Fifteen: A Health Nut in the Hospital
One thing that we all learn as we grow older is that no matter how hard we try to do things right, something invariably trips us up. It is as if there were an automatic response from the universe whenever we get complacent and think we have it all figured out:“ Ha! Now let’ s see how you get out of this one!” I’ ve had quite a few of those situations. One of them in particular is relevant to the subject of this book, so I’ d like to share it with you. The relationship between natural healing and necessary hospitalization is not one I’ ve studied at length, nor have I had— fortunately— much experience with. So, I do not have enough material to make general recommendations. What follows will perforce be intensely personal, but nevertheless, I hope, helpful. As you know, I’ ve been working for years on the whys and hows of natural healing. I’ ve applied what I learned to my own life and to the people in it, with generally satisfying results. And I usually feel quite confident that I can handle practically anything except broken bones and third-degree burns. Living as I do outside the established medical system, I have developed some distant respect for the craftsmanship of modern medicine, but also quite a bit of disdain for its shortcomings and arrogance. On the whole, I have little personal use for doctors and hospitals, except in the case of rare physical emergencies. Imagine, then, my surprise and shock to find myself, at the age of forty, with an ectopic pregnancy.
* I knew enough to know that it could be dangerous. I had also never heard of any kind of natural remedy for such a condition. Surgery, quite clearly, was the only way out. What a way to be shown my own shortcomings and arrogance! Still, for my own peace of mind, I had to explore whether there was any possibility at all of an alternative treatment. I was fortunate to have found a caring and competent gynecologist, Dr. David Sherman, who was patient with me and sympathetic to my philosophical anguish. I refused immediate surgery after the diagnosis, as I was not in pain. Dr. Sherman was concerned, worried that something might happen to me and that he would be blamed. Yet he spent much time patiently answering all the questions my husband and I kept asking. I also discussed the matter at length with Christiane Northrup, a Maine gynecologist whose understanding of both macrobiotics and medicine allowed her to speak my language as well as that of Dr. Sherman. For a week, I talked to every alternative healer I could find. They all said,“ Operate.” I fasted, just in case— perhaps it would just starve? or shrink and fall out? Lino Stanchich, an experienced macrobiotic teacher, helped me with exercises, mustard plasters, and ginger compresses. My husband and I prayed a lot, visualizing all manner of healing possibilities. Both Dr. Sherman and Dr. Northrup mentioned that there had been autopsies of women showing signs of old ectopics that had apparently been reabsorbed, but no case had been documented in the literature, and the doctor was definitely not willing to let me try to be the first: The sonogram showed the lump in my Fallopian tube to be already the size of a hen’ s egg. I just couldn’ t believe that my body would be stupid enough to let this thing grow any further, let alone explode; I felt it would either stop it, accommodate it, or make it disappear. But I had no proof, no assurances, no case histories, no backup— and no support for what I wanted to believe.“ That which I feared hath come to pass,” goes a biblical saying, and so it was with me. After a week of rage and denial, I had exhausted all my sources of information and had to come to grips with my situation. There was no exit. Even my children, when they were told what was going on, wanted me to have the operation, and they are even more terrified of hospitals than I am. So I decided to accept the inevitable and face it as well as I could, drawing on all the resources at my disposal. First of all, I reasoned, I was going to be opened up, and to heal I had to close up again correctly. Therefore I should encourage the contractive forces of my body. Having spent the week on a juice and vegetable fast, I was quite thin and contracted already. On the day I was to be operated on I ate kasha( buckwheat groats) and miso soup for breakfast.( Surgery was scheduled for 9:00 P. M. It’ s important not to eat for a good eight hours before receiving anesthesia, to avoid vomiting and possibly aspirating the vomit while unconscious.) And I packed miso, seaweed, and umeboshi plum paste in my bag along with a book, some magazines, and the good luck charms my daughters gave me. As I was lying outside the operating theater waiting, butterflies in my stomach, I decided to do a little positive programming on myself and have a serious talk with my subconscious. There are many stories of people hearing what is said around them while they are supposedly unconscious under anesthesia; that fact, and my common sense, made me think that there would still be someone in charge of my ship, during the operation, even if the speaking, thinking“ I” was temporarily off duty. To that entity, then, I addressed myself, admonishing it to make sure that all systems were kept working properly and to cooperate with the doctor and whoever else would be working with him. I also decided to trust fully in the competence of the surgeon and the