The 1:4732 Solution (Part II)


The homeopath thought my cold was pretty cool. From his point of view, my body was doing a nice job of riding itself of accumulated bad gunk. From my point of view, the constant runny nose meant that I could not breathe through the BiPAP mask. Without the BiPAP, I could not sleep. Without sleep, experience taught that I would spiral downward into serious trouble. I was waking up every half hour all night. Since the 1:4732 potion had moved me out of the depression, we continued with that.

Then I started running a fever. We were now in seriously deep shit. The odds that I had bacterial pneumonia were pretty high. I went to the physician who does acupuncture. He noted that my chest was congested and I had a non-productive cough. He sucked in his breath and said “This is a problem, you understand?”

I replied, “The medical article says that bacterial Klebsiella pneumonia has a 21% fatality rate in 14 days.” My grandmother’s brother rode home from the swimming hole at dusk in an open buggy while wearing a wet bathing suit. Three days later he died of pneumonia. Three years later penicillin was discovered.

Now that the physician and I understand each other, he offers antibiotics, knowing I will refuse. He has to offer; I have to refuse. Then he orders a chest x-ray and does acupuncture for the lungs. That night, the fever stops. In the morning, the cough is gone and the congestion has moved from my lungs to my head. Since I don’t need my head for anything vital, such as breathing, this is a step in the right direction.

World, please note: antibiotics are not necessary to knock out Klebsiella pneumoniae. A good guy with a handful of needles, and education and experience in where to put them, can do just as well—or better. The first sentence in the medical article was “Klebsiella organisms are resistant to multiple antibiotics” then it went on to detail exactly which antibiotics in what combinations should be used. Yeah, right.

I no longer had any significant depression; I just felt numb, emotionally and physically. Also, the outside temperature was in the 80’s. I collapse at 78 degrees, so it was hard to tell what was causing what, good or bad. The 1:4,732 potion was continued. People came and went; I read and slept.

I dreamed that I was moving. My entire apartment had been packed up except the kitchen. The homeopath took this as a good sign; me, not so much. In the past couple years I have had dreams of moving in with my parents, or my parents helping me move. My parents are both dead.

Throughout all this crap, my average glucose, which had leveled off at 500 and then begun to drop, began to climb again. My therapist came and brought me the awareness that I no longer was suffering from shortness of breath. SOB had been a major problem for most of the last year. It sometimes became so bad that I couldn’t stand up for more than 30 seconds—and I couldn’t get an appointment with a pulmonologist. Now I wasn’t having trouble breathing; all I was doing was taking a homeopathic remedy. How about that?

My average glucose dropped to 481, and I dreamed that I came upon a dying baby. I intervened with its parents and took it to Crouse Hospital. Went back the next day and found a beaming doctor standing behind a lavish buffet with a baby who was feeding well. He’d been missing an enzyme or something.

I am sleeping better now. This morning’s average glucose was 474, the lowest it has been in three weeks. When I got a new aide a couple weeks ago, I discovered that after working with her for three hours, my glucose would be over 600. It wasn’t about food intake; it was about chronic fatigue and the exertion of working.

Today, for the first time, I stood for nearly an hour while cooking. Afterward, I checked my glucose, sure it would be over 600.

It was 417.

There are other stories I could have included here—Joel Osteen and “It’s Friday”; the documentary on the Sherpas who died on Mt. Everest and “It is never easy to climb a mountain”; and the physical therapist and the OA joint—but I am mindful of the man who said “Nobody wants to know the storms you encountered: Did you bring in the ship?”

Despite two very, very bad weeks, it looks like land is in sight.

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
This entry was posted in Alternative therapies, American medical industry, Depression, drugs, Health Care, Medical care, Mental Illness & Health, Pharmaceuticals, Values and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to The 1:4732 Solution (Part II)

  1. An intriguing discussion is worth comment. There’s no doubt that
    that you ought to write more on this subject, it might not
    be a taboo subject but usually people don’t discuss such topics.
    To the next! Many thanks!!

    • annecwoodlen says:

      Indeed, I will continue to write about homeopathy. In Great Britain, it is funded by the National Health Service. The Royal family has been using homeopathy for generations and Prince Philip is now 92, which says something, doesn’t it? In the United States, my friendly physician tells me that if he is in a group of physicians and bored then he throws out the word “homeopathy” and watches the sparks fly.

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