Forgive me if this post doesn’t make sense. A certain Peanuts character has crawled into my nose and wrapped his filthy blanket around my brain. And what’s worse- he’s planning to leave it there, festering, for months.
What’s that you say? Stop whining and get yourself some antibiotics? Honey, I’ve been to that rodeo. I used to be ALL IN on antibiotics. Back when, every year, sometime between October and March, I would be in the same room as someone with a cold. The tiniest, most infinitesimal germ would float toward my grill. And bam! I’d get sick. For eight weeks. My cold would last about ten seconds before morphing into a full blown sinus infection, where the area behind my eyeballs would pretend to be a tiny shampoo bottle on an airplane and every breath I took sounded like I’d just surfaced from the bottom of the ocean. For two months of every year, I was a booger-nosed, crimson-eyed, blister-lipped fright with a noggin full of fresh cement. I’d eventually go to the doctor for antibiotics, often two rounds. Then, as a result, I’d spend the next couple months battling a whole host of other issues I will leave to your imagination.
After two rounds of antibiotics, I was so attractive! My skin took on the hue of asparagus that rests in the back of the crisper for too long (I didn’t even know it was in there! I would have grilled it months ago!). All except for my nose, which I would describe as Rudolph-esque, and in a constant state of chap. If you were to touch my skin anywhere, you’d find it to be cold in the heat and hot in the cold. When eating, I would want to rest my head in between bites. As you can imagine, my social calendar was awhirl with invitations. Everyone wanted me around, coughing on their kids and stuff.
I would finally, slowly, start to heal, and then, someone across the room from me would sneeze, and bam! I’d go down again. Una ronda mas. As the end of Spring approached, my symptoms would start to clear, only to reappear the following year. And repeat.
About twelve years ago, I started looking into alternative ways to deal with my ridiculous excuse for an immune system. That was when I figured out I had Candida. I know, I know, some people think Candida isn’t real, that it was invented by some fruit loop in California, probably the same jerk behind The Supplement Aisle at Whole Foods. All I can say is, I wish that were true, *eyes fill with tears, voice turns quivery*, because Candida is mean and terrible and makes me feel bad about myself and I don’t like her and I wish she would just go away.
In my quest to eradicate Candida, I have spoken to many, many health professionals, some mainstream-ish, some who quack. I tend to err on the side of the waterfowl. So what if they quack! I hiss at my husband at regular intervals, I don’t care if they tell me to stand on one foot with a twinkie taped to my arm pit while reading the instruction manual for the Super Bass-O-Matic in a French accent! If it clears up my sinus infection, they can poop in a pond and fly south for winter for all I care!
And it worked! Two years ago, my amazing naturopath slayed the Candida. She really did! She ate its liver with some fava beans. Now, thanks to her, ill people everywhere are welcome to sneeze on my pizza. You got a cold? Go ahead, cough on my salad! Step right up and lick my face while you’re at it! I am the picture of immune strength. At least, I was, until last week happened.
It was the dog fight of all dog fights. I thought I had it won, but the symptoms, they were flying at my head! I tried to dodge them, and I was feeling pretty successful, but then, a bad guy beaned me right between the eyes, literally. That’s when Team Sinusitus pulled ahead. I enlisted my naturopath, my acupuncturist, AND my chiropractor for the epic Battle of the Sinus Bulge. Team Lindsey pulled out the big guns. My naturopath had me lay on her bio mat, breathe magic air through her nebulizer, and rub ozone oil in my mouth and on my wrists. My acupuncturist? He turned me into a catfish, sticking a bazillion needles into my sinus points. (He also slid a few needles into my sleep points and my grumpy old lady points which is why I love him so.) My chiropractor massaged my face with special breathing oils, pressing so hard on my sinuses I thought she might permanently dent my skull. Then she prescribed herbs and a garlic-eucalyptus steam.
We were winning! Until we weren’t. I was well! Until I wasn’t. At one point, my head started hurting so bad that I wanted to run myself over with my van. That would have been too difficult, though, because I would have needed to drive and lay in the road simultaneously. Instead, I drove my squinting self to Urgent Care and got the stupid antibiotics. White flag, I raise thee.
In fairness, the antibiotics weren’t stupid when they relieved the pressure in my skull. But they are utterly moronic for possibly destroying every gut health advance my holistic team has worked so hard to achieve. For laying out the welcome mat for that banished female dog, Candida, always clamoring to re-enter the scene. Did I just win the battle and lose the war? Ugh.
No. That is simply not acceptable. This week, I may need to rest after walking the five steps from my kitchen to the dining room, but lo, I’m no quitter! My team will get busy stemming the post-antibiotic Candida bloom while I pound kombucha and apple cider vinegar and kimchi and kefir and miso and various krauts and walk in the opposite direction of sugar for a while. Candida, be warned- we will prevail. Candida, hear this- your days be numbered.