On Wednesday morning, I looked at the news, awestruck by the throng of people on the D.C. mall. I shared this curiosity with my sons.
“Look how many people!” I said. “Remember when we were down there for the March For Our Lives rally? There were 800,000 when we were there. I’m betting there are at least a million people – during a pandemic!”
We stared at the screen, which showed only a fraction of a million. They stood in the freezing cold, unmasked, smiling and huddled together; all I could think about was how many of them were likely to get COVID-19.
Then I casually moved on with my life. I was texting my mom some dumb stuff about how I was trying to walk indoors to get my 500 miles because it was so cold outside, when she texted: Capitol was stormed…. It’s bad.
Funny thing about bad news: it takes you back instantly to other bad news. It’s like it’s all tied together in the brain or something. My first thought was 9-11-01, when I sat in my mom’s living room, watching the horror on TV. My second thought was ducking and running from the D.C. sniper.
And now, a new image is burned into my mind: guns drawn on a broken window, as a mischievously evil face peers through the broken glass. It was like watching a movie, except for the genuine fear in the eyes of the law.
I watched as one lone police officer, armed with only a baton, tried to shoo away an angry mob as they plodded toward him. There must have been a hundred people coming at him, slowly and methodically. The officer backed away, waving his baton and trying to be stern, like he was dealing with a group of toddlers instead of a herd of grizzly bears.
To make matters worse, everyone in the mob was Caucasian and the officer was Black. He’d probably had “the talk” from his dad about what to do when a group of Whites attack him with racial slurs. I bet his dad never told him what to do if that group stretched from four feet to three miles away from his face.
There’s been a lot of talk about the attack on Democracy and not so much about the people involved. One woman was shot; she got a whole story in The New York Times. But the million others are still running wild in the streets, in their homes, posting videos on Facebook of their adventures.
Imagine if the police had shot everyone in the building. People are wondering why they didn’t, but I don’t wonder.
It would have been a massacre. The mob had guns and bombs. The police had guns and sticks. Along with a bunch of stupid, insane people, all of our country’s leaders could have been killed.
Well, all except one: Donald J. Trump was at the White House, watching the whole thing on TV. He would have survived, and been outraged that the people he “loved” got killed. (Not because he cared that they died, but because that would make his fan club slightly smaller.)
“This is just the beginning!” his fan club screamed. “Next time we’ll be armed and ready for battle!”
Since the U.S. is not (yet) Afghanistan, I am not as worried about random bombings as I should be. But I am worried.
My concern now is that Trump is going to pardon himself, and get away scot-free.
It was Day 1 of my 2021 goal: 500 miles in six months! I awoke with a sense of purpose.
I checked the weather. It was going up to a whopping 35 degrees. Then I looked out the window.
Hm.
The whole world was wet.
But it didn’t look like it was raining; I got out my phone to MAP MY WALK!
That’s when I remembered that I’d wanted to listen to audiobooks while I walked. But none of my ear buds fit my new phone, and my new bluetooth headphones weren’t charged yet.
But I was ready to go!
I harnessed Loki and bundled myself up for the Arctic. I put a faux-fleece scarf around my neck that is so big and fluffy, it can double as a COVID mask. I snapped my tundra-ready jacket and put on my fingerless gloves – with the mitten tops engaged. I hit “start” on my mapping app as I walked outside.
Before I got off the driveway, I started calculating: If I walk 4 miles, five days a week, that’s 20 miles a week. With a couple of bike rides on warm days, I will meet my goal – no problem!
I started singing to myself, I will walk 500 miles! And I will walk 500 more…! It was very festive inside my head.
I decided to go as far as I could go with the limited paved areas near my home, and measure the distance. My plan was to walk in a giant circle, which I hoped would be at least four miles.
I was near the end of my street when I realized that it was, actually, raining a little. I put my glasses in my coat pocket to keep them from fogging, but Loki was merrily trotting along and sniffing, so I wasn’t too worried.
When I started to tire a little, I pulled my phone out of my coat pocket to check the app. The phone didn’t recognize me behind the giant scarf, so I had to un-do my mitten-tops and type in my passcode. Swiping it open, I noticed a few new raindrops on the case.
Finally, believing I’d gone more than a mile, I opened the app.
It said: 0.44 miles.
I put the phone back in my pocket.
I must have read that wrong, I thought. I rechecked, since I’d taken my glasses off. Nines are frequently mistaken for fours.
