However, what happens when health care facilities become so big and powerful that they are above the law? I am going to share a number of situations that I experienced at my local hospital, starting with the most recent. With this, I will be sharing the real truth with photos, videos and shocking detail of how Cedars-Sinai treats me, just one non-verbal deaf person behind closed doors.

My health took a major turn for the worst in May  2018, after a freak accident where my ear drum was ruptured. Something that should have healed easily… but didn’t. The infection was in my mastoid and quickly spread, disabling my entire body. It was a mystery to the dozens of doctors I saw, specifically at Cedars-Sinai.

I was referred to an Infectious Disease doctor, Dr. Benjamin Bluen, by my Otolaryngologist, Dr. Yu-Tung Wong. He was concerned by the various ongoing fungal cultures being reported back from the lab along with my quickly declining health…which took me nearly overnight from a healthy athletic person, running and completing 5 full marathons to being bed ridden and unable to walk to the restroom due to severe chronic pain and debilitating weakness.

Thanks to the help of the amazing, mindful, intelligent Dr. Wong, we figured it out. The combination of my ruptured ear drum with the invasion of toxic mold in my home, intensified by a water-filled ceiling collapse, was nothing short of a deadly mixture for my immune system. Little did I know it at the time that mold kills.

Even though Dr. Bluen didn’t figure that out, in spite of the fungal infections that were popping up on all my labs, nor did he even ask if my environment could have mold in it…I still trusted him because he came from Dr. Wong’s suggestion. Dr. Wong’s skills far bypasses anyone I’ve ever met. So when Dr. Wong suggests another doctor, I expect that doctor is in the same ranking as Dr. Wong, himself.

In April 2019, I removed myself from the mold exposure, still too ill to figure out whether I will fix my home or find a new one…I am currently staying an hour away. I still continue to use Cedars-Sinai as it is the only hospital I have ever been to and I have a history there.

My immigrant grandfather came from Beirut, Lebanon and his first job in America was at Cedars-Sinai. I helped fundraised millions of dollars for The Thalians Mental Health Clinic since I was a wee child. I donated so many countless hours working side by side with the leaders, Debbie Reynolds and Ruta Lee. Even my family’s celebrity management company completed their web site for many years… free of charge.

Cedars-Sinai is all I know and they are the best of the best… well, that is… if you are not deaf.

Toxic Mold Illness is severe and it can injure your entire body. In order to get it under control, you need good physicians working on top of the multiple diseases.

Since 2018, I have been asking… and begging… for a primary care physician at Cedars-Sinai, but have been continually rejected because somehow deaf people are not worthy. Finally, after getting rejected in the same fashion as this week by Dr. Michele Neeley (story to come), customer care apologized and randomly paired me with Dr. Stephanie Tran.

Dr. Tran was brilliant and patient and didn’t mind that I was deaf, but then she dropped me because it turns out she is living in the same building as me in Beverly Hills and has suffered from the mold exposure as well. I did not even recognize her or know her, but she recognized me so that was the end of that. She found it a conflict of interest… I did not. She told me to find someone new… as if it was easy.

After 27 attempts to find a deaf-friendly PCP at Cedars, I accepted the fact that the issue was systematic and if I wanted to survive I needed to take action.

I managed to find a great primary care physician in San Diego. One that doesn’t mind I am deaf. I have to travel south 101 miles because not one physician (out of 27 attempts) at Cedars Sinai would treat me.

As I continue to battle my health along with being denied access to health care, it continues to spread due to being continually denied access to health care, simply because I can’t hear or speak.

I have systematic infections spreading through my body, yet currently identified in my jaw bone. However, my immune system is too weak to handle the surgeries. So they are doing a little at a time, then redoing them because my body doesn’t heal and it rejects the antibiotics orally. I need IV infusion in order to receive the medication.

The first surgery created an infection at the surgery site… which was why my doctors decided I need to see an infectious disease doctor again for guidance on which antibiotics I can use as I am now showing allergy to all of them. The last surgery, they used IV treatment and that was a disaster because my veins are not working properly.

So naturally, I chose Dr. Bluen, because he is trusted by Dr. Wong and I trust Dr. Wong without any question.

On March 3, 2021, my office scheduled an appointment for me with Janet at Dr. Bluen’s office, asking for a sooner time, explaining I was in immediate need. Janet stated this was the soonest. She was instructed and reminded I was deaf and needed an interpreter. Even though it states “DEAF” all over my record as if I am labeled as a contagion.

