Flying on the Weird Side


So I go to sleep, then wake up around midnight. I lay here and think about an ex-therapist who was a really good guy, and wonder about paying him a visit just to see—after the passage of years—who he is and who I’ve become.

Then I think about another ex-therapist and wonder for the ten-thousandth time how he got to be so weird, and how he could act so unprofessionally, and how he really screwed me.

Speaking of getting screwed, I then spend some time thinking about a really terrible person who works at Iroquois Nursing Home and was sending me these absolutely awful comments on my blog. She arrogantly believed that she knew a lot of medical stuff that she absolutely didn’t. Also, she got a lot of so-called “facts” completely wrong. And she substituted her miserable morality for medical knowledge. Hey, even Jesus said he didn’t come here to judge; people like her, all they want to do is judge.

Well, what Ms Nasty doesn’t know about her hate-filled comments—and we’re not talking a paragraph here, folks. We’re talking 5000-word missives, and what she doesn’t know is that she’s not anonymous. One lawyer with a subpoena will lay her identity out naked. And if she is dumb enough to send one more message, she’ll be named, and the Iroquois with her, and then the Iroquois will fire her because they don’t want to be dragged into yet another fight that I’ll win.

Anyway, I’m lying here thinking about this dorkhead and I realize that I’m smiling. Before YB—the Year of the Beast—I would have been lying here crying about all the freakin’ pain and injustice and how there’s nobody to protect me from it. So why is it that now I’m lying here smiling?

Overall, I would say it is because a lot of people are working on my head. The physical therapist, the acupuncturist, the chiropractor, the Reiki lady—they are all working on my skull. Whether laying hands on, or poking with the rat-ta-tat machine, or sticking in needles, they’re all working on my head. They listen and look at me, and that’s where they’re all called to treat.

Huh, how about that? Do you think we should keep in mind that the best thinking about ME/CFIDS (myalgic encephalomyelitis/chronic fatigue immune deficiency syndrome) is that it is caused by a virus that travels to the brain?

I think the other big thing to explain my midnight happiness is homeopathy, so let’s go back to “To Shuffle Sideways or Not” (https://annecwoodlen.wordpress.com/2014/02/23/to-shuffle-sideways-or-not/) wherein BJ the Beagle had been given a homeopathic remedy and made a full recovery. And if it’s good enough for the dog then shouldn’t it be good enough for me?

Now as long as we’re walking on the weird side of the street, let me tell you about Michael. Michael is not his real name, nor do I know his last name. He does live on this continent but not in this country. Michael is a colleague of the homeopath. The first day the homeopath met me, he photographed me and sent the photograph to Michael.

Michael apparently put it in some kind of machine to read it, and then transmitted some kind of something to fix me. He has a transmitter that is 25,000 and can transmit whatever’s as far as Australia. I don’t remember whether the transmitter is 25,000 megahurts or miles or dollars; it’s just 25,000 things, which the homeopath finds pretty impressive.

Michael “examined” me thusly, and consequently several pages of information were produced. He had tested me, via my photograph, for about a hundred things, one of which was Lyme disease: I had it. Well, I’ve been sick for decades and nobody ever before had suggested anything about Lyme disease. (“If Lyme disease is left untreated, it may progress in stages from mild symptoms to serious, long-term disabilities. There are three stages of Lyme disease: early localized, early disseminated, and late persistent.”)

I had a close friend who had a close friend who had multiple sclerosis. Her sisters got on the Internet, decided that maybe she had Lyme disease, and trucked her an hour down the road to the nearest specialist, who did his special tests and announced that she did, indeed, have Lyme disease, so he treated her and she recovered. Unfortunately, she still had multiple sclerosis.

So Michael says I have Lyme disease. And he treats it by shooting whatever’s at me through his transmitter, and then the homeopath tells me I’m all better. And the next time I go to the friendly, board-certified medical doctor, I ask him to test for Lyme disease. He does and the preliminary results are positive. The secondary results are negative. Isn’t that interesting, and what shall we make of it? I just smile quietly about all of this. Years ago Richard Bach, of “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” fame, published a collection of short stories called “The Gift of Wings.”

One of the stores was about “If you think you can then you can.” It ended with the observation that maybe there were scientists flying around laboratories all over the country simply because they believed it was possible and so it was possible. My point being that maybe Michael is sitting out there wearing an aluminum foil helmet to keep the Jupiterites from sucking all the mathematical formulas out of his brain, or maybe he’s on to something so incredibly brilliant that we haven’t begun to get a glimmer of what he’s doing.

How can you tell? My policy is this: keep an open mind.

My policy is fundamentally opposite to that of the American medical industry, which has driven physicians out of Onondaga County because they dared to treat disease with vitamins and exercise instead of drugs. Imagine what they would do to Michael and his 25,000 transmitter.

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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