Now it said: 0.45 miles.
Soon I went from trotting to trudging. I didn’t look at the app again. I walked and walked and walked. At some point, the rain picked up, and didn’t slow down. I kept trudging.
Loki was drenched and cold. He kept shaking the water from his fur and eyeing me for mercy. I hearkened back to his days as a stray, and figured he could handle anything.
Still, I felt bad for him. When I’d gone about 2/3 as far as I could go, I circled back toward the house.
Soaked to the bone, I knocked on the window so Bill could open the garage and I could bathe the dog to warm his weary bones. I hung my dripping coat from the car’s side mirror.
Finally, I checked the app. I’d seemingly been gone all day, braving the dreariest of weather. How many miles did I go?
The app said: 2.28 miles.
Two lousy miles.
A few minutes later, while trying to recover by taking a long, hot shower, I decided I could round up to 2.3.
Only 497.7 miles to go.
The new year starts tomorrow. Finally.
Along with my healthy new eating habits and natural thyroid medication, I got sudden inspiration to set a personal goal for some simple exercise.
It started when I saw a Facebook ad that offered Sesame Street buttons and a t-shirt for walking and/or biking 100 or 500 miles. It said I could choose my mileage, and whether I prefer six months or a full year to reach my goal!
Unfortunately, when I looked more closely at the Facebook ad, it was more of a fundraiser for the Sesame Street Workshop than an exciting opportunity for me to get a t-shirt. They wanted $100 for me to get those “reward” buttons during my journey.
So I decided to set my own goals for 2021 – and I decided that six months was plenty of time for me to reach whatever goals I set. By June, my eating plan will also be concluded.
But I had to think: how many miles can I walk in six months?
When I walk the dog, I go at least a mile – often two – and usually he gets two walks a day. While I often have help with walking duties, I also sometimes walk him twice. That seems like an easy 180 miles in six months – so I thought maybe I could do 300 miles in six months.
But I like the sound of 500 miles better. It seems like an amazing, challenging goal. I could sing that song, I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles), as I walk.
Plus, I don’t have to only walk. I can also ride a bike! I can go really far on a bike – easily 8 to 10 miles in one ride. Of course, it’s a bit cold for biking. But there is no reason I can’t walk and bike a total of 500 miles in six months.
I decided to choose a TBD reward for every 100 miles I travel. And then I decided to invite my family to join me in this awesome, totally fun experience!
That was my mistake.
First, I asked Bill. After explaining my plan, Bill looked nonplussed. Then he read me details from his watch.
“I’ve walked 2.6 miles today,” he said. He’d gone for one brief dog walk. And he’d driven half a mile to walk. Then he wanted credit for walking to the kitchen.
So I asked Shane.
“You can pick anything you want for a reward!” I said enthusiastically. “And you can choose your miles, too!”
“I already do a lot of exercise on my own,” Shane said. “This would make it seem more like work.”
Shane does do a lot already. He’s on the volleyball team, so he does virtual workouts with them. Plus he does his own regular workouts – sometimes right around midnight, when he’s bouncing around and plonking weights down, rattling the floor while I’m drifting off to sleep.
“Whatever,” I said, losing enthusiasm. “I’m sorry I asked.”
I was so sorry, in fact, that I didn’t even ask Dylan to join my quest. Of all the people in the family who will be walking 500 miles in six months, Dylan is the most likely. He’s taking a fitness walking class and he’s joined the college’s hiking club. Back and forth to classes will easily add a few miles a day. Dylan will have 500 miles by March, even with some Zoom classes.
But Dylan says “no” to everything I suggest. Getting him to connect with me on a goal-setting experience would be impossible.
So, I’m on my own – and really I’m doing the age-old “resolution” thing.
But this year, I get to reward myself for sticking to it.
After five years of experimenting, and two doctors guessing about what I can and can’t eat, I have finally gotten the results of my Mediator Release Test (MRT). And I’ve received my personalized LEAP program.
This is the answer I’ve been seeking, but not the answer I expected.
The MRT uses my blood to discover which specific foods are causing my body to go kerplooey. And the LEAP plan tells me what I should eat for the next six months so that my body can get healthy again. In June, I may be able to reintroduce some of the foods that have been destroying my body. But some of those foods may make me sick for the rest of my life.
I was surprised to find that I can still eat dairy. I was not as surprised to find that my highest sensitivity is wheat. I also have problems with things I don’t even eat – like beets and cantaloupe. Chicken and turkey, which I don’t even like, are a problem. I also can’t eat shrimp, which is a favorite.
