Time handed. Bruises appeared, disappeared and reappeared on my limbs. I shrunk some extra. Most days my garments coated the shrinkage and distracted from the exhaustion. I noticed different medical doctors: two surgeons, three oncologists, an integrative medication doctor, a reiki skilled.
Lastly, in a transfer my former self would have referred to as loopy, I enlisted the assistance of a sound healer. She was slight and full of life, a 70-year-old in a toddler’s physique. In her workplace on the day we met, she jumped from her chair and requested me to face and prolong my proper arm.
“I’m going to press down on you,” she mentioned, “and I would like you to withstand me with equal strain, OK?”
She pushed me down, and I pushed again. My arm bounced at her sudden launch.
She shook her head and scowled, then grabbed a bottle of hemp oil. “Maintain this!” she mentioned, shoving the bottle into my hand and urgent down on my arm once more.
This time I used to be in sync along with her, extra agile, adjusting to her strain.
“Sure,” she mentioned. “Your physique likes this product. You should purchase it on my web site.”
It was all make-believe, however I used to be determined. Determined, I advised myself, however not insane — desperation and madness had been two distinct, if bordering, states. However that is the place desperation takes us — the sick, the power, the dying, the grieving. We’re compelled to search out hope in what we used to mock: God, the afterlife, miracles, hemp oil. Therapeutic, by any means. Therapeutic, towards all odds.