“Oh shit. I just fell.”, were the exact words that I heard from the little voice in my head.
I certainly had fallen. A very big fall. All the way from the 2nd floor of the fire escape at the school I had been attending for the summer.
I was notorious as a child for trying to get attention for all the wrong things. The moments preceding my fall was another one of those occasions. I was very insecure deep down, and outwardly, I was a dumb kid making all the wrong moves to get some assurance from the people around me.
All of my idols as a child were rebels. Madonna was one in particular. One of my favorite movies she was in was called Desperately Seeking Susan. Have you seen it? She’s always got a cigarette in her mouth and there’s several scenes that involve high heals and heights. I’m pretty sure I was trying to do a hard core impression of that movie on this day at summer school.
Our teacher had given us a small break. I took it as an opportunity to show all the other kids how rebel I was by smoking a cigarette, with no regard for the rules or that I was underage. I hoisted my body atop the railing that looked down on a concrete sidewalk and wrapped the heals of my sandals around the vertical bars.
I was so cool. I felt on top of the world. I held on tight with my feet and leaned back a little to take in the view as I exhaled smoke into the air.
Thirty seconds later, I was on the ground.
The lights went out on the way down. I missed the sidewalk (because physics didn’t exist for a moment) and landed on a grassy hill, just perfectly, so as to not land on my head or neck, as if angels designed the landing.
I remember clearly coming back to my senses, and mostly I was pissed. The paramedics were using scissors to cut all of my clothes off of me. They were ones my dad had just bought me the night before on a shopping spree at the mall. I yelled at them, surely with some fine curse words to add fuel to my anguish.
I was in pain. Not really the pain you would imagine that you’d be in after falling two stories, but that’s because my miraculous body was in shock. Which is a wonderful numb state to be in when you’re flat face to the earth with a ton of broken bones.
I was headed to the emergency room in the back of the ambulance, trying to stay conscious. I remember I had my wits about me because I was attempting to hook up the paramedic with my mother. But I was in really bad shape.
Four breaks in my pelvis, three broken ribs, a broken foot, bruised tailbone, and an elbow that needed surgery. Thankfully, I was headed to Vanderbilt, the very hospital where I was born.
I’m sure the experience was much different for my mother. Probably horrifying, especially as I was trying to get her a date. I was being comforted by morphine and some whacked out dreams, in and out of reality. She carried all the worry for us both. But we were in good hands. There is no other place in the world you’d want to be in an emergency situation than at a hospital, especially when you need really hard drugs, specialists, and surgery.
The medical system is not without its good side. A twenty-four hour shop that can pull out all the stops is definitely a GOOD thing. The Emergency Room is one of the most precious commodities we have as humans who have a tendency to get into accidents or break down suddenly. Anybody can be seen at the ER, no matter your race or religion, if you have insurance or a swastika tattoo. When the shit goes down, they are going to be ready. Even if you’re homeless. Let’s all say a quick prayer that that doesn’t change.
Gun shot wounds, heart attacks, strokes, severe dehydration, broken bones, surgery. All these things NEED a place to go very quickly and the hospital has the antidote for all of that under one roof, with beds that adjust to your comfort and nice little tables that you can set your big cup of ice on. (Hospital ice deserves its own paragraph with lots of adjectives, but I’m going to resist. Yum.)
Now. Here’s the thing. Emergency Services has very little to do with the rest of the medical industry. The ER has served as a funnel into modern medical practices, but the two are quite different.
I’ll explain with some layman’s history.
When allopathy first came on the scenes, these new “doctors” ran out and shut down basically all forms of medicine at the time, organizing a vendetta to end what was then, common treatments using natural substances, very strong not-for-profit substances. Acupuncture, Ayurveda, Herbalists, Kinesiologists, Chiropractors, Astrologers, and the like were given bad names, like witches and quacks.
It’s easy to see how Western Medicine stole the thunder from Folk Medicine that had come from thousands of years of tried and true results, what they would now call “experimentation and research”. Between heavy campaigning and shaming, combined with man’s new hold on chemistry as the revolutionary treatment, the white people, in typical fashion, took over the health industry.
They did such a good job that all of the original ways of healing were put in the same bag with bloodletting and that was the end of the story.
They had new techniques, particularly when it came to emergency situations. And boy did they throw out the baby with the bathwater. Science was the new healing. And with it came the idea that a scientist in a lab coat knows more about you than you do. And if you believed otherwise, or practiced otherwise, they’d literally burn you at the stake.
With the formation of medical colleges and patented medicine, their monopoly on health grew. What was once a practitioner of ancient tradition was now a suit who had been to a school. Colleges were now regarded as a higher form of knowledge. Enough people agreed, so schools became the new normal as a pathway to excellence in treating health. People trust schools. They trust Harvard.
What a convenient back door for those writing the curriculum.
Curriculum writers can teach a whole country that Columbus discovered America and we can even take off work one Monday each year to celebrate that fiction. But the guy still never stepped foot on American soil. And oh yea, he was a disgusting man who skinned the heads of his gold-digging slaves.
The disconnect couldn’t be more similar. Someone please explain to me how the average American doctor knows almost nothing about how the body works as a whole or what it should consume in order to make the body function how it was designed; as a self-healing machine??? Isn’t that the just Health 101???
Obviously, you can’t make money off of a self-healing machine.
Around the time of my fall, I was actually becoming more interested in a different rebel, the son of Madonna. He’s popular by the name of Jesus, but I’m not talking about that white guy that died for everyone. I was attracted to the colored one who had lived and that told it like it was. I wanted to kiss the mouth that got him in all that trouble to begin with. The one that would flip the medical industry’s table up side down right now.
He empowered people to heal themselves. He was a witch doctor. He was a healer. A Reiki master. A medicine man who healed with his hands and with his heart and oils. He had the faith to make blind people see and dead men rise. He said that these things that he did, we could do and more.
With the faith of a mustard seed…
(which contains high amounts of selenium, omega-3 fats, phosphorus, manganese, magnesium, vitamin B1, and copper. It also grows into a tree and provides homes for birds in its branches. )
He was burned at the stake.
To be continued…
***Nothing here is intended as medical advice, so don’t sue me when your body heals itself, because I did not go to medical school and study about that***