The most daunting item on the list is corn. I can’t eat corn. At first glance, this seems okay. I can’t eat corn chips, corn tortillas or popcorn. When coupled with my wheat issue, this means it’s going to be very challenging to eat Mexican food.
But upon closer inspection, corn is in everything. Corn syrup. Cornmeal. Corn starch. Baking powder is made with corn starch. One site says 75% of processed foods contain some form of corn.
This does explain why my first doctor-induced diet (no wheat, corn, potatoes, fruit, sugar or nuts) worked so well.
Not including everything associated with wheat, beet, plum, butternut squash, potassium nitrate, cantaloupe, pumpkin, carrot, saccharin, cauliflower, shrimp, chicken, sunflower, corn, turkey, hazelnut, venison and orange, here is my list of corn-related items to inspect and/or avoid:
Anything that says CORN; alcoholic beverages, aspirin, baking powder, bacon, baked goods, candies, cheeses, cooking oil, corn starch, starch, corn syrup, cereals, dessert foods, dextrose, maltodextrin, Equal, Splenda, Sweet & Low, fruit juices, fructose, graham crackers, gravies, gum, ahm, hominy, jellies, ketchup, lozenges, Mexican and latin foods, margarines, peanut butters, popcorn, processed meats, soft drinks, toothpastes, vegetable oil mixes, vitamins, vinegar, glucose syrup, quinoa pasta, some iodized salt, some medications. Extremely sensitive people may react to cow’s milk, if the dairy cow has eaten corn.
There are YouTube videos from dozens – if not hundreds – of MRT/LEAP-test customers. Some of them follow the program religiously and feel great. Others follow it to their own specifications and do well. These videos are so interesting to me, because they each have their own sets of foods and their results are all pretty much the same: they feel better.
They feel a lot better. Even the ones who weren’t sick feel better!
Still, others decide the plan is too hard, and don’t do it. This is an expensive test; I’m not sure why anyone would do it without following the program.
So: I now have natural thyroid medication, supplements to support it, and a very detailed food plan. Finally, finally, finally: I am on the road to recovery.
I don’t know what day it is anymore. And Christmas – supposedly the most joyous occasion of the year for those who celebrate – is coming. As I write, it is going to be Christmas Eve … tomorrow.
I had to think about that. Basically, Christmas Eve is tomorrow and I had to think about that.
But last night, for the first time ever, I felt connected to the original Christmas story.
I have been reading the news about the current alignment of Jupiter and Saturn. They say it looks like a very bright star, and that we haven’t been able to see that particular “star” in 800 years.
But it’s here now, hovering in the sky. Jupiter and Saturn are so closely aligned that they look like one star. Scientists have speculated that this is probably the “star” that the kings and wise men followed when they discovered a newborn baby named Jesus.
Even with a once-in-800-years chance, I kept forgetting to look for the star. You’d think, with nothing better to do, I could remember to walk outside and look up.
But no.
Then last night, we – I should say, Bill – found “it” in the night’s sky. Gathered in Shane’s room, looking out his bedroom window, we saw something sparkling and enormous. For awhile, we didn’t believe it was two planets aligning. We debated about whether or not it was an airplane or, at least, a helicopter. For awhile, the sparkling thing looked like it was moving.
It was huge and brilliant, like nothing we’d ever seen in the sky before. This planetary alignment makes a splash so bright in the night’s sky, we literally didn’t believe we were seeing a natural occurrence.
It’s the kind of sparkly, spectacular thing that would make a bunch of kings get on their camels and go chasing it through the desert.
Why wouldn’t they follow that? I thought. I’m surprised more people didn’t show up.
A few hours later, it didn’t seem as bright or sparkly. But originally, the “star” seemed like a miracle. Bill took out his telescope and, in doing so, changed the miracle into just a couple of dots in the sky.
If you click on this link, you can see other people’s photos but I’d suggest you go out tonight, or on Christmas Eve, and see if you can catch a glimpse of this incredibly rare spectacle.
Seeing this star made me believe – maybe for the first time – that the Christmas story I’d been told my whole life is … true. I still can’t guarantee that Baby Jesus was born to a virgin, or that He was/is the Son of God. That’s an argument of faith, I think, and history.
But I always wondered why a bunch of important people would head aimlessly into the desert, stopping only when they arrived at a newborn sleeping in a barn. Now … it kinda makes sense.
