My son, a handsome young 6-year-old crazy person, has trouble breathing–not all the time, just when he’s really excited, or really scared, or when he’s laughing really hard. Because he is a 6-year-old boy, those kinds of situations come up ALL THE TIME. So last week we decided it was time to get him checked for asthma or something, to see if maybe there was something we could do. My wife made an appointment with her favorite doctor, who also happens to be a magical wizard.
You see, we currently live in Orem, Utah, but we used to live in Logan, Utah, about 2 hours north. While there I worked for a company that was too cheap to provide us with real medical insurance, so they hooked us up with a weird homeopathic doctor who does what’s called Biomeridian Stress Testing. Now, I consider myself a rational man, and as a rational man I feel compelled to accept the idea that non-traditional medicine can be very effective–after all, the idea that modern western medicine has all the answers is not only depressing but provably false, since there are plenty of answers we obviously don’t have. So yes, hooray for homeopathic doctors. But Biomeridian Stress Testing is really weird: they sit you next to a computer, spray your hand with water, and then touch you with an electric probe on each of your hand’s accupressure points. At each one, the computer will measure the mystic levels of whatever crazy thing it measures, how many angels are dancing on it I guess, and it makes a loud sound, and the doctor listens to the tone and nods wisely. You do this on both hands and both feet, and then the doctor looks at the data and casts a magic spell, possibly communicating with her ancestors, and then she knows exactly what’s wrong with you.
We took my son into this place on Monday, sat him down in the chair, and said “he’s been having some trouble breathing.” The doctor did the whole process with the electrodes and the tones and blah blah blah, and then looked at the crazy readout and said “oh, he has night terrors too.”
My wife nodded in surprise. “Yes, how did you know?” Our son has been having night terrors for a couple of years, progressing recently into sleepwalking and similar things.
The doctor continued reading the data. “And I’m guessing he has very little appetite?”
My wife’s eyes went wide. “Yes, he barely eats at all any more.”
“Mmm hmm.” The doctor stared at the data a moment longer. “And I should warn you that if he doesn’t currently have trouble controlling his bowels, he will soon.”
My wife laughed out loud. “All the time. How do you know all this?”
“Because I am a freaky witch doctor,” the doctor didn’t actually say. What she really said was, “your son’s body is being imbalanced by amoeba energy,” which is pretty much the same thing. “We can get rid of the amoebas and neutralize the toxins and scare away the evil spirits with this.” She pulled out some pills and tinctures and did a few more wacky electrode tests to figure out the dose. “Give me a call in two weeks to tell me how it’s going.”
And that’s pretty much why this place is my wife’s favorite doctor’s office: because every time we go there, this is exactly what happens. It’s crazy and weird and makes no sense, and yet they are unerringly accurate and the cures they provide are inevitably effective. Another quick example: I’ve had insomnia since high school, and I’ve never really found an effective solution for it. Five years ago I went to these guys and they gave me a cure that worked so well I stopped taking it a few weeks in–after a lifetime of going to sleep at 2 in the morning, it was actually pretty frightening to get tired at 9:30 pm. I prefer insomnia.
So anyway, my son is taking his pills and drinking his sorcerous elixirs, and we expect him to be right as rain in a couple of weeks. Unless he turns out to be as stubborn as his father, and decides he prefers breathing poorly and screaming at night. I wouldn’t put it past him.