Undrugging: You vs. NYS Dept. of Health


I am the true-born daughter of an ice cream addict.  My parents traveled all over the world and wherever they went, Dad bought ice cream for my mom—after the opera in Vienna, on the streets of Moscow and on a ship to Antarctica.  They took a trip up a river into the jungle and at the end of it there was a native village with a young fellow selling sweet ice.  When my mom was in her 90’s, she was living in a retirement center where she got her main meal in the dining room.  I checked out her refrigerator and found it nearly empty except for juice and English muffins, which was pretty scary.  Then I opened the freezer door and found six half-gallons of ice cream and two packages of popsicles:  Mom was doing fine.

My diet includes half a cup of ice cream a day.  It’s easy.  All you do is measure out a half-cup of ice cream in the kitchen, put the ice cream back in the freezer, then go eat it in some other room.  Once you have gotten all the crap out of your system, it’s easy to eat a little ice cream and walk away.  There is no sense of deprivation—quite the opposite.  You really enjoy the treat and don’t need a pint to find satisfaction.  It doesn’t take super-human strength.  Just take the amount that’s healthy to eat and turn your back on the rest.

At this point I ought to add a few words about intestinal yeast infection.  From the point of view of the American medical industry the few words would be:  there is no such thing.  They say it’s never been proven.  This is the same medical industry that denied the existence of fibromyalgia while I suffered for decades.

Dr. Charles Gant was a Syracuse physician who was in charge of the adult alcohol unit at a rehab center.  In treating his patients, who were physically wasted from living on a diet of alcohol, he got interested in nutrients:  what elements food breaks down into, how the body processes it, where the elements travel in the body and what effect they have on the target organs.  He learned how to order all kinds of unusual tests and how to treat with nutritional supplements.  And you know how the American medical industry, Onondaga County subdivision, and the NYS Dept. of Health responded? 

They ran Dr. Gant out of town.  Charges were brought and he virtually had to shut down his practice while defending himself against all the resources of the government.  In the end, he wasn’t found guilty of much except lousy paperwork.  (Do you want your physician to spend his time treating you and doing research to find out how, or filling out papers for the government?)  Dr. Gant is now part of a group of ten doctors practicing in Washington, D.C. (http://www.charlesgantmd.com/).  Hm-m-m, let me think:  if I was a lousy doctor would I run to the home of the Dept. of Justice, the FBI, and other major law enforcement agencies, and could I find nine other doctors who would partner up with me?  Or would I only do those things if I was a righteous physician embedded in a region of idiots?

Jennifer Daniels was a black girl from Syracuse’s Southside.  She got a full scholarship to Harvard, graduated with honors, and then went to the University of Pennsylvania where she simultaneously got a doctorate in medicine and a master’s degree in business.  Jennifer Daniels is really smart.  Then she came home to Syracuse, set up practice on the Southside as a family doctor, and dared to offer her patients choices.

In her most widely publicized case, a young man came to her with diabetes.  Dr. Daniels offered him the choice of drugs, or diet, exercise and counseling.  He chose the latter and got his blood sugar levels under good control.  Then he went on vacation to a South Sea island where he ate, drank and didn’t exercise.  They ambulanced him from the Syracuse airport with an enormously high glucose level.  In the Emergency Room he stated that he had been noncompliant with the physician’s treatment plan.

And the American medical industry, Onondaga County subdivision, and the NYS Dept. of Health went after Dr. Daniels.  She was investigated, and when she defied the investigators in order to preserve the confidentiality of her patients, Dr. Daniels’ license was suspended.  In medical school, she had been taught that God makes mistakes and physicians were there to fix them.  With her license suspended, she became an ordained minister and preached that the body is self-healing, given half a chance. 

Rev. Daniels taught the wisdom of raw vegetables and how to cook the dandelions that grew in the cracks of the sidewalk.  For years she neither could treat patients nor get a resolution to her licensing problems.  During this time, Daniels had a conversation with a colleague at George Washington University.  He asked if she’d be interested in coming to GWU to teach alternative medicine.  She said there was a slight matter of her license being suspended.  He replied that that was just political and not to worry, they could make it go away.   

When last I heard, Dr. Daniels had moved to Jamaica and is practicing medicine in a place where healing with natural remedies is accepted and the government does not micromanage the citizens’ health care.  The physician and the patient decide what’s best, not the physician’s colleagues and the government.  (For a concise history, go to http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m0ISW/is_262/ai_n13675751/ ).

The message was clear:  if you practice medicine in Central New York, you will prescribe drugs.  If you are a patient in Central New York, you will have no choices.

What would it be like if this alliance of the medical industry and the government forced people to take drugs?

They already do.  “Kendra’s Law” enables the courts to order a person into involuntary outpatient treatment for mental illness.  You’re next.  If you end up in the hospital or otherwise costing the taxpayer’s and insurance companies money because you’re not sticking to your diabetic diet or taking your blood pressure medicine or otherwise complying with physician’s orders then, babe, they’re coming after you.

Be afraid.  There isn’t enough room in Jamaica for all us folks who want to be free of damaging drugs

About annecwoodlen

I am a tenth generation American, descended from a family that has been working a farm that was deeded to us by William Penn. The country has changed around us but we have held true. I stand in my grandmother’s kitchen, look down the valley to her brother’s farm and see my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother Hannah standing on the porch. She is holding the baby, surrounded by four other children, and saying goodbye to her husband and oldest son who are going off to fight in the Revolutionary War. The war is twenty miles away and her husband will die fighting. We are not the Daughters of the American Revolution; we were its mothers. My father, Milton C. Woodlen, got his doctorate from Temple University in the 1940’s when—in his words—“a doctorate still meant something.” He became an education professor at West Chester State Teachers College, where my mother, Elizabeth Hope Copeland, had graduated. My mother raised four girls and one boy, of which I am the middle child. My parents are deceased and my siblings are estranged. My fiancé, Robert H. Dobrow, was a fighter pilot in the Marine Corps. In 1974, his plane crashed, his parachute did not open, and we buried him in a cemetery on Long Island. I could say a great deal about him, or nothing; there is no middle ground. I have loved other men; Bob was my soul mate. The single greatest determinate of who I am and what my life has been is that I inherited my father’s gene for bipolar disorder, type II. Associated with all bipolar disorders is executive dysfunction, a learning disability that interferes with the ability to sort and organize. Despite an I.Q. of 139, I failed twelve subjects and got expelled from high school and prep school. I attended Syracuse University and Onondaga Community College and got an associate’s degree after twenty-five years. I am nothing if not tenacious. Gifted with intelligence, constrained by disability, and compromised by depression, my employment was limited to entry level jobs. Being female in the 1960’s meant that I did office work—billing at the university library, calling out telegrams at Western Union, and filing papers at a law firm. During one decade, I worked at about a hundred different places as a temporary secretary. I worked for hospitals, banks, manufacturers and others, including the county government. I quit the District Attorney’s Office to manage a gas station; it was more honest work. After Bob’s death, I started taking antidepressants. Following doctor’s orders, I took them every day for twenty-six years. During that time, I attempted%2
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