They would never be able to “reach” the star, but back then, people believed in signs. And a spectacular “star” in the sky could easily be construed as a sign.
Nowadays, it could have been construed as an alien spaceship – but still.
Fortunately, I don’t need to know anymore why the kings crossed the earth. And even more fortunately, I was able to see the brilliant, dazzling spectacle that made them do it.
Merry Christmas!
Yesterday, Dylan turned 20. Something about the zero on the end of that number – or maybe the two at the beginning – made this birthday feel like it was … different.
Dylan is officially not a teenager. In a year, he’ll be a legal adult in every way. He still looks like my child, my wild child who ran through the backyard, climbing and jumping and inventing his own games just to keep himself entertained. He still looks like the toddler who came running into my arms, gleefully knocking me to the ground.
But he also looks like the teenager who couldn’t turn in his work on time, who wouldn’t turn his mistakes into successes. He looks like the guy who wailed at me from the floor that he just wanted to die because everything was so hard. And he looks like the superstar who sang on stages and got standing ovations from the crowds.
So knowing that he is 20, and seeing him … just being him … it’s an impossible joy. It’s hard to hold back this kid – this man – and at the same time, it’s so hard to let him go.
But it’s also wonderful that he’s made it this far, that he’s lived this long, that he’s become such an incredible human being. He’s not just a musician; he’s empathetic almost to a fault. He’s brilliant and unfocused and insane; he’s lovable and sensitive and sweet.
And he’s tough. By God, he’s tough. He made it through so much already, so many feelings and situations and just-plain-tough stuff, there’s no way he could have survived them if he hadn’t been so brave, so tough, so strong.
Even though it feels like I am letting him go, I am enjoying the sideline view. I’m loving watching him be an adult, be such a beautiful person, be the man he always dreamed of becoming.
I miss my baby. But Dylan is the man I always wanted my baby to become.
Some people have been following my thyroid exploration journey with great interest. Most people have been pretty bored with all the talk about food, while watching me continue to blow up like a balloon.
When I found the Chinese doctor, I’m pretty sure there was laughter behind my back. But the thing about the Chinese doctor was: she gave me herbal supplements. And when I took those supplements, I felt better. Up until that point, I honestly hadn’t known I was sick.
Before the Chinese doctor, I’d gotten a full-body virtual scan. The only issue they detected was an inactive thyroid. “Most thyroids I see have some activity,” the doctor said. “But there is no activity at all on this scan. Do you want to explore this further?”
“Nah,” I said. “That doesn’t matter.” And then I went merrily on my way.
That was eight years ago. I didn’t even know I was sick.
So the Chinese doctor was helpful; but when I translated all the Chinese herbs into English, I was able to get those supplements on my own.
And while I felt better, I didn’t feel right. I knew something was wrong. Sometimes I would be so tired, I could barely lift my head – at 2:00 in the afternoon. Other times I would scratch my head until it was nearly raw. And sometimes my gut would scream at me like I was being knifed from the inside.
Doctor number three actually took my blood. Anemia, he said. Severe Vitamin D deficiency, he said. The blood showed low-level production in my thyroid; he seemed to think I could do without desiccated thyroid (the thing all the books suggested).
Looking back, I think he just wanted me to continue to visit every three months and give him $300 – not covered by insurance – to read my blood test results.
Once, he told me, “You need to stop eating rice; it turns to sugar in your body.” He put me on the Mediterranean diet. Its main staple? Rice.
Another time he said, “Nine times out of ten, your problem is caused by gluten! You should avoid gluten at all costs!” A minute later, he said: “You can eat bread, but only Ezekiel brand!” I went straight to the store. Ezekiel doesn’t make gluten-free bread. I tried to eat it anyway; of course, it made me sick.
Meanwhile, he told me to take 625% the daily recommended dosage of Vitamin D, which literally could have killed me. When I had heart palpitations and expressed my concern, he actually increased my dosage.
That was the final straw.
I started reading books – again – and researching on the internet – again. For a problem that is supposedly incredibly common in this country, thyroid disorders and autoimmune diseases have virtually no professionals who know how to get to the root causes of either issue.
When someone told me about a test for food sensitivities, I was thrilled. And now, I have taken that blood test – and ordered my (researched and re-researched) supplements.
As a final step, I have found an endocrinologist who will finally prescribe natural, desiccated thyroid (medication) for me. My appointment with the endocrinologist is next week.
