The past week or so has been tumultuous. Writing is hard, and my focus is not really where I want it to be, but so much has happened. I want to get it all out. I prayed for an end to the physical pain. I mean, I gave the universe an ultimatum, and within days, I began to receive what I needed.
A note on where I’m coming from: I have two rambunctious little boys–beautiful, intelligent, creative, affectionate boys–who deserve better than one sickly mom struggling to take care of them. My body often hurts so badly that I curl into a ball, grip my muscles, and cry. I’m often battling a viral illness or an infection, usually more than one at a time. At times, I get crippling chest pains and fatigue that is like ebbing into a coma. All this to say… I live with an enormous amount of pain and have for many years. I’ve learned to ignore much of it, but becoming a full-time single mother has made what was once tolerable profoundly overwhelming, and that transition was preceded by social losses that evoked deep grief. I often wonder how much longer I can keep going. Seeking employment has been next to impossible. I cannot keep my house clean for the life of me.
Things just keep getting worse… from apocalyptic to post-apocalyptic to “night of the living dead.” Sometimes, I cannot lift myself off the floor to feed my boys or put them to bed. There is no lack of will. Simply, my body will not do what I ask. On such occassions, they find food in the kitchen and put themselves to bed. As a result, I have made friends with the emotion of horror–that deeply disconcerting, twisted, nightmarish feeling that life is insurmountable and death will transpire slowly and painfully. Despite an inner peace that somehow abides hidden beneath the troubles, horror is the atmosphere I breath. “This can’t go on,” I think. “But how will it end?”
There are periods when things get better, when the demands of life are milder, when nothing is “going around,” or when some kind soul or incarnate angel enters my life, but after they are gone, everything falls apart again. I expend every drop of energy I have putting the pieces back together, but the falling apart is endless, and I feel as though my very frame is in tatters. I need a permanent solution.
So I gave the universe an ultimatum. I sat down and wrote a list of the three things I need to survive. The first item on my list was: “Feel good in my body.” I could have written “no more pain,” but I wanted to think positive. (The second item was a steady income, and the third was companionship. I could have written “occassional social interaction so I don’t go totally mental,” but again I wanted to think positive.) I brought the list to my altar, lit a candle and some incense, and sat in meditation.
“Universe, this is what I NEED,” I said. “Damn it, I am not made of steel.” A deep forgiveness grew inside me. There is so much judgment in suffering. I let it all go.
I imagined giving the list to the Divine Beloved the way I would submit an order (e.g., for food). The intention of asking was so strong. After a period of silence, I placed the list on my altar and blew out the candle. A wave of joy filled the room, and I cried with relief. Sometimes, you just know that a prayer is waiting to be answered.
One night later, still recovering from my latest kidney infection, I was so exhausted, sore and queasy that I crumpled onto the floor like a puppet with cut strings. I broke into a sweat and couldn’t budge without feeling as though I would lose my dinner. My boys crawled into bed. The next morning, my mother called, and I mentioned that I spent the night on the floor. I’ve told her of such incidents for more than a year, but for whatever reason, she never grasped it. “Oh, it’s not that bad!” she says. This time, however, she did.
“If you can’t function, you can’t take care of the kids!” she said, utterly horrified.
“Yes, I’ve been telling you that for a while now,” I said. “I could lose my children… or they are going to lose me.” In how many different ways do I need to say it? Perhaps it was the sudden, acute awareness that my boys might end up with their father in Holland or in a foster home that spawned her to act. By that afternoon, I had an urgent appointment with her special doctor, a medical professional unlike anyone I have ever met.
For twenty years, I have walked into doctor’s offices with a typed list of my symptoms, their severity and frequency, and any other facts that might help them determine what is wrong with me. For the first time, not only did the doctor look at my list, he went through it line by line. Far more than a general practitioner, this doctor teaches other doctors around the country how to see the whole picture, how all the systems of the body are interdependent, and how to trace presenting problems to their root cause… and actually fix the problem.
After a two hour visit, he ordered full bloodwork. I went to the lab the next morning. Eight vials of blood! They conducted numerous tests. This morning, the doctor sat down with me, and finally I understand what is wrong. Although I do meet the diagnositic criteria for lupus (and chronic fatigue syndrome), he explained that he focuses on root causes rather than simply labeling symptoms. Essentially, my bone marrow does not produce enough blood, and my liver is too congested to function properly. With very few white blood cells, every viral or bacterial infection has me down for the count. With few red blood cells, I’m anemic, but it’s not the sort corrected by iron. The liver, he explained, is responsible for producing certain hormones and other chemicals needed for adequate health. All of my symptoms suddenly make sense. They are the downstream effects of deeper problems.
After reviewing the results, he inserted an IV and put a boggling array of vitamins and minerals into my bloodstream. He has an impressive record of successfully healing severe conditions using IV therapy. If the body receives enough of the substances it needs to do its job, he explained, often the body will take things from there and return to a state of wholeness.
I go back on Tuesday for twice weekly treatments. In the meantime, he sent me home with a tank of bovine colostrum, among other things, which should send my immune system back to kindergarten for an education. Colostrum is the stuff that comes out just before milk and contains all the strange biochemicals that teach the immune system how to work.
“You’ve been dealing with this a long time, dear,” he said. His compassion was so comforting, I cried with relief. I’m hopeful that my pain may actually come to an end, and soon my health may become more than tolerable. More than endurable. I could feel good in my body.
