Illustration: Denis Shifrin

The healer opened the door to her studio in Ramot, a Jerusalem neighborhood. The woman radiated calm. Her honey-colored skin was supple, and her tousled hair fell in perfect nonchalance over her shoulders. Stress-dampening music and a blend of heady aromas ¾ sandalwood, galbanum, and cinnamon enveloped me as I closed the door behind me.

“Believe, believe,” I commanded myself, following her wholesome figure up the stairs. “This is going to work.”

“Stop it,” I told that nagging little voice that reminded me of the Chinese herbalist I had visited last week. The herbalist’s dress had been a shapeless thing in a bold floral print. A wreath of tired flowers had adorned the rim of her hat. Looking at her, I could think only of Ms. Frizzle and her magic school bus traveling in the Land of Herbs. After I answered a loaded questionnaire about the most mundane aspects of my life ¾ eating and sleeping habits, food preferences and menstrual anomalies ¾ the herbalist gave me a bottle of vile brown liquid and a money-back guarantee that it would cure my ailment. For a week I forced myself through the same ritual morning and night: gulping in trepidation as I clutched the bottle, flipping its lid and liberating the pungent odor of the herbal cocktail the herbalist had so lovingly mixed for me, swallowing in resigned revulsion, then ingesting the potion. Several times a day I convinced myself, why yes, it must be working. After all the woman gave me a money-back guarantee. The pain remained though, like a houseguest long overstaying her welcome.

The acupuncturist’s cool hands soothed me and covered me gently with a light blanket. At the healer’s instructions, I shut off my cell phone, severing ties with the world. Scents that belong in the markets of Nepal and India teased my nose. The music of string instruments lulled me to rest. It won’t hurt. I’m sure it won’t. All those people who go to acupuncturists wouldn’t go if it hurt. I watched as she set a stack of needles near my bare white ankles.

From my near-nirvana state, I recalled that homeopath in Bnei Brak whom I had consulted a month-and-a-half ago. Rabbi Akiva Street was so jammed with humanity, I was simply jostled downstream with other shoppers. There was no need to even move my feet. My mouth salivated from the smells of falafel and broiled shwarma, and my eyes were drawn to clothes appropriate for all shapes ¾ anorexic to obese ¾ flapping under store awnings. After entering the homeopath’s office, tiptoeing over mounds of ground bamba peanut snacks and rolling baby bottles, I had waited to be summoned by the homeopath until I could recite from memory the entire contents of the neighborhood’s printed circulars strewn about the office. Once I had entered his office, the homeopath had examined me visually, interrogated me about my taste in food, self-image, and intimate details of my married life. Most of the thirty minutes I spent in his office, he had pored over a thick manual, stroked his virtual beard, and grunted meaningfully. Finally he had lifted his head, drawn a tiny vial of crystals from his drawer, and instructed me to eat them.

“That’s all?” I had asked ignorantly.

“Yes. You will feel better in a month,” he had predicted.

After lightening the weight of my wallet by six-hundred shekels, I had left the office, perplexed. After the month had passed, the pain persisted; I still felt I had been catapulted into old age overnight.

Full of joy and calm, the acupuncturist placed needles into my legs, one-by-one, along my ankles, shins and knees. This is going to make me feel better. After all, this is a five-thousand-year-old technique. The regular doctors didn’t help. This is gonna work! Soon I’ll feel like I felt before, strong and athletic, not old and worn before my time.

I lay on the table like Gulliver, waiting for all the little people to appear, crawling over me. A mild but definite sensation of electrical current flowed from my toes to my thighs. Warmth spread from my lower back to my limbs. It’s undeniable! Something is really happening. I believe. I do.

“Now for the next month, I want you to eat only poultry, absolutely no soy products,” my healer said pleasantly.

You mean, the soy burgers and patties I eat every day for lunch?

“Why is that?” I asked in a humble tone.

“Soy products prevent the flow in the body. They make you retain heat. That’s why you are not healing.”

“Unhuh.”

“Also no dairy products.”

“No dairy products?” You mean the chocolate pudding with the fluffy cream topping I eat at the office in peace every morning for breakfast? ¾  my main reason for going to work?

“Dairy products prevent you from releasing poisons.” She nodded definitively.

I’ll submit to this diet. Whatever she says. Really. I trust. I believe. I’ve squelched that little know-it-all high tech voice. The one that relies only on ultrasounds, MRIs and blood tests. I’m going to be one of those open-minded healthy types who thrive on weedy scents in organic food stores.

”I have to tell you. I’m usually very skeptical about alternative medicine, but this time is different. I feel heat spreading from my lower back to my feet. I’m really impressed that I feel some effect so soon after the treatment!” I glowed as she turned, having removed the last of the needles.

“The heat?” she echoed sweetly. “That must be from the electric heating pad under you ¾ so you won’t get cold.”