Shortly before 2009 came to a close, I decided that this was it.
I couldn’t stand it any longer. It felt like someone followed my every step, stepping out of my shadow every now and then and place a well administered upper cut right into my sola plexus. Withdraw. Hide. Step out. Aim. Punch And repeat.
I have IBS. Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Or that’s what one brave and desperate doctor said. Exclusion rather than diagnosis.
Having suffered long enough with stomach pains, on the one hand, and the dismissiveness of traditional medical practitioners on both sides of the Channel, on the other hand, I stepped out of the Crouch End Waitrose with warm Bretzel in my hand and into a TCM practice. Traditional Chinese Medicine.
5 minutes later I stuck my tongue out. Undressed. Lay with needles in stomach, calves and feet. In the cold. For 30 min. A chinese doctor violated my dignity by tormenting my stomach. For another 30 min.
I left the practice with an empty wallet. And no stomach pain. None. No tension. No cramps. No nothing.
Since then. Stinky tea. Twice a day. Day in. Day out. It got better. It was Christmas. It got worse.
I am still hoping. I let you know.
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