Heal myself

My husband calls it my hippie medicine. He is referring, with no malice intended, to the vitamins, herbs and homeopathic remedies in our medicine cabinets, hall closets and the entire bottom shelf of one kitchen cupboard. I know what you're thinking: I'm one of "them;" a health store groupie who shuns the pharmacy and visits to so-called "regular" doctors. You would be wrong.

I'm a typical suburban working mother, though I do wear Birkenstocks. I drive on school field trips. I'm a Brownie leader. I give my children antibiotics when recommended. I've seen the same general practitioner since I was 5, and I also see a neurologist and a gastroenterologist in my quest to control the migraine headaches and irritable bowel syndrome that have haunted me since childhood.

Over the course of seven years, M.D.s prescribed no fewer than eight different medications for the migraines, most of which served only to lull me to sleep, usually while driving. Many weekends were spent in bed, shades drawn, kids banished. The one success I had for my G.I. problems was later banned by the FDA.

You'd think I would've gone the alternative route a bit earlier. I do, after all, work for natural health magazines and am conversant with the concepts of alternative medicine. Yet it took a coworker who swore by her naturopath to convince me to make my first appointment with one. Still, I worried: Would I have to eat tofu and grind flaxseed three times a day? Meditate on even days, facing East?

Luckily, we started with something I knew: kinesiology. In this common naturopathic testing technique, you outstretch one arm; in your other hand, you hold a vial of clear liquid against your stomach. The doctor presses on your arm and you resist; if you are sensitive or allergic to the substance in the vial, your arm falls. Vial 1. Up went my left arm. I could not look him in the eye for fear I would crack up. He pushed. I resisted. Vial 2. He pushed. My arm flopped down. And so it went, up and down, like an elevator on the fritz. The culprits: chocolate, peanuts, dairy--my favorite foods, of course. But after one month of not eating them, I had fewer headaches and a calmer stomach.

Soon after, I began seeing a reflexologist/reiki practitioner whose special foot massage (which she'd learned from a priest) could teach my body to heal itself. Irina massaged the tips of my toes and the insides of my soles. With eyes shut and bangles rattling, she waved her arms to circulate my chi, or body energy. I'm not sure she made me a believer, but darned if she didn't make me feel better--somewhat.

Three years and many semisuccessful remedies later, Irina suggested I visit a holistic M.D. who specialized in vitamin therapy. His office smelled vaguely of vitamins and "doctor stuff." On my first visit I noticed a patient dozing in a comfy chair, an IV of tan-colored vitamins dripping into her veins. The plan for me turned out to be a bit more frenetic: weekly visits for what my kids call my butt shots of B-vitamins, folic acid and magnesium, plus other vitamins, herbs and nutrients to be taken at precise times of the day.

And so today my life is organized around my hippie medicine. I get up a half-hour earlier for my L-glutamine in filtered water and aloe chaser. Then I wake up the kids, feed the cats, throw in the laundry, take two liver detoxifiers, pour cereal and make toast. I swallow two more pills, eat, take five more vitamins, make PB&J sandwiches and take two probiotic capsules. All this before 9 a.m., mind you. And then there are supplements with lunch, after lunch, with dinner, after dinner and before bed. How come I didn't get the comfy chair therapy?

It's been nine months and my digestion has decidedly improved. I still suffer from occasional migraines and take one prescription for the really bad ones. I may never be completely cured, but I have empowered myself to take charge of my own health. So what if I need a Palm Pilot that beeps when I'm supposed to take my next supplement? I'm in control and feeling well, not to mention awake on the road.

JANET CAPPIELLO BLAKE is a freelance writer based in Stamford, Conn.

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