Ever since the diagnosis, everybody’s had a cure for me.
And let me say this up front: I know it comes from love. Every text, every forwarded article, every “my cousin’s neighbor’s uncle did this and he’s fine” — that’s somebody who cares about me and can’t stand sitting on the sidelines. I get it. If the roles were reversed, I’d be doing the exact same thing.
But my phone has still turned into a pharmacy of other people’s certainty. And I’ve tried to be a good sport about it. I did a fast to get my autophagy going. I took ivermectin and fenbendazole — in the paste form. The kind made for horses. And since I am not a horse, getting the dose right has been an issue. One day I woke up and could hardly get up. For the entire day. My liver filed a formal complaint. I tried chlorine dioxide for a day or two, until I found out my liver enzymes were elevated. So right now I’m just waiting to see if they come back to normal before I do anything else.
I had the consult with the radiation oncologist. I’ve got the chemo guy coming up. I don’t like anything they’re saying. Though honestly — I didn’t think I would.
The only thing I’ve actually done consistently is the visualization. The frequencies. The energy work. That’s mine. Nobody handed me that one.
So officially, I’m still in the information-gathering stage. Which is a polite way of saying I haven’t committed to a damn thing.
It reminds me of the old Álvarez Guedes joke — except right now, I’m living in it.
Two friends meet up. One’s dad is sick and no doctor can fix him. The other swears by romerillo — some weed tea. “Drink this. It’ll cure him.”
A few days pass. The dad’s worse. “Ah, that’s normal — that means it’s working. Double the dose. Have faith.”
A few more days. The dad’s in bed now. “Triple the dose. And don’t just drink it — soak your feet in it. Rub it on your chest. Gargle with it before bed. The healing goes in through everywhere, you understand?”
A week later the dad’s barely conscious. “Quadruple the dose! Bathe in it! Sleep with the leaves under your pillow! Have you been praying? You have to pray — the romerillo needs faith to work!”
And then the dad dies. And the friend puts his hand on his buddy’s shoulder, dead serious, and goes: “¡Coño... entonces ese romerillo es una mierda!” (”Damn... then that romerillo is shit!”)
That’s my life right now. Everybody’s got a romerillo — and I know every single one of them is handing it to me out of love. I’m just the guy standing in the middle of all of it, trying to figure out which weed is actually worth drinking.
And Christi — she supports my decisions. I know she does. But I’m frustrating her. I see it leaking out in the little outbursts, and I don’t blame her. She’s watching the person she loves wade through a hundred cures, committing to none of them, and all she can do is stand on the shore. That’s its own kind of helpless.
I see you. I’m still here. I’m still figuring it out. And when I commit to something, you’ll know — because I’ll actually do it.
Live Long and Prosper,
-Dan