironically, the "Last Supper"! There were cold lamb chops, chicken, roast beef, 
hamburger, breaded veal cutlet, and I don't remember what else. I figured I should eat 
all this to fortify myself against the ensuing meatless years. Well, I ate and ate and ate 
some more until I became so ill that for ten minutes I vomited everything I had 
swallowed. This took all the strength out of me. I decided to pull down the bed and get to sleep early. Besides, it was dark out now 
and there wasn't much to see. I put on my pajamas, jumped into bed, turned out the 
light, and lay there staring out the window. It was a nice feeling watching the multi-colored lights of cities at night blink by. I loved to hear the low sound of the railroad 
crossing bells in the distance gradually becoming louder and louder until we passed them; then they gradually faded away in the distance. I didn't sleep too well because I 
couldn't clear my mind, which was very active all night. I watched the dawn break and the sun peek over the hills. I knew this day, 
September 3, 1964, was to be a special day for me. I dressed and shaved quickly and 
straightened my roomette. Then I sat back and waited for our arrival. We had been 
traveling adjacent to the Hudson River for many miles, while the sun darted in and out 
from between the hills, occasionally sending dazzling reflections bouncing off the river's calm, morning glassiness. There was a tranquility in watching the gentle, ever-
changing scenery as the river meandered and cut its way through the lush, green 
mountainous foothills. All along the banks of the Hudson, people could be seen 
fishing. Some had built bonfires to chase away the early morning chill. I envisioned myself out there without a care in the world. A loud knock at the door startled me out of my fantasy as the conductor operatically 
announced Poughkeepsie. I glanced at my watch. Almost 8:00 a.m. We should be arriving close to the scheduled time, although I can't recall ever being on a train that 
was on time. This one didn't break any precedent as we came to a stop at the 
Poughkeepsie station about 8:20 a.m.--20 minutes late, which gave me ten minutes to 
struggle off the train with my luggage, run into the depot and purchase a ticket back to 
Rhinecliff and hurry breathlessly back onto the waiting platform with probably only seconds to spare. However, this would not become a problem because, true to form, 
the train was a half-hour late. The 25 minute ride back up the Hudson river was uneventful. The same people 
seemed to be fishing in the same places. Rhinecliff station was announced and when 
the train stopped I maneuvered my luggage off and hailed a cab. The driver saw how weak I was, so he graciously herded me and the suitcases into his car and off we went six miles downriver again. We passed through Rhinecliff, Rhinebeck, and into the 
northern end of Hyde Park, where Pawling Health Manor was located. As we drove onto the grounds, I could appreciate the beauty of this part of the 
country. The main house was situated on a hill and surrounded by trees of many 
species. There was a commanding view of the Hudson River with the mountains for a 
backdrop. This looked like a place one could rest. There were people scattered 
around, sitting in the sun. The cab came to a stop in front of the Manor and I stepped out. I took a deep breath. The crisp morning air was clean and sweet. It was actually breathable. I took in 
another deep breath. This air was so diffe rent from the polluted stuff I had become 
accustomed to back home in the Detroit area. As I walked up the few short steps to 
the front door, I wondered what fate had in store for me. Chapter 5 -- My Six Week Fast  
   Once inside this three-storied mansion, I observed people who were in varying 
lengths of a fast and people who had already broken their fasts and had been eating. It 
seems they were all discussing one subject--food. (Later on, I too would succumb to 
this pastime.) I noticed the furnishings were modest and there was a cleanliness that 
shone throughout. There was a characteristic aroma which permeated the air. It was from a marvelous vegetable soup brewing in the kitchen. I asked to see Dr. Gross. In a few minutes, I was warmly greeted by a beautiful 
young woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Joy Gross, Dr. Gross' wife. Since I didn't have the strength to carry my l uggage, Joy went outside and brought the 
suitcases in. Then she grabbed the suitcases under one arm and me with the other arm, 
because I was so weak, and took us all upstairs to a room on the second floor. This 
was to be my home for a while. It was a bright, cheery room with two beds. (For the first few weeks I occupied this 
room, I had it all to myself.) At the time, I really wasn't interested in the physical 
layout. I was too sick, too weak and had a widespread infection in the bowel, accompanied by a fever. My only desire at the moment was to just drop into bed and 
stay there, which I did after quickly unpacking. Perhaps I should explain here that hygienic institutions are not fancy, plush spas 
with matching fancy prices. They are clean, pleasant, and are within reach of the 
average person's finances. The costs could probably be compared to a stay at an 
average motel--but in addition you get the doctor's care and attention several times a 
day, plus his being available 24 hours a day. The food is included when you are eating and you also benefit from the doctor's advice and educational programs concerning 
your new way of life. If you compare the cost of a stay at a hygienic institution and the cost of a stay at a 
