Part II
[After being subjected to imperative comprehensive testing
over two days of Rosh Hashona and Shabbos...]
I am only a shadow of myself. On Sunday, my husband makes his
long-awaited visit with my baby. I am too weak to hold her. I
want to respond to her joy at seeing me but I can only
squeeze out a faint smile. Then I burst into tears as I
realize that I don't have the strength to care for her.
I should have known. I had already had some experience with
this award-winning hospital. It was in this very same
hospital that my sweet baby was born.
*
Together with my husband and our litte overnight suitcase, we
made our way down to an underground floor of the hospital
complex. Our steps echoed in the giant windowless hallways
and we came to the massive door with a small sign to the left
announcing we were at the right place. We were then buzzed
in. It reminded me of the entrance to a nuclear power plant.
It all seemd very dangerous and secretive.
Once inside it continued to be soundless. The nurse led us to
the first room on a long corridor with another massive door
to open. Inside, there were again no windows and for the next
nine hours, I proceeded to have my baby... When I looked at
the clock, it could have been three a.m. or three p.m.; with
no sunlight, I had lost track of time.
Thank G-d I was not there to be healed and was sent home
after three days.
*
Now they are cold and efficient, as if they are there simply
to monitor the malfunctioning machinery.
At the bone marrow test, my will to live begins to stir
within me. In horror, I watch them drill a little hole and
extract a bone marrow sample. This time, the anesthetic works
and there is only a numb feeling in the lower half of my
body.
It is too late to stop the procedure, by the time I find my
fighting spirit. As they remove the syringe, I demand to know
why they are doing this to me. They don't have the answer.
Without even looking up, they tell me to ask my doctor, as
they proceed to clean up the site of the invasion.
I begin to see myself as a war zone, being shuttled back and
forth from room to room, test to test, with my body being
chipped away bit by bit. They are using state-of-the-art
weaponry, miniature TV cameras, chemicals, radiation and the
knife.
And an age-old tactic -- slow starvation.
When I am finally allowed to eat again, I find my strength
returning. It's very possible that there is some real food
content in the tray before me, between the white bread and
the rubber chicken, the instant mashed potatoes and the red
jello. But at least there are some calories here which
translates into energy to arouse the sleeping warrior in
me.
My doctor is impossible to find, apart from star appearances
every afternoon on the ward rounds as he instructs the
student doctors about each case. They are all wearing white
coats but he has on an impeccable tan suit and tie. He moves
with the assurance of an elevated being who has conquered the
entire human digestive system.
He explains to me that there is a tendency to developing
leukemia in my family since my father succumbed to that
disease, and the bone marrow test is to make sure I don't
have it.
I don't want to argue with him that my father's symptoms were
totally different and that I've already endured the coloscopy
which defined my condition as ulcerative colitis. I have been
fighting a losing battle ever since I gave my consent to this
hospital stay and signed over full rights to my body and my
life. I know that it is useless to argue with the prince of
this malevolent kingdom but still I dare say the words, "I
want to go home."
With an explosion of feeling just under the surface, I calmly
try to stare him down.
"Oh, no, no, we've got to rule out the possibility of
parasites in the stool tests, and that will take another few
days," is his benevolent reply.
I am beginning to understand the story. The hospital is
getting good money from my insurance policy for each day that
I stay on. I am now quite sure that the hospital is not a
place of healing, and now I discover that it is really big
business. A multi-million dollar business. And this Biggest
Gastro is one of the top executives.
He gives me a charming smile. "I'll try to get you back home
for Yom Kippur, but I can't promise."
At least he knows what Yom Kippur is, but does he know what
he is doing? All along, he has been acting as if he is doing
me the biggest favor in the world, acting as if he is saving
my life. He carries himself with a giant helping of self-
justification and conviction as if his chosen work is to save
lives. But he is as far from saving lives as he is from
healing them. In his role as doctor, he makes a good living
for his family but does he know how much destruction he
leaves in his wake?
