Finding Headspace Amid the Mind-Trip That Is La Vie en Lyme

A typical Friday lunch. Can somebody give me a hand?

It’s been two months since I’ve written here, and, the truth is, I’ve been avoiding you. No, that’s not true. I’ve been avoiding me.

The thing is, when we returned from our two-week treatment at West Clinic, I felt desperate to return to normal life. I wanted not to think too much about Lyme disease; not to focus on the pain that, with few exceptions, hadn’t really abated much; not to obsess every minute of every day about the many bizarre twists in this new life with chronic illness. I just wanted to be. And so, I tried to set it aside. Go back to work. Think positive. Wait and see.

“You look so healthy!” our friends, clearly stunned, kept saying to Husband in the weeks following our return. And it was true: Suddenly my hubs had the look of a collegiate footballer post-practice—flushed, glowing, and totally amped. Treatment had agreed with him. Then, as the eyes turned toward me, the smiles faded and the expressions shifted from happy relief to guarded denial: “You don’t look that bad!”

This Is My New Friend Rori. Help a Lyme Sistah Out?

When you hang around an IV lounge long enough, you’re bound make new friends. Sick friends. I made friends with Rori Albert.

This is Rori.

I spotted Rori on our first day at the West Clinic in Pocatello, Idaho. Husband and I were cutting up about the sludge that was emerging from our pores and sticking between our toes in our first ion detox foot bath; she was in the hallway, looking exhausted in a profound way, waiting for someone from the office staff to help her to her next treatment.

Right away I pegged Rori as a Lyme patient—a copy of Ally Hilfiger’s Lyme memoir, Bite Me, which I had finished just a few days earlier, rested on the little seat of her walker. Yes, Rori gets around with a walker. And Rori can barely speak, her voice like an old car with a stalling motor. The muscles in her neck, her mouth, her tongue visibly labor to force out words that fight against her; when words finally do emerge, they come out in a bit of a garble. The process is painful to watch, and the result difficult to understand—a little like trying to translate the language of my three-year-old nephew, minus the charming effect.

The Not-So-Final Analysis: The Proof Is in the Blood at the End of Week Two

I don’t really know what I expected to hear as Husband and I sat down for our final live blood analysis and exit interview with Dr. West. I’ve done enough research to know that two weeks of treatment, however intensive, is rarely enough to obliterate Lyme disease.

And yet, after two weeks of what I can only call torture (no, I don’t care if this is being dramatic), one does hope for some kind of special send-off—a grade on my blood work, maybe…Much Improved! And maybe one of those Dum Dum suckers like I used to get post-vaccination at the pediatrician’s. Ok fine, I will settle for one out of two.

True Blood: Hyperbaric Ozone Therapy + Healthy Cell Injections

A few months back, the publicist of a luxury med-spa in San Francisco pitched me the hard sell on a “vampire facial.” It is no problem, she goaded me in a syrupy Eastern European accent. We just take zee blood, extract zee platelet-rich plasma, and inject it back into zee face. I imagined a Soviet Bond-flick villainess dressed in white vinyl knee boots pumping me full of poison. Nope. In hindsight, this would have been excellent practice for my treatment of Lyme disease—and my skin might’ve been primed for the many no-makeup days to come.

Day 6: The Scene in Which She Shakes Her Fist at the World and Then Hides Under the Covers

Today may have been my sixth of ten days of treatment at the West Clinic in Pocatello, Idaho, but it only took about three days for the staff at West to figure out that I’m a special case.

And I don’t mean that I have a special case of Lyme disease. Nope, I have a moderate case of Lyme (4 out of 10, Dr. J says) and, next to Jake, I am, as far as I can see, the second healthiest person to sit tethered to an IV here in the last six days. Rick, an elderly father who’s being treated for seizures induced by his many stroke medications, is in far more dire shape. And Rori, a woman about my age who’s lost her voice to Lyme and gets around with a walker, has it way worse than I do, and she’s even here alone. And yet, I’m the special case: the mental spaz who can’t seem to turn off the waterworks in the IV lounge until they finally move me to a private room, more for the sake of the other patients than for me, I presume; me, the nutcase who had a panic attack after neural therapy so now the hypnotherapist has to make special late-night and early-morning cell phone calls in a desperate attempt to get this particularly difficult patient through the necessary treatment.

See, I had imagined that days of IVs, cell therapy shots in my butt, and Procaine and B12 shots in my skull would eventually wear down my phobias of needles, of doctors, of cruel and unusual punishment strange medical therapies; I had imagined that I’d walk into week two with the nonchalance of an old pro—You’re busy, Misty, I’d say, I can do my own IV today. But nooo.

Day 3: Happy Birthday, Husband, With Love From the Shadow of Your Wife

The IV lounge was full today, its many chocolate leather recliners already occupied when we arrived this afternoon by patients mostly much older than we are. My heart sank when I realized Jake wouldn’t be able to hold my hand as Misty, our blond nurse with a honeyed small-town accent, sunk the needle into my arm for the third day in a row.