I have become smarter due to the countless times I have waited weeks or months for my appointment, traveled by private driver hours simple to be turned away, treated poorly and denied services and interpreters without any notice.

So this time, I had another person in my office contact Blue Shield of California and have them send an interpreter. So now I had two arranged interpreters 3 weeks before the planned appointment… So I thought.

I took Uber which was over $200, one way.

I texted my office while I was on my way asking them to make sure an interpreter was present. Just to be extra certain.

My office contacted Dr. Bluen’s office on my behalf at:

3:01 p.m., no answer, left message
3:12 p.m., no answer, left message
3:14 p.m., no answer
3:35 p.m., no answer

Oh, but where were they? A fully staffed medical office. Why wouldn’t they be answering their phones in the middle of the day? Well, I was soon to find out that there were about 4-5 women working, all talking, joking and hanging out amongst themselves.

This isn’t the worst of it.

I went up to the office and saw there were no seats or places to sit and they locked the door, it had a buzzer to use and so I went back down to sit on the curb outside the building. I have to sit. It is painful to be upright. Just walking 5 feet is tremendous pain which penetrates my body from the bottom of my legs up to my torso.

Since I have been unable to get a proper primary care doctor I still do not have the proper mobility aids that fit my needs and with covid restrictions, I am stuck in pain unable to sit.

Finally, since they were not answering their phones or calling us back, I went back up and rang the bell at the time of my appointment.

Out comes a very abrupt, insensitive, rude, uncompassionate, ignorant unprofessional employee called Alejandra, even though the name on her badge is Maria Carlos.

She is talking through her mask. I point at my ears. This has worked everywhere. Strangers, homeless people, little children, foreigners, grocery store…all understand what that means. She obviously didn’t and continued to talk to me through her mask, seemingly becoming annoyed that I was not able to reply. I continued to point to my ears.

She forces on me anti-bacterial hand lotion and hands me a new mask. She writes back and forth with me but still keeps talking to me through her mask. I am nearing tears while I am in tremendous pain and in need of a seat. She makes me wait at the door way while she goes back and forth, I guess getting information on how to handle a deaf patient… instead of offering me a seat while she investigates whether or not she is allowed to let me in.

She finally points to where I am to sit. I turned on my captioning app to alert me as to what is being said in the room.

She writes to me on a post it note, “Are you the interpreter?” Then asked me repeatedly if I am the patient. Then, not even respecting me enough to address me by my correct name, saying we have to reschedule… not once but twice.

Let that sink in a minute. I am not speaking. I am pointing to my ears. I am obviously not understanding a word she is saying through her mask and she writes on a piece of paper asking me if I am the interpreter. How is it that Alejandra even has a job at a doctor’s office?

As she is rejecting me. I am not willing to just leave. I want the doctor to see me, with or without an interpreter. They argue with me…they were not going to see me without an interpreter. Even though I can lipread. They have clear masks. I can write, they can write. I have apps that both caption verbal words and speaks my words. I can facetime a person to interpret. They can contact their interpreting services department, which is basically useless but still funded.

Sure… none of those are really proper accommodations per the law. A law that has been in existence for more than 30 years, however, it is a way of fixing their INADEQUACIES and allowing me the immediate health care I need. They write to me again different verbiage, same thing… “we are not going to see you today”

My last attempt to be heard, I make it clear by typing and in no sense exaggerating my words… “I am dying” and all she does is nod her head, clearly validating her anti-social personality… telling me to reschedule. I then continue to type on the same note.

Everything else that happens is not relevant although you can read for yourself.

Once again, I leave Cedars Sinai crying and exhausted. I sat waiting on the curb to catch my breath to figure out how to get the help I need without the humiliation.

I spent my last bit of energy to shower, dress, stumble to an Uber on crutches in pain (level of a 8/9), short of breath, dizzy and weak. Then on my way there fighting the nausea from the motion of the car all the way there. I get there expecting to find a sympathetic office to quickly give me the meds I need to help cure my infections.

Instead I get an uninformed, group of employees standing around socializing confused as to if I am the interpreter or not and completely ignorant to know of my situation and worse yet… that deaf means you can’t hear and the fact I’m not talking means I am nonverbal.

It was so foolish of me to think that Dr. Bluen’s office was as good as Dr. Wong’s office who has not once let me down in spite of the daily/weekly/monthly interactions and in a much larger office.

It was so foolish for me to think that both interpreters would not show and that the office would not answer their phone to give me enough notice to find another interpreter. SO FOOLISH OF ME to think that they knew and understood the law which allows me equal access to health care.

