Author and Inspired Writer

Hello once again, gentle readers. Here’s a quick recap of The Nutmeg Chronicles, parts 1 and 2.
Two years ago I swallowed some uncooked nutmeg that caused what I can only describe as a burn to my esophagus and stomach. This necessitated several visits to different medical professionals, but no one seemed inclined to do a scope and check it out until three weeks ago, at which time I was given the diagnosis of erosive gastritis and put on some medication for acid control. I’ve also embarked on a self-healing regimen which is progressing nicely, though not without a few hiccups. But still a question remained. The doctor said that my esophagus was fine. So then, why did my esophagus heal but not my stomach?
This, I think, is why.
Almost at the exact same time as I was pouring spicy porridge down my gullet, I embarked on an extremely difficult professional relationship with someone who pushed buttons I didn’t even know I had! Just about everything this person did made me angry, but I thought good Christian girls like myself didn’t feel anger, or if they did, they never expressed it openly.
So I swallowed it. Let it literally eat me from the inside out.
I overlooked, ignored, and excused, but I would not confront. For a year I seethed, and at one point, a tiny little nothing thing this person did put me in such a state I physically trembled with rage. But still I overlooked, ignored, and excused, and did not confront.
When the relationship ended, I had enormous trouble getting over it. Many a night I lost sleep finally coming to terms with my anger. But I did the work. I forgave – over and over, because the first time didn’t take. (Hate it when that happens!) I admitted my part in the trouble, and then I made amends, and felt a great sense of relief afterwards. I dusted off my hands and thought that’s that.
Only months later another professional relationship began with someone who could have been the first person’s twin judging by the stomach-churning, trouble sleeping effect they had on me. So I asked God, “What gives? Why the quick karmic rebound? Didn’t I learn my lessons the first time? Haven’t I forgiven enough, made amends, and moved on? What have I left undone?”
“You’re angry at this new person.”
“Well, sure, a little, I guess.”
“A lot, and you know it. But they don’t. Tell them. Or show them. For the sake of your health, let it out.”
“But what if I go too far? Lose control? I don’t want to hurt them.”
No reply. The Divine’s way of saying, “You’ll figure it out.”
So I prayed, for myself and them, put us both in the hands of the Divine, and asked that I recognize the signs if I was meant to speak. Days later, an unmistakable sign was given, and this flat-footed, near-sighted little girl from Creighton Mine stood firm and tall in her truth and said, “Enough,” said it without rancour, without hostility, but said it, and said it publicly. A very short time after that, under a completely different set of circumstances and people, I said it again. Again publicly. My heart was thundering both times, but I did it. And if needs be, with God’s help, I’ll do it again.
I was discussing anger management with my NP, and she reminded me that expressing anger won’t necessarily change people’s behaviour. Not the point. I’m not trying to get people to come to their senses and do things the right way, i.e. my way. I’m trying to heal and protect my health, which means I’ll have my say, then walk away.
But I will have my say.
So there you go, girls and boys. Me, learning another life lesson, painful and slow and oft times needing to be repeated, but learning nonetheless. I take hope in the fact that two steps forward and one step back is still progress.

So, once we returned home after my scope, I heeded the recovery room nurse and looked up “erosive gastritis” on the internet.
Bad idea.
I read for a bit, had a little cry, then went to find The Mister.
“It’s irreversible,” I said. “You can manage it, but it can’t be completely cured.”
The Mister didn’t miss a beat.
“I don’t believe it. Anything can be reversed. Diabetes can be reversed. Heart disease can be reversed. Ebola, for cryin’ out loud, ebola can be reversed!”
“Well, I think ebola can be survived, but…”
“It can be reversed!”
“Beg your pardon there, Dr. Beaudoin. While we on the topic…”
“Of ebola?”
“Uh, no, of reversing erosive gastritis.”
“Oh.”
“It appears that high fibre vegetables, the kind I love, like brussel sprouts, broccoli, cauliflower, all those send the stomach into higher acid production to break them down, which is obviously not a good thing in this case. But I can’t stop eating them! I can’t lose out on all the wonderful health benefits from them! That could lead to a whole other bunch of health problems!”
The Mister nodded sagely and took a moment to think about that. At last he said, “You know how your teeth don’t meet in the front?”
“Well…yeah…”
“You know how the dentist says you’ve got the worst bite he’s ever seen in all his years of practice?”