general hospital, you will find the cost of one week at the hygienic institution will 
equal about one day in the general hospital. You will learn and build good health in the hygienic institution, but I doubt if you will in the general hospital (barring 
emergency care, certain "necessary" surgeries, etc.). I fell asleep almost immediately, but was awakened soon after by a knock at the 
door. It was Dr. Gross. He sat on the edge of my bed and we talked for a half-hour or 
so and he told me that I would be fasting--no food, just water. I was mentally prepared 
for that, but I didn't know for how long, so I asked him, but he wouldn't commit 
himself because he really did not know. He told me that each individual is different and each problem is different, so we would take each day as it came. Dr. Gross had an 
idea of approximately how long he would like me to fast, but, of course, he wouldn't 
tell me. In our previous little interview he sized me up quite well and knew not to give 
me a projection too far in advance    Dr. Gross saw how tired I was and told me to try and get some sleep, after which I 
was to weigh myself and keep a daily record of my weight changes. When I awoke, I put myself on the scale and recorded 140 pounds in the first page of my diary. I was 
starting this fast on Thursday, September 3, 1964, at 140 pounds, a 30-pound deficit 
from my so-called normal weight of 170 pounds (too heavy). I spent a good part of 
this day sitting outside and getting a little sun. ( The first week was spent almost 
entirely in bed, except for the frequent bowel activity which necessitated me ambulating to the lavatory. Even though I was to abstain from food, except water, for 
the next six weeks, there was bowel activity every day except for the last few days of 
the fast. It took about nine or ten days for my body to eliminate the infection and 
bring down the fever. At no time were any drugs, vitamins, or supplements 
administered. Everything accomplished was by the body's own ability when left unmolested.) This first fasting day was rather  uneventful. No unusual thirst or hunger. Malaise and weakness present. About a dozen B.M.s (diarrhea) with no blood. Slept 
fair. Short periods of insomnia and restless ness; but not as intense as before coming 
here. Up twice during the night for B.M.s. Here follow selections from my diar y for the period of my fast and recovery: 
   Friday, September 4, 1964 --Fast, 2nd day: My weight this morning is 139 pounds; a 
loss of one pound. Sensations of hunger at scattered intervals. Very weak and tired. Some light-headedness on getting up, due to decrease in blood pressure. No headache. No unusual thirst. Six watery B.M.s. today and no blood. Feet, legs, and thighs have 
dull ache. This, coupled with insomnia and restlessness, makes it difficult to fall 
asleep. Very poor night due to uneasiness plus four or five trips to the lavatory. Saturday, September 5, 1964 --Fast, 3rd day: Coating on tongue, foul breath and 
taste beginning, as is the thickening of saliva. (This is normal on a fast and occurs in 
varying degrees, as the body eliminates its wastes or toxic load, which has been accumulating for years. There were many mornings I'd have to take a knife blade and scrape the coating off. I could taste salt, plus many of the drugs coming through the mucous membranes of my mouth. There is nothing known to man that equals the fast 
as a means of increasing elimination of waste from the blood and tissues.) Weight this 
morning is 137-1/2 pounds; a loss of 1-1/2 pounds from yesterday and a total loss of 
2-1/2 pounds in two days of fasting. No hunger or desire for food, although I can taste 
certain foods in my mind as I think about them. Very comfortable day. Weakness and 
tiredness has decreased since yesterday and I feel more alert. Very little thirst. Five 
B.M.s. today (diarrhea with some blood). Low back (sacral) pain makes it difficult to 
get from lying to sitting or sitting to standing position, supposedly due to breaking up of calcium deposits in that area, which most people accumulate as age increases. This 
is quite common and lasts only three or four days, followed by comfort and increased 
suppleness in the area. Much insomnia and restlessness--very annoying. Blood 
pressure a little low, but good quality pulses. Must be careful on standing up. If too 
rapid, light-headed to almost blackout. Difficult to sleep--restless. Up twice during night for trips to lavatory. Could feel spasms in the large intestine. Blood pressure 
118/75. Sunday, September 6, 1964 --Fast, 4th day: Weight this morning 136-1/2 pounds; a 
loss of one pound from yesterday and a total loss of 3-1/2 pounds after three days of 
fasting. Walking labored. Sense of well-being all day. Light-headed in upright position. Occasional but negligible nausea. No natural hunger or true desire for food. (Usually, sick people like myself have no desire to eat anyway, even though we are forced to as part of medical treatment. The sick body does not have the capacity to 
properly digest and assimilate or absorb food and this weakens the body further. The 
fast provides the needed rest for the digestive organs. Now, the average person will 
experience hunger for about the first three days, after which it subsides and the faster 
becomes comfortable. I've heard many people state that they tried fasting, couldn't tolerate the hunger, and swore not to fast ag ain. The problem was that they didn't fast 
beyond three days--they never experienced the most comfortable phase of the fast.)