This is not the first time Cedars-Sinai has humiliated and degraded me at the expense of my health, safety and comfort. It is not the first time I’ve been reduced to tears for the humiliation of having to beg for healthcare, while in tremendous pain… one that our current administration states is a “right for all”….

If I do not make my voice heard with this incident, it will not be the last.

My appointment to have a procedure done on the next day will be done with risk due to the failure of Dr. Bluen’s office to obey the laws of equal access to those with disabilities.

I’m stuck, if I postpone the procedure, it will be another 4 weeks I’d have to wait for an opening which my tired and exhausted body can’t make.

As I sit here writing this, I am on the verge of vomiting the wee bit of soup I had for breakfast and my body is freezing but yet overheating. I can’t walk at all. My body is swollen from the immune system issues and the growing infection in my blood, my legs are so swollen and I have pain in my body. I am so uncomfortable…. Then I get a telephone call from Adel at Case Management. Only I didn’t know who it was from while she was calling and it wouldn’t have mattered because I am DEAF! Do you not get what deaf means… it means I can not answer my phone.

It’s 2021, who does not understand “deaf”… or do text messages, emails and portal messages at Cedars. Why would they choose to phone me?

Oh but that is not all, I see I have another message from the office manager at Dr. Bluen’s, called Jackie Robertson.

After my office spends about an hour to reach Adel, yes the people calling on my behalf are employees that work for my company, which means again Cedars is costing me more money and wasting time for something that is a guarantee under the law (to provide equal access).

Then their office manager, Jackie decides to “go check the records to see if she has permission to talk with Spencer.”

Yet, you did not have permission to turn me away for an appointment I waited three weeks to have… discriminate against me based on disability, deny me health care or continue to subject me to further humiliation by phoning me when you know I can’t hear… but now you are going to further waste my employee’s time and my money by making her hold and wait to see if you have my permission to talk to her.

Quite honestly, I didn’t have a plan for you to deny me my right to health care and to communicate with me. You have an obligation to accommodate me within all aspects of the business of health care. Why would I need to approve others to speak for me if you were doing your job and following the laws of our state and country?

Obviously IQ is not a requirement to work with Dr. Bluen… maybe you need to do some house cleaning. Maybe Dr. Bluen is equivalent. After all he did not help to figure out a pretty obvious problem the last time I saw him… that any health care provider should have been able to identify.

As I was begging them to still see me yesterday, I watch another man about my age, walk in, go to the counter and say a few words back and forth and then sits and gets called within minutes to see the doctor. MINUTES. No questions asked.

I guess I am not entitled to the same health care. Even though he is not in immediate need for health care, and I am. He is walking. My infections are so bad, I can no longer even walk.

I was turned away, even after I showed the moronic excuse of a person that was turning me away the Uber receipt of $200+ to get there alone and stated my severe condition and how I needed to see the doctor.

Moronic excuse of a person… too rough? Well, I just call it as I see it. What are their excuses for denying me healthcare while I am in such critical condition?

NONE! It is one million percent inexcusable.

The post Cedars-Sinai Is Deadly For The Deaf appeared first on Canyon News.

EARLY EDUCATION

My mum thought it was a good idea to accelerate my education. It wasn’t enough that I knew three languages before I could tie my shoe, but she was set on getting me into school by the time I was 4 and we’re not talking kindergarten here. She argued with the administration to take me early for first grade. When they wouldn’t, she found a school an hour away and moved all my siblings for the year into that school.

She was far too familiar with actual oppression of women, specifically in the middle east. When she immigrated to America she made a promise to herself that her children would have the foundation to succeed and all the opportunities that she didn’t.

So off we went to learn just about everything before we were even old enough to vote. My mother would learn shortcuts with each child. Being the youngest, I had the most education before my time. One of her ambitious goals was for me to start college at the same time I started high school. When my friends would go home and play video games, I’d be off to college or some type of extracurricular activity.

ELECTION DAY LESSON

My first taste of the real world from an English class at UCLA. The cheery, attractive teacher, who eerily resembled Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, often spoke of how capitalism is bad because only the rich get their needs met. She regularly declared her opinions as fact.

On election day, she spent the entire class telling us who and what to vote for. She expressed the importance of voting for her selections to unsuspecting obedient students who diligently took notes while she went through the entire sample ballot, promising extra credit for those to cast their ballot.

I wasn’t old enough to vote, but I was old enough to know that wasn’t right. My parents often talked about voting being sacred, a privilege of being American. My dad wasn’t yet a citizen and he would tell us quite often how lucky we were to live in a democratic nation. How we had the freedom to become anyone and do anything we put our minds to.