I tried to recline, to close my eyes and focus on my breathing as the cold took hold in my veins; my left arm rendered useless by the needle that was tethered to the tube that ran up to the bags that held my cocktail of vitamins and acids that were hooked to a thin metal chain that dangled from the ceiling—the paneled foam kind you find in schools and doctors offices. Husband sat opposite me, giving me the last recliner and settling into a chair that looked more comfortable for a few minutes of conversation than for an hour with a needle stuck in his arm.

Only a few minutes after we settled in he stood up and unhooked his IV bags from the chain, careful to keep his stuck arm straight so that the drip would keep on dripping. He crossed the room to retrieve some tissues. He had seen the tears begin to roll down my cheeks as I, deflated and small in my big Barcalounger, gathered all the force I could find just to suck air into my lungs, my muscles fighting back against every breath with an inward tremor. I was beginning to sputter, a thing that happens lately when I begin to panic, my stomach in my throat where my heart had been before it jumped out and ran for the hills.

Day 2: A Needle-Phobe Survives Neural Therapy

I don’t have the mental juice to write much about today’s experience, so here’s a nice video of me getting like a thousand shots in my skull. Well, really it was 15 total, about half of which are shown here. (And here’s some info on neural therapy. It’s controversial.)

Day 1: The Couple That IVs Together, Stays Together

Two years ago today, Boyfriend and I embarked on a 10-day adventure to learn how to sail. It was the week of Jake’s 40th birthday, and sailing had long been at the top of his bucket list. I too had dreams of sailing—mostly romantic notions that involved me drinking Champagne in a sundress while a handsome man did important-looking things with ropes—and so off we went, on an expedition that would seal the deal: Wherever we drifted, we would chart our course together.

Two years later, I married my sailor, and rather than the Mendocino getaway I’d planned for his 42nd, we are here in exotic Pocatello sharing intravenous cocktails of vitamins and hydrochloric acid.

Here’s how Day One went down:

In just one day, I think I’ve already spent more time with Dr. Jason West than I have with the gynecologist I’ve been seeing for nearly a decade. Total face time: nearly two hours. (He has five sons, loves prime rib, and is afraid of snakes. Also, he proposed to his wife while playing an upright piano on a mountaintop 22 years ago today.)

After an in-depth review of our Lyme tests, labs, health history, current symptoms, treatment considerations, and astrological signs (no, not really), the real fun began.

The Live Blood Analysis

With quick pin-pricks to our pinky fingers, Dr. J added small drops of blood to glass slides for viewing under the microscope and up on a flat-screen TV. The pictures? Psychedelic album cover art at its very finest. Ladies first.

Did you know that red blood cells are supposed to look like nice round circles rimmed in bright white light? Imagine a full moon with the center knocked out. My red blood cells look like “Bart Simpson’s hair,” in Dr. J’s professional opinion, indicating a major hormone imbalance. We also saw Lyme spores, Lyme biofilms, and Lyme at the intracellular stage, which might indicate late-stage development of the bacteria—but no spirochetes, the corkscrew-shaped bacteria that causes Lyme disease. (Remember, I did a two week course of antibiotics, which are effective at killing early stage Lyme if you catch it and treat it right away.) The Lyme wasn’t alone in there: We also found intestinal parasites. Joy! Not to mention plenty of candida, a little fungus, and a whole host of red blood “ghost cells” that put me at some neurological risk. Not to mention the protein puddles and inflammatory markers in my dry blood that indicate risk for MS, Alzheimers, and other super fun things.

Based on all this, Dr. J gave me a 4 out of 10 on the Lyme scale if 10 is the very worst—better than any of us expected given my crazy symptoms. Can you imaging being a 10? Now Jake.

Husband’s Lyme test had shown stronger positive results than mine had, so I was kind of expecting a doozy of a blood show. And while not quite as eventful as mine, his live analysis didn’t totally disappoint: There were plenty of little parasites, spirochetes, biofilms, candida, and disease-causing fungus to keep us entertained.

In the end, Dr. J compared us to glue: Jake is superglue—strong and top shelf; I’m Elmer’s—the pasty one with a sludgy immune system that’s barely holding me together.

IV Therapy

After the fireworks, it was off to the IV Lounge for a three-bag cocktail: 50 grams of vitamin C mixed with other delicious immune-boosting goodies; hydrochloric acid; and hydrogen peroxide. And let me assure you, your veins can tell the difference between friendly vitamins and aggressive acid however diluted. By the end of the hour, my left arm felt like a punching bag on the set of Creed.

