"Dizziness?"
Yep.
"Which worsens when you move?"
Yep.
"Insomnia?"
Yep.
As Bean read the symptoms aloud, I answered one by one.
"Palpitations?"
Nope.
"Are you hot?" (Not as in looking—I wish I were—but as in perspiring or clammy.)
Yep.
Our exchange lasted a few minutes, and then he began reading foods that cured the symptoms, most of which he keeps on hand. Frankly, he keeps an ample supply of exotic ingredients around the house for such occasions.
And so, my treatment commenced.
After an acupressure session with Bean and ingesting a couple of the foods on his list, I slept like a baby. I barely moved for eight hours: No tossing; no turning. It was great. That's the longest night's sleep I've had in weeks.
While I still had a bit of dizziness in the morning (a considerable improvement from the day before), I felt refreshed. For the first time in a long time, I was ready for the hours of sunlight ahead.
Then I remembered the potion Bean prescribed…
Part of my therapy is downing a jigger—twice a day—of this brownish goo my husband prepared around a year ago and set in our bathroom cabinet to age. And age is definitely what it did—it tastes like hundred-year-old Powerade. It's called "Angelica elixir," but in my opinion, there's nothing angelic about it—especially not the flavor.
The first ounce of the alcohol-based fluid took me by surprise this morning.
It hit me within seconds.
Bean was sleeping. And that was a good thing. Otherwise he would've heard my gurgle of distress: "I have those damn palpitations now honey!"
Were I not sure of my beloved husband's affection, I might've thought he was trying to kill me. I imagined his fiendish grin as he dug a hole in the back yard while I lay motionless on the grass. And I cringed as I supposed him chuckling from the sight of death in my eyes and russet streams of saliva oozing from the corners of my mouth.
"Snap out of it, Maggie. Damn! You're overdoing it a tad—aren't ya?" I mumbled to myself.
Of course, I know better. Bean is the kindest, gentlest person I've ever met. But this shit tasted like sewer water (Come to think of it, it looked like it, too) into which an inebriated, cardboard-box-dwelling vagabond spilt a bottle of vodka. If I drink enough of this crap, I thought, I'll be begging on the local street corner and sleeping on park benches as well.
So who'd blame me for my mental-ward mentality?
And speaking of mental wards, my readers will surely call the white coats to our door when they read the rest of this piece. At the very least, I'll be labeled a crackpot. But since the rest of the world has taken bizarre to new heights, I feel pretty safe.
Nevertheless, here goes…
I put my faith in the healing properties of folk medicine (alternative is the politically correct word I believe) above and beyond that of prescribed medications. So much so, in fact, I've not had a doctor prescribe me anything in years. I think the last time was when my son was born, and that was in 1984. Even over-the-counter drugs scare me. "Why?" one might ask…
Fine, I'll tell you.
These drugs purport the approval of the FDA. The FDA, as far as I'm concerned, is as crooked as Jack the Ripper's hurried incisions. Like "Springheel Jack," the FDA neither concerns itself with our lives, nor the manner in which they end; as long as they get what they're after: wealth. The FDA's stamp of approval costs millions—and this is from firsthand information. As long as they get their money, the pharmaceutical companies get the right to market and sell their "WMDs."
The side effects of all drugs these days are worse than the ailments they allegedly relieve. And over-the-counter drugs are recalled at an alarming rate. Hell, one time is all it would take for me to be wary. Yet, millions, nay billions, of dollars are spent on these "killers" every year. I guess it's an accepted form of government-sanctioned suicide. Stranger things have happened.
But I enjoy living. I'd like to see my grandson grow up; spend my gray-haired years rocking in a chair next to Bean on our porch. For these reasons, I've chosen the medicinal remedies Mother Nature offers.
I am completely convinced that my mother believed this, as well. As children, my siblings and I rarely consumed anything sold at the local pharmacy. Instead, mom gave us home-made tonics. The one I remember most was a mixture of honey, lemon, and whiskey taken for coughs and congestion. And before one considers this ludicrous, let me add that we were the healthiest children in our school and neighborhood.
As an adult I've searched for a man who thought as I do with regard to this anti-drug theory, and never found him. People laughed at me; particularly past boyfriends and lovers.
"What? You don't take aspirin, you freak?!" was written all over their faces.
