Time passed. Bruises appeared, disappeared and reappeared on my limbs. I shrunk some more. Most days my clothes shrank and became distracted by exhaustion. I saw other doctors: two surgeons, three oncologists, an integrated medical doctor, a Reiki specialist.
Finally, in a trick my former self was called crazy, I enlisted the help of a sound therapist. She was modest and lively, a 70-year-old in the body of a child. The day we met, in her office, she jumped from her chair and asked me to erect and extend my right arm.
“I’m going to pressure you,” she said, “and I want you to stop me with equal pressure, okay?”
He pushed me down, and I pushed back. Upon his sudden release my hand bowed.
He shook his head and shouted, then grabbed a bottle of hemp oil. “hold this!” He said, shook the bottle in my hand and pressed it on my arm again.
This time I was sitting with her, more agile, keeping pace with my pressure.
“Yes,” he said. “Your body likes this product. You can buy it on my website. “
Everyone believed it, but I was desperate. Desperate, I told myself, but not insane – desperation and insanity were two separate, if bordering, states. But this is where frustration takes us – sick, chronic, moribund. We are compelled to hope what kind of fun we used to make: God, life, miracles, cannabis oil. Healing, either way. Healing, against all odds.