So, between the medication, the supplements and the food plan, I should be able to live a long, healthy life.
Of course, this assumes that COVID doesn’t kill me first. 2021 is going to be a tough year with food, new medication and new supplements. But maybe, just maybe, I will actually live to see my grandchildren.
Better yet, I might be even able to play with them.
So: this is my life.
I was born after the last Presidential assassination and the Beatles’ introduction to America. The ever-unpopular Vietnam War began before I started to walk, and extreme civil unrest overwhelmed the country.
Before I started kindergarten, a man walked on the moon. While I was in elementary school, the Beatles broke up. Drugs became prolific. Bob Hope and Pete Rose were popular. I don’t remember segregation, but I don’t remember knowing anyone Black until the 12th grade, when they finally “integrated” our school.
Times have changed some things. I remember my mom hanging clothes on the line, for example; she hand-washed our dishes for most of my childhood. We used oil to make popcorn and french fries, and Mom baked with sugar and flour. Nothing came from a box.
I remember wild celebrations when our country celebrated its 200th birthday, and waiting in long, long lines during a gasoline shortage. In my lifetime, cars shrunk from boat-sized to bumper-car-sized; SUVs didn’t appear until I was out of high school. Electric cars were a pipe dream.
Microwaves and cable TV arrived at our house at about the same time. I was in high school, which meant I could heat up frozen (“healthy”) broccoli with cheese to eat while watching Grease on TV for the 35th time during our bi-monthly free preview of HBO.
The corded telephone that reached almost to the TV room didn’t become obsolete for another 15 years. My childhood included Brady-esque fighting with my sisters over whose turn it was to use the phone – and whispering to my friends so no one could hear my conversations from four feet away.
The first computer we had allowed me to play a game alone; there were no graphics. I would type “TURN LEFT” and it would respond with “A WALL IS ON YOUR LEFT.” Thankfully, video game arcades came out when I was in high school, which made it much easier for me to play games with others.
I was in college when the space shuttle exploded; a decade later I heard about a rover landing on Mars. Somewhere in between, the internet became the first and strongest thread to hold together a planet that now uses it mostly to chit-chat across borders and send videos of tabby cats playing hockey.
I got my first cell phone when I was pregnant, since Bill needed a way to know immediately if I went into labor. We spent a fortune on those phones but my water broke on a Saturday morning, so we didn’t need them. I thought we’d send them back; instead we now pay for five of them.
Like everyone in 2001, I remember a terrorist attack on our soil. Dylan was nine months old; I feigned normalcy for his sake. I thought it would be the worst thing I’d ever see.
I was wrong.
As my children grew, cameras evolved too quickly for us to keep up. We have hundreds of hours of unwatchable film of our children. And we can’t afford to transfer them to a watchable format unless we give up our Indian, Thai, Italian and Chinese takeout.
We still have music on records – some older than I am. But the albums, eight-tracks, cassette tapes and – now – CDs are rarely used. Sometimes Shane’s music suddenly blasts from a living room speaker while he’s in his bedroom.
We have an automatic garage door, motion-activated lights in our yard, and jacuzzi jets in the bath. We don’t rake or shovel; we blow. I do my banking by clicking a couple of “buttons” on a computer. My coin collection has a penny from 1934. I expect my grandchildren will ask, “What’s a penny?”
So far, I’ve survived a worldwide pandemic that has killed 1.6 million people. I pray that future generations don’t face another one. But now that I am older, I recognize history repeating itself.
Still, I can only imagine the future.
An unexpected delight of this pandemic is having NFL football on TV.
When it started this summer, I was against it. I thought about James Conner, the Pittsburgh Steelers’ star running back, who had Stage 2 Hodgkin lymphoma in college and came back from the deadly disease to play in the NFL.
Knowing that prior cancer puts him in the VERY high risk category with COVID, I thought about James Conner’s family. I sincerely hoped that James Conner wouldn’t play.
But he did. In fact, most of the NFL players came back. Some of them had COVID in the summer, before games even started. Whole groups of NFL players are being quarantined left and right, but they are somehow still playing football.
So when the season started and I had nothing better to do, I watched football. I watched a bunch of Steelers games, because they are my favorite.
But sometimes the Steelers aren’t on TV, since I live in Maryland. So I watched Ravens games. I watched the Red— er, Washington Football Team games. I watched the Browns and the Bengals. I even watched teams I’d hardly seen before, like the Detroit Lions, the Las Vegas Raiders and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.