Yet, as an adult, I'm still the healthiest person I know—including the "twenty-somethings" with whom I socialize. I'm over fifty, but I work in our garden with ease: A garden large enough to feed us for a whole year and then some. Granted, I huff and puff occasionally—but never strongly enough to "blow [our] house down." In addition, Bean and I build most of our necessities rather than take the easy way out at Walmart or the like. This takes a substantial amount of energy. Plus, whenever someone finds out how old I am, his/her eyes pop out and jaw drops.
I guess I'm doing rather well for an old lady.
And, best of all, I found the like-minded "someone" to whom I referred a few paragraphs ago: Bean.
Better still, he comes from a long line of healers. His four-times-great-grandfather wrote a book entitled Wright's Family Medicine. In it are remedies that date back to the nineteenth century, and some derived from Wright's Muskogee/Creek progenitors. And like his great-great-great-great grandfather, Bean's curiosity has sharpened his skills.
If I said I've always believed in his skills, I'd be lying. When Bean and I first met, I was skeptical, to say the least. But it didn't take long for me to realize the extent of his talents. First, Bean gave me the remedy for a headache; next, a backache; and then stomach aches, psoriasis, cramps—the list goes on and on.
To my surprise, it worked—all of it!
At present, whenever I have an ache or a pain, I tell Bean. And in case my readers are wondering about my sanity at this point, let me just say that during my physicals, doctors say: I feel like I'm taking money from you for nothing. You always pass with flying colors. Keep up the good work.
The day will come when I begin to deteriorate: The aging process at work. I know this. But I'm not going to hasten it by filling my bloodstream with neatly packaged toxic chemicals. And I wonder what the general population is thinking when they buy into the latest media/government-induced disease and pop pills like candy. Most assuredly, they believe sugar heals. Another Hansel and Gretel tale if I ever heard one. Once the wicked witch opens the door, they're dead—we're dead—baked to a crisp.
Get it? We've entered the gingerbread house from hell.
As an example, let us take a look at fibromyalgia. Its cause is currently unknown. Therefore, there's no cure. But there are numerous prescriptions available for the symptoms. These symptoms stem mostly from emotional stress: A neurosis. Most sufferers of this fictitious disease, however, take these medications to relieve their physical pain. Perhaps these drugs dull the senses; numb the mind—I don't know; nor will I ever take them. Simply due to the fact that as I stood in a room full of doctors and surgeons, I heard them laugh at our idleness, our obesity, and our need to label every ache and pain; which in turn led to FMS. Since it was invented, our government and pharmaceutical companies made/make a fortune on these medications, and our doctors no longer shrug their shoulders and say, "I don't know" or "get up off your dead ass."
Basically put, fibromyalgia means muscle pain—nothing more.
Go ahead, call me crazy.
Another case in point to my mind is cancer. It is a twentieth century epidemic. It was an oddity before then. Could it be that the foods we eat, the liquids we drink, the medicines we consume contribute to these deadly tumors?
They do in my book.
And one of the chapters should be entitled: "The Planned Population Control Method."
The mid-twentieth century is when the baby boomers were born—a huge portion of today's population. Thirty years later, right around the seventies, cancer reached high fatality percentages. Today, it is a household word for Christ's sake. And we accept it.
Doesn't one ever think that as our government and their subsidized buddies make billions—trillions—of dollars from the sick and healthy alike that they're also wiping out the surplus population? I do.
As a matter of fact, when I watched the movie "V"—an entertaining gem; though filled with historical inaccuracies—the one thing that stood out for me was the St. Mary's Virus. In my eyes, the writer emulated Operation Northwoods from the mid-sixties: Our government's plan to execute unsuspecting Americans and blame it on Cuba. And adding insult to injury, they incessantly pled their innocence publicly; then confessed decades later.
Perchance, we tell ourselves "It's an isolated incident" or "Nothing happened" to excuse it away. How do we know that innocent civilians weren't slaughtered? Oh yeah, they report otherwise? And we believe them.
Give me a break.
Then what of the Reichstag Fire or the Gulf of Tonkin Incident; are they not similar in their design? Mark my words: If something is conceived; it can be done. If something has been done; it can be done again, and again, and again. The question is not "will they do it?" The question is "where and when?"
I have always thought that real life is stranger than fiction; our world today proves it to me.
So, one may think I'm eccentric—an oddball—I don't care. I'll ingest nature's wonders and leave the skull and crossbones "miracles" for the general population. For no matter how harmful man-made medicines are, they'll sell like hotcakes.
I'll never understand it.
Oops, it's time for my jigger of goo.
