A quick look at our medical system and how our healthcare professionals view the vessel that is our bodies. Let’s get into it.
I spent the month of May and first part of June in and out of different facilities either seeing doctors/therapists or getting laboratory tests done. I can yap about the healthcare system of Manila but nah, that isn’t what this blog is about.
Instead I want to talk about how I spent a lot of my money knowing exactly what was wrong with me but paying other people to tell me that there was nothing wrong with me. Let me explain.
Starting April, my body was exhibiting symptoms that I knew was related to my mental well-being. I saw pictures of myself where even if I dressed up and put on make up, I still looked like a ghoul. Although the symptoms varied, it all came down to my digestive system: depression, weakness, constipation, bloatedness, pains & discomfort, never-ending crying spells, reflux, nausea, and an overwhelming sensation that at any given point, my physical body was going to explode and my three cats would survive a few weeks eating my entrails that would be splattered across my apartment since no one would have a clue I’m dead.
But I didn’t die and so my symptoms persisted. A few of you might be thinking, well? Aren’t you a healer? Didn’t you try healing yourself? So yes, let me address that.
The entire reason it took me weeks before finally getting my ass to the hospital was because I knew deep down inside it was all a fluke. I knew my body was being dramatic and I wasn’t really gonna die. I already knew the main reason why any of this was happening in the first place.
I knew.
As a Theta Healer, I was introduced to the concept of dis-ease in 2013. When we are emotionally distressed, the body will come up with a physical manifestation to match your dis-ease with disease. While Western style doctors look at the body as different parts, specializing only in a specific field (a cardiologist would know everything about the heart, but would know nothing about the rest of your system), TCM or Traditional Chinese Medicine doctors would look at you…all of you…including your spirit, your chi, your life source…as a whole. Sometimes all they would need is to look at your tongue and tell you everything that is going on with your body. As a Theta Healer, I am trained to listen to the language that my clients speak (their words, how they use adjectives, how they talk about themselves, their routines) to solve the puzzle that is my client’s current state. We need to look at our inner and outer environment, the people we hang out with, the pressure we allow, the food we intake, the beliefs we hold onto.
If you go to a TCM doctor, you won’t be given a prescription alone to take like a magical pill and all your illness will go away. You are expected to take responsibility over your entire well being by changing your diet, exercise routine, mindset and possibly taking a few herbal medicines or teas to go along with whatever treatment prescribed to you: acupuncture, cupping, moxibustion, sweeping, body gua sha…etc.
So. For a few months, I carried an unlimited amount of grief in my body. I knew it was there. Sometimes I was able to release parts of it. I did what I thought I needed to do – as a human and healer – to let this grief go. But nothing worked. Anytime I released any of it, the remaining grief gathered round and multiplied in my digestive system, creating a formidable and indestructible force of utmost sorrow.
I also found it fascinating that it chose that side of my body instead of the lungs which is more commonly associated to mourning. But then I realized that my body was showing me how much emotional crap I had digested the entire time. My body was showing me how responsible I was for my own demise. I fed myself shit and now I couldn’t even release the shit.
Back in April my one remaining friend advised me to see a therapist. He switched to a new center that was within my budget and walking distance, but in the end I still refused because judging from his stories and trauma from my own experiences, I knew I would do a better job of just dealing with my pain myself.
But here’s the thing. God (or whoever) was sick and tired of me handling things on my own. God had had it with me refusing to seek help whether it would benefit me or not. So he did the next best thing that I couldn’t possibly ignore any further: HE MADE ME ILL AND READY TO COMBUST.
In 2005 I was hospitalized with a mysterious illness that none of the doctors were able to decipher. Looking back, I now know what had caused it but back then, I was as clueless as the healthcare professionals before me.
I was in my mid 20s in a mediocre job, with a drug addicted on-off boyfriend and I felt imprisoned and I was screaming for attention. Getting hospitalized got me the attention I craved. So when my HR manager called me while I still had an IV strapped to my arm, asking me if I could go back to work the next day — I did what any Filipino would do.
I went back to work the next day. All the symptoms that had disappeared while I was hospitalized came flooding back once I was back on the work floor — but it felt good to be needed, and as we say here “Bawal Magkasakit” (translation: It is forbidden to get sick).
So back to the present with every doctor/technician/therapist that I saw who looked at the test results and cleared me of anything they presumed was wrong with me, I looked back at them without batting an eyelash. I wasn’t just well, I was doing better than I had been 2 years ago. Cysts and polyps that I had by now had completely disappeared. There was nothing wrong with me, so baffled by this, they just gave me more prescriptions and told me to come back in a week if my symptoms persisted.
I had told every one of them that I believed the culprit to be grief, and every one of them looked at me like I had lost my marbles. I didn’t buy a single medication they recommended knowing that what they were offering was bandaid and by that point I no longer trusted professionals who couldn’t even diagnose me.
Do I regret any of it? Nope. I’m glad I paid that money to know that medically – Western medically – I was perfectly healthy. Now I can put those worries aside and focus on what it really was.
There was one place that DID help me: Centro Holistico. They had just opened a new branch in my neck of the woods, and at this point in my journey, I was desperate for someone who spoke my language to hear me. To REALLY hear me.
Propped up on the bed, the acupuncturist and I talked about my diet, stress levels, grief and the connection between my digestive system and the lungs.
And with every needle that penetrated my pressure points, I knew I was on the road to recovery. I had sought help, I was getting effective treatment worth my money, and I was learning to accept the stage of my life I was in.
Amor Fati.
There has got to be a way for Western medicine doctors to start accepting that in truth, while they are good and knowledgeable in their field, there is so much more to learn than the boundaries set by the ones who came before them. Instead of focusing on one organ, one system, we should all look at the body as a whole. One being interconnected to each other, and if one system is malfunctioning, another system might soon start failing.
If we had learned to recognize that stress creates illness, why can’t we go further and talk about the array of emotions that we humans feel other than stress? When will we recognize that our eyes are connected to our livers, our skin connected to our defenses, our emotions connected to our guts? When will we learn to stop putting ice in our drinks, fast at least 4 hours before bedtime, and follow our circadian rhythm?
And if there is an anomaly, there must be another way to heal the patient other than jamming more drugs down our throats. There must be more to healthcare than a 15 minute consultation that doesn’t really ask the right questions. There must be a better way to help people than to pack our stores with supplements focusing on curing instead of creating better lives focusing on health and prevention.
To end this, I am better. My symptoms have gone away, and while the grief is still there, it no longer is a monster that antagonizes me. Instead, it is a part of me I am still addressing — but with acceptance, a clearer set of eyes and gratitude.
be well, be free.
brit-brit
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