As the season wore on, COVID started forcing teams to delay games. No one ever talks about whether or not these young men are getting sick. The football world just talks about the “COVID protocol” and there’s a list of names, like soldiers – players who are not playing.
The list of players who have been in “COVID protocol” is extensive. Some teams have dozens. Others have one. I don’t think any teams are left without at least one player having been removed for that “protocol.” Seattle Seahawks – emanating from the area where the first deaths were reported – had one on “protocol” but they still report all players as healthy.
However it’s happening, NFL football is on TV all the time. The Steelers/Ravens game was delayed so many times, they ended up playing on a Wednesday afternoon! The following week, there were two games on a Tuesday! It’s been like Football Heaven – especially since it’s cold outside and there’s literally nothing else I want to do.
I have learned about a bunch of new teams, and I’ve even grown attached to some of them. The Kansas City Chiefs, for example, are amazing. And I really like the Jacksonville Jaguars’ team colors.
With my new YouTube TV, I can record every game that’s on, so I can watch the games faster, without wasting time on commercials or halftime. I’m honestly having a ton of fun!
The only real problem I have is … James Conner. Weeks ago, he dropped out of sight and into the mysterious COVID protocol. No one in Maryland is talking about him, or wondering about him, the way I am.
But James Conner, age 25, is still in that “COVID protocol.” He’s gone without playing for a pretty long time. And in the back of my mind, with every game I watch, I think – I hope he’s okay.
Just today, someone said he’s coming back to play on Sunday. But he did test positive for the virus – and what does that mean for a cancer survivor, even a young one? Will he be okay?
If James Conner comes back on Sunday, and he can breathe and run like he used to, I can go back to enjoying football without worrying.
Or at least, that’s what I tell myself so that I can continue to enjoy football.
No one wants to hear my woes, but I am still struggling with food.
I don’t mean “I’m on a diet” or “I’m craving chocolate.” I mean, my thyroid stopped working many years ago, and I am on a slow path of unstoppable self-destruction unless I cure it.
There’s no way to do this with medication. The entire Western world believes that if I take a pill (recommended by 99% of doctors out there), my symptoms will go away. And they will! Temporarily.
But the underlying problem will still be there. I’ve researched and read so much, I feel like I could open my own thyroid disorder practice.
I have worked with four doctors. The Chinese doctor gave me herbs which improved my health immediately. I had no idea I was sick until she showed me I could get better. Unfortunately, those herbs weren’t a cure as much as a symptom-reliever.
After that I went to a traditional doctor who, like most, offered me a pill. When I told her I wanted to take desiccated thyroid (a suggestion from a library book), she sent me to an integrative medicine specialist.
I worked with Dr. Leo for two years. Blood tests showed that I needed other help, too. I am feeling better than I ever have. But the doctor didn’t seem to care much about my individual case. He was throwing supplements at me the way someone might splatter paint on a wall and call it “art.”
He put me on a multitude of random diets. And he was giving me so many supplements, they didn’t fit into a single-day pill box.
So I tried another integrative health specialist. He told me that I should take a test to determine what foods were causing my autoimmune disorder.
Duh.
A test like that exists?! The books and my other three doctors hadn’t mentioned it. Doctor #4 got me the test – but it took him two months to send a phlebotomist to my house to draw blood – and when she finally arrived, she didn’t take enough blood – so I never got my results.
So I did some more research and found out that there was an even better test, and I could get it myself, and pay less money. Within two weeks, I got the test, set up my own phlebotomist, and had blood drawn. Soon I should receive results with a long-term food plan.
So I said a little prayer the night before the phlebotomist visited, and I asked God: Please help me to finally figure out what I need to do to heal my body. With the amount of conflicting advice out there, and the number of relatively useless doctors I’ve visited, I figured it was time to bring in the big guns.
God answered immediately.
The next day, I went to the library and picked up a bunch of random books on thyroid care. And there in the stack was a book that – so far – has answered every, single question I’ve ever had. This book explains everything, and gives concrete advice on how to move forward.
This is not the first book I’ve read about thyroid disorders – in fact, it may be the 30th. But it is the first one that specifically addresses absolutely everything I need to know to naturally heal my thyroid. Finally. By the time my test results get here, I will be done with the book, and I can finally take a step forward instead of continuing to slowly die.
Thank you, God.
