Folk Medicine

Recently, while entertaining the stomachache phase of my cold virus, and having exhausted all other means of cure or balm provided by modern medical science, I finally turned to the top cupboard in the kitchen where my wife keeps her Indonesian remedies.

These foreign pharmaceuticals are most often in the form of oils of varying color and acridity, though there are also some lozenges. But for the most part we're talking about syrups and lotions.

Here among other potions was a bottle still wrapped in tissue paper, just off the boat from Jakarta (my mother in law had brought it back from her most recent trip).

Minyak Kayu Putih.

That's what the label on the bottle read. Oil of white wood.

And then in diminutive lettering on the side:

Sakit perut, perut kembung, rasa mual, gatal-gatal akibat gigitan serangga.

For stomachache, flatulence, nausea, and skin rashes from bug bites.

My lucky stars! Here, except for the part about bug bites, was exactly the thing I had been looking for, no matter what the language.

Next question, though, was how this medicine was meant to be administered. Do I drink it? Do I mix it with water? Surely it is not another of these deadly injectables--those are found only in America, right?

I decided the most prudent thing to do would be to ask my wife.

I entered the bedroom, holding the bottle forth.

Oh my God, you didn't drink that, did you!

Though I had not tasted even so much as a sip (the smell of the stuff is enough to deter so rash an act), I was chilled nonetheless by the alarm in my wife's voice, the instant blanching that overtook her face. What if I had? Would I be lying on the floor now, seizing, foaming at the mouth? I felt that I had just narrowly escaped the most gruesome sort of accidental death. I felt like crossing myself before some sort of shrine, blurting out a prayer of thanksgiving.

However, as no shrine was readily available, I simply answered that no, I had not consumed the deadly oil nor yet applied it in any manner.

Whew.

The oil, as it turns out, is to be rubbed directly upon whatever area is causing ones current discomfort--in my case, the stomach.

Oh come on. You mean to say that you just rub in some of this stuff and your stomachache goes away?

Yes. But just a drop, she warned.

Hmmm.

And so I rubbed.

As for the smell of minyak kayu putih, I am pretty much at a loss for words of description. I guess the closest thing I could compare it to would be the smell of camphor oil, and yet the similarity even here lies only in the acrid quality, a sharp medicinal, pungent character. Ether might serve as another example along the same lines.

I finished rubbing. I returned the cap.

Wash your hands, the wife said. Use lots of soap.

Now . . .

You all are not going to believe this, but minyak kayu putih works. I swear to it even as I live, though my disbelief be equal to that of the greatest skeptic on earth. It works!

Within minutes my stomachache had disappeared, just as if my magic. My flatulence went completely flat, as flat as a punctured bicycle tire. From here forth and forever after I will swear by the oil of the white wood, and turn my back to Tums and Pepcid, Pepto-Bismol and prilosec.

Amazing.

I wonder if they have anything for myelin damage . . . .

Faith Healing for the Faithless, Part III

There are, perhaps, as many styles of faith healing as there are churches, or pastors, or scriptural interpretations.

My first healing was a little bit like a lynching in that there was a character of aggressiveness to the thing. There was shouting and pushing, shrill threats made against the devil, and demands made of God. The truth was stood upon (so to speak), promises and guarantees cited. The stocks of belief had been brought for redemption. God was read His rights. Deliver!

My second healing, received this time at Calvary Church, with no finger foods, could not have been more different from the first. There was no shouting, no pushing, no jumping, no gesticulating. It was corporate in the sense that there were other people present, but these people kept their seats, deferring to the power of authority, i.e. the pastor, on the strenght of the notion, as I would suppose, that Satan could call upon 500 demons as easily as Christ could summon 500 angels--a number, in any case, which would easily overwhelm the small congregation.

This was so quiet, so subdued in fact, that I could barely hear what the pastor was saying. He spoke almost in a whisper--a mumble on top of a whisper--with a thick East Indian accent. These are the sort of things that only God can understand. And I was happy enough to let Him do so.

The very next day I talked to my neurologist on the phone. We spoke for a long time, not only about MS and the treatment of MS, but also of the theory of evolution, Cromagnum man, submicroscopic cellular response to disease and to drugs, disease processes in general.

He has his own ideas. His own faith. The promises he embraces come wrapped in statistics, and the only guarantee he stands on is that there is no guarantee. His best advice was that I start Copaxone, which, we are told, reduces the chance of new relapses by 30 percent.

How very far we have traveled, and in such a short time, from Arise, take up your bed and walk.

In any case, I did not mention God, for He seemed, and so very sadly so, perfectly besides the point.