What
heals?
By Kristen Sandor
O'Connor
Sandy attended
me.
She knew I'd been in
contact with poison oak and was having a severe
allergic reaction, so she phoned to see how I
was doing. Even without seeing me, Sandy sensed
the pain and rising panic in my voice.
"You really should be
using burdock," she told me. "Do you want me to
get some for you?"
"No, no," I said, "It's
too far out of the way. I'll be okay." I
couldn't let her help me. I didn't want to be a
burden.
"Really, I don't mind.
If you want me to, I will." Her tone was
genuine, but not insistent. She wasn't telling
me what to do; she was waiting for me to ask for
what I needed.
"I'll be okay," I said.
"The doctor gave me some prescriptions and I'm
sure they'll kick in soon. Thanks anyway." I
hung up the phone, but I was agitated. I'd
wanted Sandy's help, but somehow I hadn't been
able to ask for it.
By the next morning
things had gotten much worse. The medications
were all but useless. My body was on fire; my
face, neck and torso were swollen beyond
recognition. I could hardly open my eyes or
mouth, and I was covered with blisters that had
begun to crack open and seep. I went again to
the doctor, who gave me yet another prescription
for stronger drugs and sent me home.
Back at home there was a
message from Sandy. She left her number at work
and urged me to call if she could do anything. I
felt so alone and frightened; the pain was
becoming unbearable, and I was starting to
panic.
Perhaps I was becoming
delirious, because I picked up the phone and
dialed Sandy's number.
When she arrived, she
took one look at me and said, "Oh, honey." Then
she did the unexpected, and reached out to hug
me. I drew back, as if I were a leper. "No, no,
it's okay," she said. "I'm not afraid." In
disbelief I let her hug me; I certainly wasn't
able to say the same.
Sandy set a large canvas
bag on the counter and began to unpack. She drew
out a handful of prepared tinctures in little
brown and blue bottles, raw burdock root, a
collection of dried herbs and flowers, and
several books. "I thought I might read to you
later," she said with a smile.
In no time the kitchen
was buzzing with Sandy's energy. She peeled and
grated the burdock, then set it simmering on the
stove. She mixed tinctures and made teas for
sipping and compresses. She showed me how to dip
gauze wrapping into the mixtures and wrap them
around the more ominous wounds. She even cut and
sauteed some of the burdock with vinegar and
spices and we ate it for dinner over rice. It
was the first meal Iíd eaten in two days,
and I was surprised to find that I was hungry.
Soon I was back in bed
and feeling remarkably soothed. With a full
belly and most of my wounds wrapped in warm
cloths, I was able to finally relax. Sandy
pulled a chair up beside me and read me the
story of Roja and Leopold, a retelling of the
Little Red Riding Hood fable by Sally Miller
Gearhart. Face covered in warm soaked rags, I
found myself giggling at the antics of the
life-loving Roja and her dear friend Leopold,
the proverbial sheep in wolfís
clothing.
By the time Sandy left
some hours later, I felt the entire tide of my
experience had shifted. My condition itself
wasnít that much different, and yet
everything about me felt different. It took me a
while to even realize what had
happened.
Before Sandy had come, I
was fighting. I was angry and irritated, raging
at my body for hurting in this way, angry that
the medicines werenít working, furious
that I couldnít stop the pain from
consuming me. Sandy's presence changed
everything. For Sandy wasn't fighting. Sandy
wasn't a foot soldier in this war, she was a
peacemaker. She came only with the intention of
bringing me loving relief, nothing more. As she
tenderly wrapped my swollen body in warm towels,
as she hummed about the kitchen, mixing and
boiling, and chopping, as she lovingly sat by my
bedside and read sweet words to me, Sandy healed
me through her presence and genuine caring.
Sandy attended me.
For a long time I
thought about the difference between "modern"
medicine and the ancient ways of healing.
Healing, I realized, is not about scribbling out
a prescription to an ailing customer.
Itís not about drugs and chemicals and
miracle solutions. Itís about love,
compassion, and taking the time to sit with
someone, and through the touch of a hand, help
hold some of their fears at bay. Somewhere deep
in my consciousness I recalled a time when
healing was an art, and not a profession. I
could almost see in my mindís eye the
images of the Native American medicine woman,
singing and chanting over the body of a broken
warrior; and of the 16th century peasant woman
called in the dark to the bedside of an ailing
child, careful not to be seen so as not to be
branded a witch; and of the midwife, hands
hardened by prairie life, wearily, lovingly,
wiping the brow of her sister as the young woman
cries out in the pains of childbirth.
Sandyís presence somehow awakened these
memories in me, reminding me of these women and
my connection to them, reminding me of what it
truly means to be a healer. It also reminded me
to treat myself and my own body in a more loving
and tender fashion, just as Sandy had done; to
yield to the pain and move with it, to speak to
myself in a gentler voice -- indeed, to embrace
my own brokenness.
This life is ever a
mystery to me, and even as I lie here now, skin
healing, still burned and perhaps scarred by the
experience, I feel strangely thankful to have
had the chance to learn such a deeply profound
lesson. I am thankful to know and be loved by
someone like Sandy, and I hope somehow to pass
along this gift that she has given to me. Now
that the swelling about my eyes has gone down, I
realize I am seeing the world in a whole new
light. What a strange and wondrous thing!
Blessed be!
Kristen O'Connor teaches
language arts at the middle school in Graton,
CA. She is the single mother of two.
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