That Election day experience stuck with me while I observed other patterns of control, domination and conformity encouraged and often pushed by our educators.

FIGHTING FOR NOTHING

Almost every week there was some new protest on campus. You were encouraged to participate, often by the teachers. They’d chant, yell, scream, destroy property and voice their opinions which often appeared as a life or death situation.

I began to feel a sense of panic that we were living with so much injustice and oppression. Many students were melodramatic. It was like they didn’t want peace in their lives. They had to be fighting some cause to feel worthy. How contrary that was to what my parents were teaching me about this country.

Meanwhile, I was being aggressively persuaded to get interpreters and enforce people to accommodate my deafness by the campus advocates. If someone didn’t go out of their way to accommodate every lesson, caption every video in class, they urged me to be upset and fight them, maybe sue them.

NOTHING IS FREE

It wasn’t long before I was pushed by the disability advocates to sign up for government welfare. “They will pay all your school under Vocational Rehabilitation”, they’d say, “All you have to do is get a job, then quit it and then you have reason to file unemployment and disability.” They had the whole system worked out then I’d get free hearing aids, free books and free education.

I knew that sounded all wrong. Get a job, then quit it? My parents immediately objected, “Nothing is free, someone pays for it.” Then went on to remind me… we don’t take hand outs. We leave that for the real disabled people.

The school advocates continued to harass me on this topic and made me feel so uncomfortable that I rejected their interpreter service the next quarter because of the drama. What’s it to them whether or not my parents paid, I paid or the government paid. Why are they pushing me to take welfare?

Later, I learned that for every student on government welfare, they’d received more funding.

CONTROLLING FREEDOM OF SPEECH

In classes, we often had open discussions. I was in a psychology class and they were talking about transgender issues and a male student stated his opinion which was obviously contrary to the other female (lesbian) student’s opinion. They literally battled it out in class and the teacher made the guy leave because of his opinion. I remember he remained calm he was just stating how he felt and respectfully so.

The female student was, on the contrary, emotional, hostile, aggressive and combative.  I didn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to express his opinion without being silenced. That bothered me.

In my house when we disagreed, we listened to the other side and tried to understand their position. We’d not just scream our own points and silence the person we disagreed with.

As time went on, I realized that college was all about being a puppet to our teachers, to the leaders, to the administration… to our government.  I wasn’t going to take part in their charades, their protests, their problems were not going to be mine. I was going to be a success in this world in spite of the fact that I was first generation, a minority and deaf. The only person I’d owe my successes to… was my parents or me. I didn’t need the educators to manipulate and force me into their identity politics.

I often felt bitter about the way the public educators silenced freedom of thought, speech and expression.

DECIDING OUR FATE

When Obama promised us free health care, I was excited. Even though “free” would soon become “affordable” and neither came to fruition.

I grew up without insurance. My parents owned a family business and didn’t spend money if we didn’t need to. Insurance wasn’t considered a necessity. Luckily we were healthy and only went to see the doctors when we broke something.

During the first year of Obama’s presidency, he met with pharmaceutical executives behind closed doors. At that time I was experiencing a loved one with side effects from a pushed medication so it made me concerned about where our country was going with health care. Why was the president more loyal to pharmaceutical companies than he was to the American people?

I then noticed how the government was pressured into accepting his deal of so many pages, too many to read and they agreed to a bill they never read. I thought that was weird and controlling but again didn’t put much thought into it… after all we “could keep our same plan and same doctors”, so we were promised.

Then in 2014 when Obama required all health insurance companies to report the medical records to the IRS for each insured patient, I was scared. I knew this was not right. No one seemed to care. I immediately canceled my health insurance… which had dramatically changed for the worse and was more costly. I would have to have $12,000 of care before the insurance kicked in. I opted to pay the penalty every year for not having health care. (Thanks Obama!) Oh well, it’s better than having my data stored in some government office to be possibly held against me in later administrations.

People told me I was overreacting. “You need health insurance”, they’d advise. I knew too well what my college years were full of. They wanted to force me into this “deaf system”. They wanted to make me dependent on a government that would ultimately decide how much money I need, what classes I need to take, etc. I wasn’t about to do that then or now. Even my deaf friends all fell for it and they are victims of the system. All living in poverty, not achieving success, because if they make too much money they lose their free money. Once you get that free money without working. It makes it less motivating to decline it and go get a real opportunity.