“Yyyeah…”
“And how he’s always calling in his colleagues, and how they all point and laugh as soon as you open your mouth?”
“He’s never done that.”
The Mister smiled.
“Not yet he hasn’t.”
“Got a point there, Pa?”
“How is it that someone who has the worst bite in the history of dentistry still manages to down a handful of nuts nearly every day?”
I shrugged. “I grind them up first.”
Dawn broke.
“I grind them up first!! I could grind up the veg into a pablum, already predigested! My stomach won’t have to work hard to break it down which will save it from turning up the acid. That’s brilliant! When did you get so smart?”
“When I married you.”
“Good answer.”
“Been practicing. And here’s something else. You’re feeling overwhelmed right now because you don’t have a plan. Remember what Dr. Rankin said in Mind Over Medicine – how you should think about who you want on your team to help you heal? Put together that ’round table,’ and think about what other practices you want to add to your self-care…” he leaned forward “…to help you completely reverse this.”
I smiled at his subtlety.
“Those are all really good ideas,” I admitted.
“It’s the only kind I get.”
I might have objected to that last statement if I hadn’t been feeling so much better.
So here’s my round table of healing professionals – first, Dr. K. for meds and procedures. My NP for primary health care. A dietitian, who I’ll see early next week. Various online naturopaths and health web sites to help me tweek my herbs and supplements. And my massage therapist who I’ll see twice a month instead of just once.
And healing practices – I will no longer set an alarm unless I have an early morning appointment, and I refuse to feel guilty about sleeping in. I’m healing. I will have two “relaxy” times during the day, unless I sleep in, in which case one will do. I will take time to meditate every day. Housework, never very high on my agenda, has slipped even lower. I need to marshal my energy even if that means saying no to events, even events I’d love to attend but know I don’t have the energy for.
And I will learn to express anger. That last one is the most important of all and will be the subject of my third and last post in The Nutmeg Chronicles.
Stay tuned, and thanks for reading and leaving your comments. Just lovely to have such support and company as I journey through this.

Interesting day, this past Monday. I had a gastroscope – where they stick a tube down your throat into your stomach to see what the heck is goin’ on down there. It took me two years to finally get the procedure, and it all started with nutmeg.
Breakfast, one morning in March 2014, I was introduced to nutmeg, sprinkled on my oatmeal, not cooked into it. Immediately after breakfast I had a strong reaction, a pins and needles sensation all down my esophagus, which Tums did nothing to help. This sensation kept coming back along with strong esophageal spams off and on for three weeks. The symptoms lessened somewhat after that, but after a few more weeks, I went to see my Nurse Practitioner and asked her to arrange a referral to a GI guy for a scope.
I waited three months to get in to see him, which is really not that long a wait for a non-urgent appointment with specialist in this area. When I finally saw him and he heard my sad tale of woe, he was disinclined to perform a scope, thinking the condition would heal itself. He told me to take Zantac as needed and come back in six months. Six months later, still symptomatic, he again declined to do a scope. Well, OK, so I asked if in December 2016, when I came in for my screening colonoscopy would he do the scope then, he said no, the guidelines were every ten years for gastroscopes. Uh huh.
Several months later I’m still having flareups and I call the office for another appointment only to learn he’s discharged me from his service which occasioned another visit to my NP. She was shocked.
“But it hasn’t been a year yet! You should still be able to see him!”
“Um hm. But I can’t. So let’s get someone else for a second opinion.”
She tried to get me into another specialist who refused to see me and recommended I see the doctor who performed my last colonoscopy for an appointment. Who would have been the guy who’d just discharged me.
“I sense the concept of ‘second opinion’ is getting lost here,” I said on yet another visit to my NP. “Perhaps you could get me into see Tony’s GI? I’ve had conversations with him and he seems approachable.”
Another few months wait, but success at last!
I explained my situation to him all over again, and asked if he would be willing to do a gastro with the colonoscopy in December/16 and he said sure! Contrary to what the first doctor said, gastros are done by symptomatology – if you’re symptomatic, you can have one. Yay!
Still with me, gentle reader? Think the story’s over? Not so fast!
Another flareup in December had me calling his office, but they were closed several weeks for the holidays. Sheesh!
“Divine, I really think I need help here,” I kept praying. “I’m putting it in Your hands. Again.”
January 2nd, I get a call, not from his office, but from the endoscopy clinic where he performs the procedures. I call back all excited only to learn they’d made a mistake.
