Her love was of the type more quietly known than externally expressed, like a
1950’s father who knows best- the type who loves you with spankings
and admonishment, but keeps a job he hates so that you can go to
a good college and get a job you might hate and
support your own family someday.
If she were a 1950’s father, she’d have drunk heavy-bottomed
tumblers of a thick whiskey, and her stories would be told best
by the clinking ice cubes left behind.
Her love was restrained and curt, as if she were a
1950’s housewife who never left her home without a hat pinned on straight and
matching bag and shoes and when she kissed you, her lipstick
never rubbed off on you because her mouth barely grazed yours. Her kisses
could be counted on.
If she were a 1950’s housewife, she would never add salt to your food, for
fear of the hypertension you might someday suffer from. It would be bland
food, with kind intentions. She believed in living long.
Everyone loves in a unique way. Of all the people in the world,
she chose me
to love in hers.
The will to survive is powerful, but there is something inside us that dwells in a far more important place than survival alone does. Survival is a start, but to be alive does not mean to be well. There is something inside us that I’ve begun to think of as the Recovery Molecule.
I’m starting to consider myself an expert at getting, and then healing naturally from, weird and controversial illnesses. Lyme Disease is gaining momentum in terms of recognition, but this past year my little family suffered from slow chemical poisoning in our home for six months, and every doctor I saw for it was befuddled. Few people survive carbon monoxide poisoning, and no research is generally done for it because there are no drugs to cure it. From winter to summer, I had severe joint pain. And for a full year, until December 2012, I lost my sense of presence, my memory, and my overall ability to think clearly. Being in my head was absolute hell. I couldn’t remember what I did from moment to moment, I couldn’t empathize with anyone, I couldn’t even handle simple addition or subtraction.
In about a month, the same amount of time it took me to catapult into wellness from Lyme, my brain recovered. (Incidentally, it was the month of December, same as Lyme, only two years later.) I utilized different modules than with Lyme, this time being helped by camel milk, lymphatic drainage massage, a supplement called Mag-Mind, and a seriously copious daily consumption of avocados, one of the best brain foods. I’ve pretty much recovered from the poisoning now, save for my metabolism refusing to return all the way and let me be as skinny as I was before this past year, but that is a minimal problem.
There is an instinct to survive, for sure. But during my times of illness, I WAS surviving. And, to be honest, it didn’t count for all that much. I’m the first one to acknowledge that when ill, I’m not exactly a positive person. People constantly said I’d be fine, I’d get over it, I would triumph, and it mostly just made me angry. They couldn’t *feel* how terrible my situation was, they didn’t understand, who were they to claim I’d be ok when I felt like life would be easier if I were dead? But there was a piece of me, far inside beyond my grumbling and complaining, that believed them. And that belief, I believe, is the Recovery Molecule. That kernel of hope so far inside, you can hardly sense it when you’re chronically ill, is as powerful as love itself. And everybody knows, thanks to Hollywood and Disney and reality, that there is pretty much nothing more powerful than love.
I don’t know if it’s love for ourselves, or those we’re close to, or what, that provides that kernel of hope. I just know that if you can picture it, and feel it, and focus on it, and freaking just BELIEVE a tiny little bit that you can be ok again, you CAN. I’ve gotten there twice now, from states that were deemed irrecoverable by professionals. And I did it without ANY pharmaceuticals. At different times I’ve been offered everything from Doxycycline to Adderall to Cymbalta to Ketamine. Screw the drugs. Screw the doctors pushing them, telling you you can’t get better without them. Make Mr. Google your best friend and do all the research you can on alternative therapies, then heal yourself better than any doctor ever could.
Thanks to my YouTube interview from Blythe Raw Live, as well as word of mouth, I get emails regularly asking for advice on how to recover from Lyme. I send people to my blogs with my protocols, and I offer any words of wisdom I can come up with at the time. But it never feels like enough, like I can do enough to save anyone else from the pain and horror of serious illness, and I want to be able to do more. This is the best I can do, sharing this idea of a Recovery Molecule. Please find yours inside. Please tune in as hard as you can to your deepest self, and find that thought that you could be ok. You will be better than ok. You will be so much wiser for having gone through this. It seems impossible, but illness is an enormous gift. It teaches us gratitude in a way we could never experience otherwise. My ability to think clearly again is a gift. Being able to breathe without pain is a gift. Find your gifts, stop waging war against your body, and make friends with your Recovery Molecule. It works, and I am proof. I am a happy, able-bodied, clear-thinking symbol of recovery, and you can be too.
While Spring is generally considered to be a time of rebirth, unfortunately around here there has been a lot of loss thus far. Last month we lost our beloved cat Bill, and just a few short weeks later my Grandma died. She was my last living grandparent, and lived a very full 96 years. I’ve no doubt that her healthy lifestyle kept her well for so long; she was a fan of morning smoothies, and did fruit fasts one day a week for many years. Her husband, my grandfather, cured his cancer in the 1980s at the Gerson Institute, and they were followers of Gerson techniques for health (which I am as well). One memory that was shared at my Grandma’s memorial was that her father had delivered produce for a living. Through the depression, when people regularly struggled to for their next meals, my Grandma’s family always had fresh vegetables.
After finding out about her death, Ace and I flew up to say goodbye with my family. My father let us choose belongings to help remember her, and in addition to a few pieces of jewelry I found some wonderful photos, as well as a telegram. It was the first telegram I had ever seen in person! My great aunt sent it after my Grandma gave birth to my aunt, in 1948. Such a treasure.
We will be driving this weekend to attend her burial in Tucson, AZ, where she’ll be laid to rest next to my Grandpa. While in Tucson, we’ll be able to visit my maternal grandparents graves as well.
This was the obituary than ran in the local newspaper recently:
Sue Resnick passed away on Monday, April 9, 2012, in Ashland, Ore. She was 96 and had a full life knowing love from the day she was born. Sue spent over 65 years as a resident of Tucson, Ariz., and will be laid to rest there next to her husband, Hyman.
Sue’s passion was caring for others, and she was a hospital volunteer in her 80s, and spent the last 15 years crocheting over 600 blankets which she donated to local hospitals and orphanages. This was recognized with an award from Bens Bells, which she proudly wore daily.
She is survived by two sons, David and Allan; a daughter, Sharine; five grandchildren; six great-grandchildren; three sisters, Rachel, Mary and Gloria; and one brother, Saul.
A family remembrance was held in Ashland, and will be repeated for her family and friends in Tucson.”
Goodbye, Grandma. You are an inspiration, and I am very sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye before you left. I wish I had expressed more how much I appreciate and admire your warmth, your progressive nature, your positive outlook, and your stamina. I love you.