I’ve quit eating—it wasn’t working for me.
Thirty-six hours later, I feel fine. Calm. Hibernating. Still walking and working. Not hungry.
Maybe food is not all it’s cracked up to be. What was that saying? “Let food by thy medicine and medicine thy food.”
I like the saying but after a two-year journey towards eating mostly organic food, following a ketogenic diet, striving to walk 10,000 steps a day, swallowing a gazillion supplements, sleeping on a BioMat, and even—horrors!—eschewing my beloved glass of wine, this body still sports a CRP (inflammation) rate two to three times higher than it should be, a TPO-Ab score sixty-some times higher than the max it should be, out-of-whack cholesterol scores, body temperature one to five degrees lower than normal, unexplained skin lesions and keratoses, foot fungus, bone pain, teeth falling out because of shrinking gums, fifty pounds of visceral fat, little red piggy eyeballs, and a face so puffy I don’t recognize that ugly person in the mirror.
“You’re a healthy woman!” chirps my GP, her slim young hand on my shoulder. My internal wolf wants to bite that hand but just in time I remember I’d rather not lose another tooth.
On the plus side, the red blood counts have all come back to normal; so I’m likely no longer in danger of bone cancer or a form of leukemia. I’ve discovered lots of good things for this body, too: the hawthorn that keeps my heart ticking regularly (a surprise to MDs, who apparently expect more serious cardiovascular symptoms by now); bile salts that silenced the agonizing pain in the upper right quadrant and arm; MSM that fixed my gimpy knee in less than a week and keeps my joints supple.
Then of course there’s the beloved BioMat—I sleep on it so much that the fabric on its removable cover has worn through. Every night when I slip into my warm bed, I look over at Lord Tyee, my wolf, and say, “Ah! Moment of bliss!” as I sink happily into the sleep that allegedly knocks dead any cancer cells wandering into its 104-degrees-plus climate. Even Tyee, who has an egg-sized lipoma under his left front limb, has taken to hopping onto the bed and asking me to switch on the BioMat for him. Wow. I’ll take that as another testimonial.
Yes, I know so much more about this body than I did two years ago. I know, for example, that Polymyalgia Rheumatica is nonsense and a more helpful diagnoses would have been Sjogren’s Syndrome early on and Hashimoto’s Disease further on. The former points in the direction of Hashimoto’s, lupus, scleroderma or CML (chronic myelodysplastic leukemia), which I believe describes most of the aspects of the Highway to the End that this organism is traveling. Sjogren’s could have saved us—my harun-scarum medical team—a lot of time .
Now, with the TPO-Ab sky-high, some researchers would say, “Hashi’s, no question.” The next step would be an ultrasound, to see how far Hashi’s has made a fibrous hash of my poor little thyroid. In fact, I’m waiting for the Call from the Almighty Lab for just such a scan. How long have I been waiting? Four months. The Lab doesn’t answer its phone, nor call back on messages. Charming.
For a while my anger has been building about how shortsighted and misguided our conventional medical system seems to be. If I won the lottery, I would dispense with that anger by buying the tests and diagnostics that would give us the full picture. But I didn’t win; so thought, Never mind—I can do this myself with good old food!
Actually? No, I can’t.
I’ve tried intermittent fasting: no results. I’ve tried the ketogenic diet: nothing. I’ve tried timing what kinds of foods to eat at various times of day: nothing. I tried eliminating anything possibly harmful, even wine: nothing. I’ve tried combinations and permutations of thyroid, quercetin, I-B-3, every mushroom you can name, curcumin, omegas 3 and 7, ubiquinol, spirulina, hawthorn, selenium, potassium, magnesium, zinc, tyrosine, MSM, bile salts, biotin, proteolytic enzymes, an HGH-galvanizing bunch of enzymes, nigella sativa, astaxanthin, xanthones and Vitamins A, B, C, D3, and K2…nothing moves me off this plateau.
Now I’m mad at food.
Last month, there was another birthday with me too ugly and sick-looking to allow my picture to be taken. I don’t mind looking older—really, I don’t. I appreciate having left Death’s porch, too. But this plateau is cluttered with carnival mirrors—it’s quirky at first but the fun doesn’t last.
What would show up if I just quit everything but water and tea? I wondered. (Tyee looked worried.)
So far, nothing.
(Tyee still gets his growlies.)