When I was thirteen, I broke my collarbone in gym class softball. Shattered in four places, it required two surgeries to fix. I share this with you because over the winter break, I woke up and my collarbone really hurt. It ached – and I had no way to ease it. No massaging, posture changing, nor hot compress made it better. Eventually, the age-old combination of Aleve and Tylenol eased my suffering, but the message was clear: I am now old enough to face arthritis.
When I told my family over dinner, there were three distinct reactions:
- My sisters laughed at my expense—the mark of true sibling love;
- My father “sympathized,” but offered no real advice; and
- My beautiful mother, whom I love, felt nothing but agony for her ailing son and resolved to help.
While the reaction my mother elicited was noble, bless her heart, she had an awful solution: to rub some essential oils on my shoulder. My mother is a passionate person, and so to ease her upset I followed her directives. If I’m being honest, I had never felt so vulnerable as I lathered in oil, shirtless and alone. It was shameful, and it was degrading.
When hours passed, and I was allowed to cover myself (and feel dignity again), the result were in. To no one’s surprise (expect perhaps my mother’s), it did not help.
I began to think of placebos. Everyone has their miracle tonic to cure hangovers, stretches to solve headaches, and so on, but placebos are different. Placebos are powerful, but they don’t mediate or remedy what is really the problem, by virtue of the fact that they are nothing. Neither your fat rolls nor my thinning hair can be placeboed away, only our perception of it. It seems then that in this instance if I had been more in touch with my “feeling for nature,” or maybe just a bit more optimistic, lubing up my shoulder would’ve done the job.
I was nine years old when I first visited the naturopath. My mom noticed I was suspiciously shorter than all the other boys, as well as the fact that I was terribly grumpy in the mornings. Worried that her short and angry son might be suffering from some disturbing illness, she booked me in with the naturopath, and lo I went. After being referred for a blood test and waiting weeks for the naturopath to examine my results, my sentence was served. Apparently, my tummy couldn’t handle flour, eggs, salmon, soy, and… almond milk? Essentially, everything that makes food, food; and almond milk. For the next three months I, and my family, were subjected to gluten and egg free bread, pea-butter (nasty), and regular milk (yummy). When I started growing, my mother suspected her naturopath was a genius—I suspected the uptake in regular milk paired with puberty did the trick. My mood didn’t change, but one of two problems solved was good enough for Mom. After three months, my father finally stepped in. Sick of spreading his pea-butter on bread that simply crumbled away upon contact, my father bought his own bread and peanut butter and in true dad fashion, subverted my mother’s attempts at “healthy eating.” Eventually, we stopped buying pathetic excuses for bread altogether. The regular milk was okay, though.
Now, I can’t say for sure whether or not the naturopath was right. I continued to grow, but not past 5’9” (maybe it’s the South-Asian gene in me), and my mood sure as hell did not change. My mom, still convinced of the superhuman work my naturopath could do, followed every direction and prescription that the holy homeopath ordained. To this day, my mother chooses to book an appointment with her naturopath over the doctor. She once tore part of her ACL, and in the ER was told she would require a surgery. Resolved not to be put under and endure the effects of anesthesia, my mother, through the direction of her naturopath and a few internet gurus, rubbed a mixture of turmeric and essential oils on her knee. This was her nightly regimen for four weeks, and though I thought it profoundly misguided, she eventually felt better. She had crutches for a month, and only God knows how, but suddenly one day she no longer needed them.
When I, shocked and in awe, saw her walk without crutches, I wondered, how? Was the naturopath right? Were the gurus? Or was a placebo enough? Rationally speaking, her ACL had probably healed on its own as it wasn’t fully torn, but I don’t find it a very sufficing argument. To this day I still don’t know. I probably will never know. But for all its absurdity, alternative medicines have brought my mom her happiness and health. And though I may choose to take Tylenol for my shoulder, I just know some holistic bastard’s shoulder is feeling just peachy from his honey tonic with a splash of prune juice.
