Few medical doctors or holistic therapists really understand or can help this kind of case.  To do so, the doctor has to be in touch with their own reactive mind and their own negative, evil impulses (which virtually all humans have).  Few people, including therapists, are willing to be aware of their own dark side.  But when we deny it in ourselves, we must pretend it doesn’t exist in others, and become its victim instead of conquering it.  Anyone who denies that they have or are influenced by their own darker aspects who seem to be totally sweet and light, is lying; proof of this is that they still are here on Earth.

All this generalizing about diagnostic methods and clinical approaches could go on for chapters and more chapters, and writing them would be fine if I were teaching a group of health clinicians that were reading this book to become better practitioners.  But I’m sure most of my readers are far more interested in some complaint of their own or in the health problem of a loved one, and are intensely interested in one might go about handling various conditions and complaints, what types of organ weaknesses are typically associated with them, and what approaches I usually recommend to encourage healing.  And, most importantly, what kind of success or lack of it have I had over the past twenty five years, encouraging the healing of various conditions with hygienic methods.

In the case studies that follow I will mostly report the simpler, easier-to-fix problems because that is what most people have; still, many of these involve life-threatening or quality-of-life-destroying illnesses.  I will tell the success story of one very complicated, long-suffering case that involved multiple levels of psychological and spiritual handling as well as considerable physical healing.

Arthritis

Some years back my 70 years old mother came from the family homestead in the wilds of northern British Columbia to visit me at the Great Oaks School.  She had gotten into pathetic physical condition.  Fifteen years previously she had remarried.  Tom, her new husband, had been a gold prospector and general mountain man, a wonderfully independent and cantankerous cuss, a great hunter and wood chopper and all around good-natured backwoods homestead handyman.  Tom had tired of solitary log cabin life and to solve his problem had taken on the care and feeding of a needy widow, my mom.  He began doing the cooking and menu planning.  Tom, a little older than my mother, had no sense about eating but could still shoot game.  Ever since their marriage she had been living on moose meat stews with potatoes and gravy, white flour bread with jam, black tea with canned milk, a ritual glass of brandy at bedtime, and almost no fresh fruit or vegetables.

In her youth, my mother had been a concert pianist; now she had such large arthritic knobs on all of her knuckles that her hands had become claws.  Though there was still that very same fine upright in the cabin that I had learned to play as a child, she had long since given up the piano.  Her knees also had large arthritic knobs; this proud woman with a straight back and long, flowing strides was bent over, limping along with a cane.  She was also 30 pounds overweight and her blood pressure was a very dangerous 210 over 140, just asking for a stroke.