He prescribes a daily dose of cortisone to control the
ulcerative colitis, which he claims to be a chronic condition
and incurable. When I ask him for some dietary suggestions,
he is happy to assure me that I can eat anything with
impunity. I just have to keep taking the cortisone.
I don't have any medical training, but it seems obvious to me
that a digestive problem might be exacerbated by eating the
wrong foods, and that the sensitive lining of my colon might
respond well to some foods and be irritated by others.
My other big question has to do with the drug of choice. I
once worked in a drug company for about six months. If
hospitals are big business, then drugs are even bigger.
Without even reading the little white paper, I know cortisone
has side effects. With a small amount of research, I learn
that these include teeth loss, depression, weight gain, and
after 20 years of use, a much higher likelihood of cancer.
When my husband asks the doctor about that, he laughs it off
by saying something about twenty years being a long time.
Apparently, he is not very concerned about knocking a few
years off my life and saddling me with a host of unsolicited
ailments besides the one I have.
*
It's Erev Yom Kippur and I finally leave the hospital 15
pounds thinner and with big, black circles under my eyes. Our
rabbi forbids me to fast. I've been de- humanized but I am
grateful to be alive.
I leave the bottle of cortisone unopened. I become an avid
reader of books on digestion. I learn about the connection
between stress and colitis, and between stress and problems
with health in general. I discover that colitis and diet are
intimately related. The lining of the colon is dramatically
affected by the food that passes through.
Biggest Gastro seems convinced that my illness is something
like a wild bronco wreaking such havoc in my digestive system
that we must bring in the big guns to tame.
Let's try another paradigm. The spastic colon with its
internal sores is my friend. It's me. It's suffering. It's
trying to tell me something about my lifestyle. I am under
too much stress, and the pint of Haagan Daz that I consume
just about every other day is too rich for anyone to
handle.
I've developed a hypersensitivity to dairy products. Maybe
it's the pressure cooker principle: just so much pressure and
the top flies off. The colon is my sensitive place. It's out
of commission. Maybe I can nurse it back to health. Maybe I
can pray it back to health!
From now on, I'll be listening to the messages it's sending
me. Maybe this is the best thing that's happened to me. I've
been alerted that I need to change, even though the doctor
assures me that nothing needs to be changed.
The hospital experience has alienated me from my body. My
first mistake was putting it in their hands. They didn't
realize what a delicate, whole entity I am, how my soul is
intertwined with that colon, how sensitive I am, like a
delicate plant swaying underwater.
They are caught in the system. Their livelihood depends on
it. The experience in the hospital doesn't teach me how to
heal, but it does teach me where healing is not
found.
Now I begin the process of healing and cosmic awareness. I
pray to the A-mighty Who created my clockwork, Who has plans
for my future and Who wants me well. I allow myself
permission to breath deeply and feel what I need to feel. I
imagine a glacial lake of crystal clear water. I once swam in
such a lake and it is easy for me to return there in my
thoughts.
The glacial lake feeds into a stream. I coax it in my
direction and guide its flow. I feel the cool water lapping
against the walls of my colon and little rainbow fish
swimming through the healing waters.
I discover that brown rice, sweet potatoes, green vegetables,
apple sauce, lemon juice, sesame butter and rice cakes are
friendly food. I drink mineral water and prepare myself cups
of peppermint tea. I recite their blessings with feeling and
pray they bring nourishment and health. I stretch out with a
book even when there are dishes in the sink, and lie on the
floor and let the baby crawl all over me.
I begin to be grateful for my ailing colon, for the message
it sent me has begun to transform my life. I am more
peaceful, alive again, connected within and without.
And with great amazement and gratitude, my colon responds
beautifully to this gentle handling. I recover my health and
vitality and begin to feel better than I did even before my
illness began.
In light of my discoveries about how healing works, I begin
to question some other paradigms that I took for granted.
I learn an amazing secret -- how to honor my own intuition.
How to listen to internal signals, how to be awake to my own
inner guidance. How to pray to my Healer.
My inner voice draws me back to Eretz Yisroel, despite the
prevailing opinion that insists that if we go there, we will
be stranded on an island of poverty.
I don't buy it.