Triumph_Over_Disease_by_Fasting_And_Natural_Diet_by_Jack_Goldstein.txt
Summarize the following text section accurately and concisely. Maintain specific details and numerical information, and use anti-repetition mechanisms:

        But then I had never 
before been in any situation to warrant that kind of thinking. Never had I grasped the 
full significance of someone wishing for death. Never, that is, until now. The increasing intestinal spasms, diarrhea up to thirty times a day, bleeding, pain, 
poisonous effects of the drugs on my mind and body, plus a few other incidentals, had 
put my life at such a low ebb that I finally did contemplate taking my life--suicide. Suicide. It was difficult for me to realize that here I was considering something I had always abhorred. The thought would creep into my mind at various intervals during the day, but more 
often on my "bad" days. As I recall, at this time, in the latter half of 1963, there were 
no "good" days. I tried desperately to rid my mind of these thoughts, to think of 
pleasantries and to see things in a positive perspective. But for me there were no 
pleasantries and I had already become a negative person. Only 33 years old, but I had lived a lifetime. Corinne lived in constant fear and anticipation that each day I went to my office 
might be the last time she would see me alive. I don't think she realized the 
justification for these feelings because she never knew my inner thoughts, my deepest 
and most private thoughts, although I believe she knew I was capable of causing my 
own demise. But could I. It was this uncertainty that kept her in a constant state of tension and anxiety. After all, I did have the means. The necessary pills were in a drug cabinet in my 
office. Being an expert pistol shooter and enjoying the sport, I owned a revolver. There were many days I would sit in my office and weigh in my mind which method 
would be better. How would it feel with an overdose. How would it feel with a 
bullet. I found it impossible to use my imagination with either method, though I 
finally reasoned that the pills might be too slow. Quickly. That was the way I wanted 
it to be. The decision was made. Now, do I have enough guts to do it. I knew I could not go on in the same manner. I was tired of pain, tired of suffering, tired of 
vegetating--was tired of life. In my spare time at my office, I would sit back and 
fondle the gun, hefting its weight and tossing it from hand to hand. Once in a while I 
would mockingly place it to my head, then quickly pull it away as if it might accidentally go off by some quirk of fate. "It would be so quick," I thought. I 
wondered if there would be much pain. Even so, "It wouldn't last long," I surmised. The weeks and months rolled by and I was still playing my little game, but I could 
not bring myself to pull the trigger. Call it fear, cowardice, ethics, or whatever. Perhaps it was my moral and religious background. I knew that other people would 
suffer for the rest of their lives--my moth er and father, my close relatives, my 
children, and my wife. I couldn't do that to them. There must be another way. Subconsciously, believe it or not, I still had hope. And there was to be another way 
soon, a miracle, but not just yet. There was still more agony to experience. It was as if I had to fulfill certain requirements before  I could "graduate," before I would be 
permitted to have body and soul reborn. About this time, along came another complication which I could have done without-
-hemorrhoids. This almost reinforced my suicidal contemplation, but it kept me too 
busy to think about it. I had had some small hemorrhoids during the last year or two, 
but because of increased rectal spasms and diarrhea with much straining, the small 
ones got worse and many more developed, both internally and externally. This was 
accompanied by bleeding and intense pain. The pain became intolerable with each 
B. M. attempted. I couldn't determine if the bleeding was coming from the ulcerated colon, the hemorrhoids, or both. Dr. Kale tried to be conservative in the management of this problem since I was still 
tapering down the steroid doses. I was advised on hot Sitz baths and instructed to use another drug called Anusol-HC, which is a suppository with cortisone, to be inserted 
several times a day. Talk about pain. I worked up a cold sweat each time I tried to 
push one of the suppositories past the hemorrhoids. I eventually had to stop this part 
of the treatment. Of course, my ulcerative colitis was still under medical care and the many drugs 
were regularly shifted from one dose to another. But the most enervating experience 
now was the fact that each time I would see Dr. Kale, he would have to use the sigmoidoscope. This caused so much pain as it was pushed past the hemorrhoids that I 
had to be all but held down during this procedure, which left me depleted physically and emotionally for a day or two. I found it very difficult to sit and also stand due to the severity of the hemorrhoids. The pain was almost unbearable. Cushions did not help. There was almost no 
comfortable position except over on my abdomen, but this position caused pressure 
on my colon, which forced its spasm, making it compulsory for me to rush to the 
lavatory.
The author was considering suicide due to the unbearable pain and suffering caused by his illness and medication.
What was the author's mental state at the beginning of the passage?
The author was hesitant and unwilling to undergo the surgery, as he had already experienced the negative consequences of medical treatment and was skeptical about the outcome.
What was the author's initial reaction to the possibility of surgery?
The author experienced severe pain, discomfort, and anxiety during his hospital stay, including the need for frequent bathroom breaks and the inability to relax.
What was the author's experience like during his hospital stay?
The author was initially resistant to the idea, dismissing it as "quackery" and refusing to consider it.
What was the author's response to his wife's suggestion to read about Natural Hygiene?
The author was desperate to try a new approach, as he had already tried every other medical treatment and was willing to consider any alternative, including Dr. Gross's unconventional methods.
What was the author's motivation for calling Dr. Gross, the founder of the American Natural Hygiene Society?