The Gameplan

About six hours after we first entered the West Clinic, we had solid chiropractic adjustments and paid for our respective treatment packages: Jake would need only the Premium tier—two weeks of IVs, Prolozone injection therapy, ozone insufflations for the parasites, and bodywork that rings up around $7,000. But Elmer here will be needing the four-week (two now, two in September) $11,000 “Lyme Hardcore” package which includes all of Jake’s treatments plus neural therapy injections in my skull to reset my neurotransmitters and ease my constant headaches.

I repeat, injections in my skull.

And no, insurance doesn’t cover it. But if this works, it will be the bargain deal of the century—a South Bay couple I know has spent $100,000 in their quest to conquer Lyme over the past 10 years.

The Aftermath

Immediately following treatment today, I felt exhausted, headachey, and a little nauseated. You know, my usual. But the pain in my arm subsided, and I was able to eat some dinner and write this blog with a cup of CBD cocoa. Meanwhile, Mr. Superglue is barbecuing chicken and drinking Shiner Bock.

PS: Dr. J says Lyme disease can definitely be sexually transmitted. Check yo self.

 

The Treatment Plan: We Are Now Entering a Drug-Free Zone

Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m a little bit self-indulgent. I am more than okay with this—it’s an MO I’m proud to have inherited from my father. We believe life should be about joy. So if I gain a few extra pounds or a die a few minutes sooner because I drank an extra glass of Champagne with my cheeseburger, then mission accomplished. We’re alive to live, not to stave off death. All things in moderation, as dad always says.

So, beacon of health that I am, you can imagine that giving up all my favorite treats is really quite the buzzkill. But once I kick this Lyme thing, it will be party, party, party, and please pass the bug spray. Well, we’ll see. Lyme, apparently, is a study outside the comfort zone.

And so it is, in the spirit of sucking it up, that Jake and I decided to travel to the Pocatello, Idaho clinic of Dr. Jason West where, for the next two weeks, I will be poked with various needles until, I imagine, all the Lyme bacteria will ooze out of me like puréed potato through a sieve. Have I ever mentioned that I’m highly needle-phobic? Suck it up, Hennen.

There are men within my sphere of influence whom I consider to be true healers: Dr. Francis Murphy, a Dallas-based chiropractor famous in the healthcare community for a discovery that changed the lives of patients with frozen shoulder; and Dr. Gilles Lamarche, a wonderful Canadian national, chiropractor, and VP of Life University in Marietta, Georgia who was diagnosed in 2004 with primary pulmonary hypertension. His medical doctors prescribed double lung and heart transplants, without which they gave him two years to live. More than a decade later, the 61-year-old Lamarche ran a 5K race just this past weekend, having 100 percent healed himself through regular chiropractic care and healthy living. A-mazing. These two gentlemen advised me to see, and Lamarche kindly introduced me to, Dr. Jason as we shall henceforth call him.

Known as Dr. J to his existing patients—we are not yet on an initial name basis—Dr. Jason is a fourth-generation chiropractor, naturopath, and authority on treating chronic illness though cutting-edge (and antibiotic-free) methods. He is the kind of man who takes the time to talk to you on a Saturday, who dresses up as Goose instead of Maverick on Halloween, and who pens a blog called “Daily Dose of Vitamin H”—H is for hope, naturally.

(I H-for-hope that Dr. Jason is also the kind of busy man able and willing to squeeze in another patient at a moment’s notice—we learned just yesterday that H-for-Husband also has Lyme. Hi, we’re here for IV therapy. Do you have a couples suite available?)

When we arrive at the West Clinic on Monday for our six-hour appointment, Dr. Jason will first examine our blood under the microscope and beam it for us to see on a flatscreen TV. (Pass the popcorn!) From this, he will get a sense of how far our infections have progressed and will design specific treatment protocols for each of us. This 10-day process (2-3 hours daily after day one) will likely include:

• High-dose vitamin C (75-150g) plus minerals, administered via IV daily
• Oxidative medicine—usually major autohemotherapy  (“the immediate intramuscular or subcutaneous reinjection of freshly drawn autologous blood” according to Wiki)
• Ionized detox therapy
• Chiropractic therapy
• Neural therapy (read: shots) or acupuncture
• Nutritional supplements + Paleo diet

The philosophy: The body is ingeniously designed to heal itself. The objective: Give it the tools it needs to do so.

If you build the body up, repair the broken systems, get rid of toxins, and don’t eat junk food, then you typically get a really good clinical outcome. We treat the patient individually and balance everything in their life—biomechanics, biochemistry, hormones, food and diet, relationships.

—Dr. Jason West

This is a philosophy I believe in, even if I am writing this at 1am because I’m too anxious to sleep. You know what else I believe in? Proof:

For anyone interested in learning more about Dr. Jason West’s approach to treating Lyme disease, or in the western vs. chiropractic and integrative medicine narrative, I highly recommend the film Doctored. Drs. West, Lamarche, and Murphy all make excellent appearances.