“Oh, we didn’t realize you’re having your procedures at the end of the year. We’ll call you back then, OK?”
“Well, OK, but if I’m having worsening gastric complaints, should I call Dr. K’s office for an appointment?”
“Oh no! We can book a gastro right now for you! How’s February 8th?”
If I could have squeezed my lips through the phone line, I’da kissed her!
So Monday morning I gratefully have the procedure and when I wake up from the anesthetic the doctor gave me the diagnosis – erosive gastritis. Not ulcers yet, but…
First lesson learned? Follow your intuition, and don’t stop until you make someone listen.
More lessons learned and wisdom gained next time in The Nutmeg Chronicles, Part 2.

I mentioned in my last post, lo these many weeks ago, that after taking down the tree, it is my habit to clean the living room within an inch of its life. The Big Clean as I like to call it, doesn’t happen very often, maybe only once or twice a year, so I make it a point to be as thorough as possible, and this year even more so. Something happened when we threw out our old Christmas tree. An energy was freed up, and I started looking around the living room asking, “What else wants to go?” My eye fell on the bottom two shelves of the bookcase.
Now in my defense let it be known that the bookcase does get dusted every week, OK maybe every two, fine! every so often, but the bottom two shelves had become so crammed with binders, photo albums, books, and just plain junk over the years there was only about a quarter inch of shelf space showing – which made it one of the easiest and quickest parts to dust. But the idea of taking everything out, organizing it, chucking some, and cleaning the rest gave me pause. It would be an enormous job. But I decided if I didn’t do it now, it would never get done. The Mister got me some green garbage bags, urged me not to be sentimental about it, and to ‘Go to ‘er!” I went to ‘er and was so impressed with the results, I organized the rest of the bookcase, and the mantelpiece, the plants (of which we have 11 just in the living room!) and the top of the piano. All this in addition to vacuuming and steam cleaning the floors. The end result looked like a brand new living room!
The next day, we were eating lunch in the kitchen, and I complained to The Mister that the reflection off the living room floor was giving me a headache.
“It’s never bothered you like that before,” says he.
“Well no. But the big maple tree in the front is gone now, so there’s a lot more light coming in. And this is the first year we’ve had sheers on the windows instead of the heavy drapes. So that makes a difference too. And…”
“And?”
“Well…”
“Well?”
“Well, I just washed the floor in there.”
“Oh right!” he said, turning around to look at it. “I was wondering why it had turned about three shades lighter.”
I gazed at him steadily and silently.
He turned his spoon over a few times then muttered, “Ice gettin’ thin?”
“Starting to crack too,” I replied.
“Oooookaaaay,” he says. Then, “Why don’t you come around to the end of the table and see if that’s any better?”
I did as bidden, but no luck. The light was still too bright even sideways.
“Then move over to the corner here.”
“And have it poke me in the stomach every time I lean forward?!”
“There you go,” he said, returning to his soup.
Not hearing from me for a long moment, he looked up only to be incinerated by my look.
“Well, it wouldn’t be hurting your eyes, would it?”
“We need blinds.”
He put down his spoon and rolled his eyes.
“But that will cost hundreds of dollars!”
“Roman blinds.”
He thought about that for a moment.
“You mean the ‘roll-me-up-roll-me-down’ kind?”
“That’s the other name for them, yeah.”
A smile began to tug at the corner of his mouth.
“But that’ll cost tens of dollars!”
“Exactly!”
I’ll say this for the man, once he takes an idea into his head he sees no reason not to act on it immediately. That afternoon we unpacked four new Roman blinds and discovered to our disappointment that though all the boxes said they were 68 inches long, no two were the same length!
“We can bring ’em back and try again Missus, but there’s no guarantee we’ll make out any better.”
“No. Let’s just put the two longest on the ends and the two shortest in the middle, and leave it at that. They’re going to be rolled up most of the time anyway, so no one will see.”
In a couple days, he’d installed four gorgeous Roman blinds, and as an added bonus, we took the sheers and put them in the kitchen window (which looks out over our neighbour’s yard) and now affords me the privacy I’ve been craving in there for about, oh, 25 years or so.
The light is moving freely between the two rooms as it never has before, and there’s a wonderful sense of order and peace now that the clutter is gone. I feel like we’ve reclaimed some territory we’d given up through neglect.
Feels good!