Well, I won’t get too far into it. Let’s just say that someone on Facebook is highly offended by the promotion of the deadly COVID vaccine, and also toxic masking, and you can tell she’s serious because of all the capital letters. And:
“I will never go to a hospital as it’s wholly unnecessary.
I do not trust man or medicine, I trust myself and God.”
Well, she sounds like she has things well in hand. I don’t think she’s very old, so that helps with the health thing. She goes on to say she’s survived plenty of viruses already, and people die of many other things every day, that’s how life goes, and doggone it, I’m guessing that–except for a clear tendency toward hysteria–she’s probably in good shape so far. So I don’t want to be the one to tell her God is planning to take her out.
But it did get me to thinking about how many perspectives there are on taking care of oneself. Take my sister Margaret, for instance.
I don’t want to describe Margaret as “medically fragile” because, despite her economy of stature, whe was one stout-hearted, robust, fully-realized human being. She lived as big as anyone ever has. Let’s call her “medically”…hmm…let’s see…”screwed.”
She looked everywhere for an answer to her many and varied and ever-evolving pains, not to mention her mortality, which might have been more of an immediate concern to her than it is to most people. She had a number of beliefs that I would call “woo-woo” but I certainly had no interest in arguing about them. Whatever worked for Margaret was A-Okay with me. She definitely had a strong suspicion she had lived before, and might live in some form again, especially when some guru examined her aura and told her she had had polio as a youngster in the 1800s. Or something like that.
I guess that offered hope for a better throw of the dice the next time, although two consecutive lives with polio didn’t seem that auspicious to me. For the current incarnation, she tended to approach her own suffering by adjusting her expectations and spiritual outlook. Mind over mutter, and all that.
So it was no particular surprise to me the day she demonstrated her new theory about mosquitoes. Dave and I were visiting her in Maine and the density of voracious bugs was appalling. Margaret held her arm out and a mosquito landed on it. “Go ahead, honey,” she purred to the mosquito, “take whatever you need.” And we watched as the mosquito sank her proboscis into Margaret’s arm, for a good long while, and then drew it back out and plumply flew away. Margaret explained that remaining calm, revering all life, and allowing the good bug to do what it wanted to do, unmolested, would result in no welt and no itching.
So maybe. But at the time we were out on the shore being blitzed by the little assholes. I was plenty horrified by the onslaught, but when Dave saw the swarm coming–it blotted out the sun–he flew into panic mode. If mosquitoes are motorcyclists, Dave is their Sturgis rally. It was about to get gruesome in a hurry. While Margaret refined her temperament to include hospitality to mosquitoes, Dave took off running. The man could cover a lot of ground in a hurry. The car was parked a half mile away and a couple minutes later we could hear the door slam. Hell, we could hear the sound of mosquitoes in pursuit smashing themselves against the windows. And when we caught up to him, he was busy in the car sending as many mosquitoes as he could to their next lives.
I can’t remember if we checked Margaret’s arm in the aftermath. I do remember the first time someone offered Dave a couple Benadryls after a particularly harrowing attack. We were eating dinner and Dave was visibly swelling up and audibly anxious about how much worse he would be the next day. But he took the Benadryl. Next thing we knew his forehead was in the mashed potatoes and no one had the heart to remove him from his dinner. He slept for ten hours and woke up unscathed. That’s not God, baby doll. That’s Benadryl.