copyright 2018 Chris Smith All rights reserved.
"The sting of yesterday is never-ending."
A new Doctor walked into the room, "Hi. I'm Dr. Hallowman, the Internal Medicine Doctor."
"Hi. Nice to meet you. I'm Joseph and this is my daughter, Chris," Dad said.
Dr. Hallowman walked over to a portable computer on rollers next to Mom's bed and started typing on the keyboard. Then the third round of questions began. It's funny that the nurses and doctors take notes. But each time a new person came to Mom's case, they start by asking the same questions over again.
I was getting tired of the questions on repeat. Perhaps screaming out loud would be better. Fuck. Look at the damn notes! The answer is the same answer we gave you thirty minutes ago and the hour before. I didn't forget what I told you before. I may be stressed the fuck out right now. But I'm not stupid.
Did you forget to read the fucking notes?
Do you need me to remind where the notes are?
They're right in front of you.
It was too early to know what was going on which meant the medical possibilities were wide open. Though the fact they brought in Internal Medicine said something.
"We're picking up some infection in her lungs. We'd like to start her on antibiotics. Are you Christian Scientists?" Dr. Hallowman asked.
I rolled my eyes. Here it comes. Of course it's what they would think. If we don't want to pump her full of meds we must be Christian Scientists. Or the Devil. Or I guess we could be the The Evil One's minions. Take your pick.
"No," Dad said.
"Okay. Well we have a couple different choices we could use," said Dr. Hallowman
"What are the names?" I asked.
Dr. Hallowman looked at me. I looked right back at her, mirroring her frozen in time facial features.
"You have such a stoic look, Doc. Mind if we take a selfie with you?" I thought.
Then she repeated the medicine names.
"Dad, let's test her," I said.
He gave me THE look
I returned THE look with my own award winning LOOK. But my LOOK came with some kick-ass fine print which said in no uncertain terms,"I'm not fucking kidding. We ARE going to fucking to do this right fucking now. So you better cowboy up and get up in there. Good Buddy."
I wasn't playing and he knew it. He walked over to stand by Mom, between Mom's bed and I. Since Mom was asleep we couldn't muscle test her directly. Dad would have to be Mom's surrogate. I would muscle test Mom, through Dad.
"Give me your phone," I told him.
I took his phone and pulled mine out of my pocket and put them on my backpack near my feet. It wasn't a good idea to muscle test with electronics on your body because it could give you false results. Dad gave me THE look in a last ditch effort, "I don't want to do this". But I just stood there and reinforced my LOOK back at him.
I didn't care. We were doing it. Despite feeling awkward having the representative for Western Medicine on the sidelines, giving us her best Spanish Inquisition. We were going for it. Fuck them.
What were they going to do?
Tell us we couldn't touch her?
"Okay, let's do normal," I told Dad.
Dad touched his left arm to Mom, while he held his right arm straight out, parallel to the floor. I pushed down on his right arm, two inches, for two seconds, with two pounds of pressure (1). I was testing for resistance, or strength, with his energy. His arm stayed strong.
We'd learned this technique, called muscle testing or Applied Kinesiology, from our chiropractor, the Doc, who had been using it for over forty years in his practice. It was a technique used to energetically test whether something helped strengthen and support someone or not.
"What was one of the names of the drugs again?" I asked Dr. Hallowman.
Dr. Hallowman said them aloud, one by one as I tested Dad's arm. The first drug we energy tested on behalf of Mom, his arm dropped, which meant it wouldn't help Mom. The second one his arm stayed strong.
Muscle testing did not appear scientific to the naked eye. But if the testing was done correctly, it was more accurate than a lot of medical tests and certainly quicker and less expensive, in my personal experience. The A.M.A [American Medical Association] equated it to a snake oil salesman , in a journal of theirs I'd read years ago. Whatever.
I'd seen it work. My life and its health were proof. Applied Kinesiology and chiropractic care had saved my plummeting health when Western Medicine's closed minded thinking had done more damage to my body than healed me.
I still remember sitting in the exam room of the Western Medicine specialist my primary care doctor had sent me to years ago. My instincts told me to run the fuck out of there. But I stopped myself. I thought, "Well, this is a Doctor. They know more than I do and therefore I should automatically trust them with my life, without question."
They ran their tests, including x-rays and extensive blood work. But they could not conclusively determine what was wrong despite their mighty knowledge, training, or numerous tests.
Her one and only solution to my serious and sudden physical decline?
She prescribed medication that was used on cancer patients. The health issues I was dealing with were a problem. The medications Western Medicine prescribed for me to help me allegedly heal, were worse. Those tiny little prescription pills had the potential to impact my body for the rest of my life. The specialist M.D. boasted about how she had a nine year old girl on the same pills as me. As if it was acceptable to rob a little girl of choices in her future as well.
No one in the medical community, not my family practitioner or the specialist, talked to me about nutrition, my current diet, adjusting my diet, exercise, or physical therapies I could do at home to help me. It was all and only about their meds.
"What if the medication doesn't work?" I asked the specialist M.D.
The brilliant specialist doctor said, "We'll increase the dosage."
So I swallowed those little pills and saw little if any difference in my declining health. Then I canceled my six week follow-up appointment and never saw her again. It was the last time I would turn my life over to a doctor whose only answer to my problem, while failing to absolutely determine what exactly my problem was, was to give me pharmaceutical medications and then increase them. I did not have cancer or anything close to cancer.
Dr. Hallowman's laser beam eyes were watching our every muscle testing move. I was convinced she was making notes of the whole performance. I didn't care. I may not be at the Doc's, our chiropractor, level of muscle testing. But I knew a little. I trusted my knowledge enough to know we were going to help steer the medical doctors where we could. We had to do something to combat feeling helpless.
"The second one you said is better," I told her.
"Okay," said Dr. Hallowman, trying to keep her face blank.
I handed Dad back his phone and checked mine for any new traffic. It was time to text my Brother again.
Me: Anemic. Needs blood transfusion. No bleeding in GI. Possible issues in bone marrow...Mom is gonna stay in the hospital. White count in high...blood count in low.
Bro: Wow. Okay. That's not terrible, not crazy or anything.
Me: They're doing a whole work up on her...CT scan...got her hooked up to oxygen.
Bro: I just want her to get better.
Me: Yeah, that makes 3 of us.
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A HARD RUN INTO HELL Book 4 (EDITING) is the juice worth the squeeze seriesNon-Fiction
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