The Concocter (Who Prefers Evening Hours) Is In

A credible West Coast street psychic once relayed that I was a healer in a past life. (She also said I’d been a man. We didn’t get into whether I was a male healer; or a female healer in one life and a male something else in another, separate life - if I had held onto her business card, that answer could be one phone call, and a $10 debit-card payment, away.)

My healing strategy is to avoid medication as much as possible. I went off birth control last summer and can’t remember the last time I swallowed ibuprofen. My mom taught me that vigorous cardio helps with cramps; an old Doctors' Book of Home Remedies commercial taught me how to control a toothache by icing my hand; I taught myself that getting more sleep and disengaging from toxic people will help with tension headaches; and I’ve kept my Hashimoto’s Disease in check with dietary modifications and exercise.

I’ve been known to reverse sore-throat symptoms with pinot grigio.

Last month, a suffering co-worker told me about her hernia diagnosis. The doctors would only treat it with painkillers, which weren’t doing much. The distress in her voice was all it took to get me on the case. She’s sewn up holes in my clothes before – in a Senegalese restaurant.

After 20 minutes of online research, I prepared a list with tips on how to naturally treat hernias, emailed it to her, and followed up on the phone. The prize piece of advice involved elevating the head end of her bed with bricks. She declined my offer to grab the bricks for her.

When I sashayed toward her on a subway platform one morning last week, she looked as radiant as my future in this field. I won’t hang up a shingle until I’m able to cure the flu.