Soon after arriving here at my current workamping gig, two major things happened. Hurricane Nicole began forming and I got a wicked sinus infection.  When I was a kid, my allergies could get so bad they’d trigger a head-in-a-vice-teeth-hurting sinusitis. Leaning heavily on my inhaler bought me some time, but as I packed to evacuate to a hotel, I had to stop and catch my breath after every trip to the car.  After checking in, I went to the nearest urgent care where they confirmed my suspicions and gave me meds.  I got better.  For a while. 

What began as a headache two nights ago–one I thought might go away once I slept–has morphed into a drill bit spinning into my right temple and an ice pick shoved up my right nostril and into my right eye.  And this is after I’ve taken my last three Excedrin. The ibuprofen the other campground host brought me hasn’t helped either.  So I saddle up and head to the other urgent care where I’m told a different antibiotic would be better.

“That other one really isn’t the best for targeting the sinuses,” says Dr. Dan.

He leaves me there thinking about how hard it was to get my gut bacteria back in balance from the last round and unsure if I want to put my tummy through another. It’s a more holistic answer I crave, void of long waits in the pharmacy pick-up line. An idea streaks across my mind.

“Are you familiar with Colloidal Silver as a treatment?” I ask Dr. Dan as I pass his desk on my way out.

He hems and haws and expresses doubt. Once back in my truck, I Google it. There’s thousands and thousands of reviews about how well it works for all sorts of things. Then I think about how disempowering the whole traditional medicine process often feels. How I didn’t get to offer much input on my treatment plan. How I didn’t learn anything more about my body and how it works. How I felt like a slab of meat on a paper lined table, just another chart to file when it’s done. Adventures into traditional medicine often feel incomplete, lacking in creativity and ignoring the spectrum of natural cures.

What would make me feel better right now, I wondered as I buckled in. I could feel the weight of it pulling me down. I’d felt this despair before in various tender, healing scenarios and this question had always been a trusty compass.

Buy more Christmas wrapping paper.

It seemed such a silly directive. Benign and completely unrelated. But I know better. I know to go how it it resonates rather than reasoning. I don’t know how the events that followed cured me, but they did. There’s this nice kid who works at the Dollar Tree, always says, “Welcome to Dollar Tree” from register #1. But he wasn’t there. While I waited for the couple in front of me to decide on the perfect balloon, he popped up and opened register #2.

“How’s it going?” I made small talk as he scanned my toilet paper, wax paper, stain remover.

“Oh, ya know, gotta take it one day at a time.”  

That’s a 12-Step program slogan.  I shrink it down to tell him where I’m at. “Sometimes one minute at a time.”

This little exchange bonds us somehow. It’s as if a window has opened in the swamp I’m sinking in. We tell each other to “Have a good one,” which feels more like a prayer than some robotic parting words. Once outside, I notice a lightness in my being. I’m not going to get the medicine. I’m just going to have to get better without it. I smile at the afternoon sun warming my face. I applaud myself for not going off on the rude receptionist at the clinic. I think about my cozy camper with my cozy kitty and how grateful I am for both those things. And for that sweet kid as my checker.

Turning the last corner into the park, I’m envisioning my flannel pajamas as the crisp air fills my open window while I talk to the ranger at the entrance gate. Closing in on my site, I notice something. The pressure in my head has eased. My teeth are no longer throbbing. The drill bit in my temple has ceased drilling and the ice pick is gone, too. I look at the time–I’ve got just enough daylight to bike the trail.

I felt good. I felt great! And I didn’t even buy wrapping paper.