I almost died when I was 25. I came home from my day job one Friday evening feeling not-so-great in a vague sort of way. My boyfriend and I had tickets to see a band we liked (June of 44, for those who are interested — this was some time ago) and I wanted to go. I wasn’t sure what was wrong with me, but after waiting for it to pass, I had to admit that it seemed to be getting worse rather than better and I finally, with some regret, sent my beau off to the show without me. I was feeling increasing acute waves of pain in my abdomen and while that is an obvious sounding reason to go to the emergency room, it didn’t even occur to me at the time. I thought maybe I had food poisoning or that I pulled something at the gym.
I didn’t get to a doctor for several days, and I only went on the insistence of my coworkers when I dutifully showed up at the office on Monday morning. And then it took a week of tests to determine that I had an ovarian cyst that needed to be checked out. The pain, which had subsided considerably, was still a bit of a mystery, but the important thing was to make sure the cyst wasn’t malignant. I was booked for outpatient surgery and as I had done all week, I kept going to work every day.
When I came out from under the anesthetic, the doctors informed me that they had performed emergency abdominal surgery rather than the minor biopsy they had scheduled. Turns out I had been walking around with a burst appendix for over a week.
I was in the hospital for 10 days and my body, for the first time in my life, didn’t feel like my own. It wasn’t just that I was woken up at four in the morning every day for my blood to be taken as med students crowded around my bed to observe my progress. I had an allergic reaction to the penicillin that gave me an unbearably itchy head-to-toe rash; I had a temperature of 104 degrees and needed to be stretch out on an ice bed; my organs did not “wake up” properly from the anesthetic. There were further indignities. It sucked. The good news was that the red-herring cyst was benign.
I tell this story because most people who have an unusual interest in the world of wellness have experienced some kind of health crisis. In my case, I was forced to see that my disconnection from my body and stoic reaction to pain almost cost me my life. I’ve been told again and again how lucky I am to be here.
And make no mistake — it’s a direct result of modern medicine that I am walking and talking right now. Since that time, though, I have tried to maintain a more participatory relationship with the way my body works on a daily basis rather than push myself to my limits until I break down. Over the years, this has taken many forms, from experimenting with different diets and herbal supplements to working with self-styled healers. It’s a big industry and it’s easy to be overwhelmed by conflicting positions. My philosophy is to keep both my mind and my eyes as open as possible.
In over a year of sampling different things for this column, I’ve personally gotten the best results of the simplest shifts. As I write this, I’m sitting next to a Day-Light Bright Light Therapy System (they sell them at Shoppers), which does seem to be countering the effects of the dark and rainy weather on the other side of my office window. I do my best to eat well — think whole grains, organic greens — and minimize my intake of caffeine and sugar while increasing my intake of filtered water, essential fatty acids and antioxidants.
I am continually drawn to plant medicine, and that extends from the herbal teas I drink in the morning to Bach Flower remedies snuck between meetings to the essential oils I drop in my bath at night. Committing to an exercise regime is so boringly obvious, but it has made an enormous difference with my mood. And I have found anything that reduces the effects of stress is worth a great deal to me, so I no longer think of spas as the exclusive domain of pampered rich ladies, though I still see a fancy treatment as a treat. (I particularly enjoy the Ayurvedic massages at both downtown Shizen locations, but be warned that it takes me days to wash the oil out of my hair.) I’m a believer in the power of being touched with positive intention, whether we’re talking about traditional shiatsu session or a soul-retrieving ceremony performed by a snowboarding shaman.
It’s been a literal pleasure exploring various traditional and far-out therapies in these pages — I haven’t been this healthy in years. Even though I think it’s time to retire from this column, I plan to continue to stay this course in other ways. I’m keen to read the health writing that the late Cookie Mueller (a fixture of the St. Marks Poetry Project and muse to John Waters and Nan Goldin) wrote for the East Village Voice in the ’80s. And I’m very interested in the role of healing in the recent work of A.A. Bronson, the surviving member of the art collective General Idea. There are so many of us, after all, who want to feel better.
I wish you well. And please, if you’re feeling acute pain in your abdomen, go to the hospital.
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