think it will boost my body's immunity to things that cause asthma--sort of like a shot. Now, does that really sound 'New Agey' to you? It sounds pretty darn normal to me."
"That's the Law of Similars?"
"That's right."
"Why don't they just call it immunization, in that case?"
He'd rolled his eyes, irritated and defensive. "Look, I don't know that much about it. But it's not like this stuff is experimental. It may be 'alternative' in the eyes of a veterinarian or a doctor. But she says it's been around for almost two centuries."
Jennifer told me a thought had passed through her mind at that moment, but she'd kept it to herself: Medicine isn't like wine. I don't want my pills carefully aged. I want the latest, freshest, newest stuff that they have.
"So long as it won't make you worse..." was all that she'd said.
Though the time would come soon enough when she would wish to God she'd said more.
"You really should see a doctor," my boss was saying to me. "I know, I know. You have. See one again. Or see another."
"I don't think there's a heck of a lot they can do," I said, swallowing the last of my cough drop so I could sip my coffee. Months ago I'd discovered it was no easy task to sip coffee with a cough drop in my mouth. Actually, the sipping part was easy. It was the enjoying part that was hard.
"Not true. There's always something they can do. And, more important, there's always something you can do."
"Think so?"
"I do."
Phil Hood never seemed to be sick. As far as I knew, the only time the man didn't come in to work was when he was on vacation with his children or, those days, his children and grandchildren. Three years earlier he'd become a grandfather for the first time, and evidently he'd liked the role so much he'd convinced his other two children, both daughters, to have babies as well.
I had met the infants, and they looked nothing at all like Abby had when she'd been a baby: a nearly doll-like round face, a mouth almost always molded into a smile. This kid, Elizabeth had observed soon after Abby was born, just loves this world.
Phil's grandchildren, on the other hand, were gargoyles. All of them. The oldest one, the one who was three, wasn't quite so repulsive anymore, but he still had the potential to grow into the Elephant Lad. Not literally, of course. Thank God. But the child's head was huge, and shaped like a beet.
"First of all, you drink way too much coffee," Phil went on. "I'm sure that's part of the problem. You might just as well be pumping it into your system with an intravenous feed."
When Phil had turned fifty a few years earlier, he'd given the stuff up completely. Gone cold turkey, replaced it with bottled water. It had seemed to me almost preternaturally easy the way Phil had learned to live without java.
"Some of the cups are decaf," I said.
"Poison," Phil said. "Pure and simple." Then he and his wife had gone vegan. No meat. No dairy. No doughnuts.
"Oh, come on."
"Really. The process often involves drenching those little brown buggers--the beans--in an extremely caustic chemical solvent. Your system has to cope with that."
"I'm sure some of the decaf's been made with water."
"It's still acid-forming. It's still putting a nightmarish burden on your kidneys. Your urinary tract." He paused, and I was about to respond, when he added, "Ever think of buying a dialysis machine? They're not cheap, but I'll bet it's the sort of thing you could rent to own."
Behind Phil, in the lake in the window, I could see a ferry moving west across the water toward New York. It was the first of December. Although a warm front was about to arrive, eventually even this part of the lake would freeze solid.
"I'll buy a snowblower first, thank you very much."
"Does that shaman you call your physician know how much coffee you drink?"
"That shaman's the primary-care physician I got with our health plan."
"Oh, great. You're going to put your health in the hands of the state. Wise decision."
"Phil, would
"That's the Law of Similars?"
"That's right."
"Why don't they just call it immunization, in that case?"
He'd rolled his eyes, irritated and defensive. "Look, I don't know that much about it. But it's not like this stuff is experimental. It may be 'alternative' in the eyes of a veterinarian or a doctor. But she says it's been around for almost two centuries."
Jennifer told me a thought had passed through her mind at that moment, but she'd kept it to herself: Medicine isn't like wine. I don't want my pills carefully aged. I want the latest, freshest, newest stuff that they have.
"So long as it won't make you worse..." was all that she'd said.
Though the time would come soon enough when she would wish to God she'd said more.
"You really should see a doctor," my boss was saying to me. "I know, I know. You have. See one again. Or see another."
"I don't think there's a heck of a lot they can do," I said, swallowing the last of my cough drop so I could sip my coffee. Months ago I'd discovered it was no easy task to sip coffee with a cough drop in my mouth. Actually, the sipping part was easy. It was the enjoying part that was hard.
"Not true. There's always something they can do. And, more important, there's always something you can do."
"Think so?"
"I do."
Phil Hood never seemed to be sick. As far as I knew, the only time the man didn't come in to work was when he was on vacation with his children or, those days, his children and grandchildren. Three years earlier he'd become a grandfather for the first time, and evidently he'd liked the role so much he'd convinced his other two children, both daughters, to have babies as well.
I had met the infants, and they looked nothing at all like Abby had when she'd been a baby: a nearly doll-like round face, a mouth almost always molded into a smile. This kid, Elizabeth had observed soon after Abby was born, just loves this world.
Phil's grandchildren, on the other hand, were gargoyles. All of them. The oldest one, the one who was three, wasn't quite so repulsive anymore, but he still had the potential to grow into the Elephant Lad. Not literally, of course. Thank God. But the child's head was huge, and shaped like a beet.
"First of all, you drink way too much coffee," Phil went on. "I'm sure that's part of the problem. You might just as well be pumping it into your system with an intravenous feed."
When Phil had turned fifty a few years earlier, he'd given the stuff up completely. Gone cold turkey, replaced it with bottled water. It had seemed to me almost preternaturally easy the way Phil had learned to live without java.
"Some of the cups are decaf," I said.
"Poison," Phil said. "Pure and simple." Then he and his wife had gone vegan. No meat. No dairy. No doughnuts.
"Oh, come on."
"Really. The process often involves drenching those little brown buggers--the beans--in an extremely caustic chemical solvent. Your system has to cope with that."
"I'm sure some of the decaf's been made with water."
"It's still acid-forming. It's still putting a nightmarish burden on your kidneys. Your urinary tract." He paused, and I was about to respond, when he added, "Ever think of buying a dialysis machine? They're not cheap, but I'll bet it's the sort of thing you could rent to own."
Behind Phil, in the lake in the window, I could see a ferry moving west across the water toward New York. It was the first of December. Although a warm front was about to arrive, eventually even this part of the lake would freeze solid.
"I'll buy a snowblower first, thank you very much."
"Does that shaman you call your physician know how much coffee you drink?"
"That shaman's the primary-care physician I got with our health plan."
"Oh, great. You're going to put your health in the hands of the state. Wise decision."
"Phil, would
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