A few weeks ago the pocket of scar tissue in my liver I have been worried about tore open (click here for that story). The horse had decided to lift up the pieces of his panel fencing and take it apart so he could go for a little walk. I decided I couldn’t have him out wandering around where he could get out into traffic and such. I don’t know how much was just that it was the right time, how much was that lifting and balancing the panel put pressure on the right things in the right position, and how much was my brain deciding that a longstanding distress was less important than the current urgency. At any rate, I got the fence and the horse taken care of and then realized that there was a relief of pressure in my liver as well as the peculiar metallic tang of blood in my mouth.
Like most of my physical issues, the cutting edge prescription western medicine has to offer is bed rest. Apparently the mortality rate of bleeding livers increases rather drastically when doctors go in surgically. Meanwhile, what was backed up behind the scar tissue was really caustic fluid and scratchy lumps of petrified bile. And when I say caustic, I mean seriously nasty and acidic. I got some perspective on how acidic a year or so ago when I had a urine test the day one of these pockets burst. The doctor had to go scrounge up a different set of strips and retest to get an accurate reading because the ph was so low (4. something). It turns out I was feeling bad because most enzymatic functions in the body only work within the body’s normal ph 7.6 to 7.8 or neutral to slightly alkaline. Undiluted, whatever was coming out of my liver was closer to 2.6 than 7. 6.
The release of pressure also meant that blood started to flow into parts of my liver that have been deprived of it, perhaps for decades . The closest I can come to describing this sensation is recovering from frostbite. Burning, tingling, pressure, swelling, and yes, sloughing off of dead tissue. Then the fibrous mats of scar tissue that had built up to contain the toxic waste also started peeling off. And it turns out that the newly regenerated tissue is not particularly efficient at detox until it matures AND it is hypersensitive to the acidic scouring. Think of the nice tender pink skin left when you pick off a scab. Having raw torn tissue being scoured with acid was already making me rather grumpy and then my body started dumping all kinds of old poisons it had stashed when the circulation was shut down. When I started having copious amounts of thick cloudy mucus as well as old bile I also had to consider the possibility of infection. A liver abscess and/or systemic infection is seriously bad news and I really don’t want to be going there.
This of course is when my blood relatives and a few acquaintances who haven’t bothered to care if I live or die for ages, suddenly want to chat me up. There are times to burn a few bridges and this was one of them because what the liver does both esoterically and physically is move energy. People who are drawn to the energy released from this degree of suffering and near-death and perceive it as something positive that they are entitled to are functioning as energetic parasites. Unable or unwilling to create their own esoteric energy, they consume the life force of others. Last time I was at death’s door one of my sisters actually told me that I could not possibly have anything wrong with me because my energy was so beautiful, strong, and clear. I don’t expect a normal response of empathy or concern from these people, never mind help. Ultimate consumers, the suffering of others is the fundamental fuel for the parasitic lifestyle of the psychopath, and perhaps this degree of sickness serves, like a fever, to clear my field of them.
On the 3-d level, a word to the wise folks: I don’t mind if you don’t talk to me for six months or ten years, but chances are I am thoroughly well engaged in my own life during that time and a lot of it isn’t pretty. If you want to pick up the conversation again, starting out with how great my life is and how I am failing your expectations isn’t going to endear you to me. Either tell me a damn good story about your own life or consider the radical option of asking me whats up in my own life. And allow for the possibility that writing might be a way of accomplishing something constructive and distracting myself while my body does its thing.
All I want at this point is for all of the metabolic garbage to get OUT of my body. So thank god for coffee enemas. Coincidentally, what the horse wanted when he took the fence down was to eat the coffee grounds in the compost pile. Coffee increases the function of some of the detox pathways in the liver by as much as 700%, and increases the secretion of bile as well as being a mild diuretic. So, the horse now gets his daily handful of coffee beans without having to take the fence down, and I may be beginning to stabilize. But let me tell you, while the liver’s reputation for regeneration is well-earned and it can do truly remarkable things, the process can be excruciatingly miserable.
click for the beginning