Last summer, I had a freak accident which turned into a medical nightmare, incurring more than $72,000 dollars in bills. As my condition seemed to get worse and I was being turned away from real treatment at the hospital because I didn’t have insurance. I thought, “Oh my God, they are going to let me die of this infection right near my brain because I don’t have health insurance.”

Each time I went into the ER, they simply stabilized me for a few days, then sent me home. That wasn’t curing me. That was their way of handling patients without insurance, “Stabilize then release”. Even though I own property and houses, and I had a real reason to not want to have my information become the governments…. they didn’t care. They only cared about that insurance card.

My health wasn’t getting better. I needed major surgery and health care. I finally gave in and signed up for Blue Shield.

Now that I have insurance and there is a possibility they are going to have a database that they share with the IRS which will include the fact that I have a disability.

Should we enter into a socialist government, as it is currently being pitched by Progressives, I am in trouble. The same loud mouth leaders in my university that tried so hard to push me into being oppressed and taking governmental hand outs are now going to control whether or not I get medical treatment or a job.

I can just hear the naysayers, “Oh it will never get to that extreme”. Did you ever imagine, in a million years, it would be legal to kill a baby in America? I didn’t… and it is in New  York.  If they can murder a baby and still sleep at night, don’t you think turning a deaf person away from a governmental job or health care would even bother them? Think again.

You see, America is meant to be a free country. Contrary to what our educators are teaching the youth, Capitalism is a great thing. It gives everyone the freedom to create their own American dream. If you take that away from us, we will be living in a Socialist dictatorship much like Venezuela. It will be a sad sad world.

There is nothing Progressive about silencing freedom and forcing people to conform.

The post Progressive Socialists Silence Freedom appeared first on Canyon News.

So the average person gets nervous, runs to their nearest doctor or give aways to get a flu shot. Most will boast, but they are free. Others will say it is required by their employer or the hospital or school they volunteer at, etc. I am sure you have seen a “Flu Shots Give Here” sign at just about every pharmacy in America. Everyone is in a panic to get their flu shot.

However, no one tells you the flip side.

All these media outlets are getting pushed by highly paid publicists begging for the publicity for their client (the pharmaceutical companies in most cases). They all report the exact same thing. If you watch both Fox News and CNN, the only time you will see them agree or have a similar segment is when it is pharmaceutical related.

Those signs you see at CVS, Walgreens, Walmart, and just about every other place that sell aspirin are paid for. Why would they advertise so aggressively unless they were trying to sell it, or push it. Something that works well does not need advertisements. Word of mouth and demonstration that the flu shot would work years ago would have carried over to 2018.

They won’t tell you that more flu shots were administered last year than any year in over four decades. So if the flu shot works, why were there more deaths last year than any other year?

Furthermore, they won’t let you know that this is a trillion dollar competitive highly advertised business that makes one field dirty rich…the pharmaceutical companies.

They won’t tell you about the side effects, as most people either get sick from the flu shot, and spread it, or they suffer a reaction to getting the flu shot.

This continues to benefit the same businesses that put out the flu shot because once you are sick, you go to the doctor and get antibiotics. Therefore, its a double whammy for them.

When you go get a flu shot, you are getting the flu. You are spreading the flu. Passing the panic along. You are endangering your loved ones.

The flu shot is the biggest con that our government supports in America and abroad. Do you really want to poison your body and your loved ones?

Think twice before injecting that poison into your body.

The post Got A Flu Shot? appeared first on Canyon News.

My Story.

My father was diagnosed with PSP.

PSP is short for Progressive Supranuclear Palsy; it’s a form of Parkinson’s. PSP is a brain disease which looks very much like Lou Gehrig’s disease (ALS). It is the world’s most evil disease. It robs you of everything except your brain, so you can have a clear mind to painfully witness every detail of losing your life as you knew it. It robs your loved ones of the good memories and somehow replaces the good memories with painful, unthinkable incidents while you feel helpless watching your loved one nearing death.

My family has absolutely no history of PSP or any type of brain disease in generations of my healthy long-living ancestors. In fact all my grandparents and their parents and their grandparents all lived past the age of 88, all with high cholesterol.

It was my father who didn’t get that far. Why? Because he chose the “American Way” and signed up for Kaiser Insurance and got a physical exam to “prolong” his life. That doctor, Dr. Sean Shigeo McCarthy, who like so many others try to earn extra brownie points (aka vacations, gold watches, lunches, etc.) from the pharmaceutical companies, pushed Lovastatin on my father.

My father trusted the doctor and followed his advice. Even though he had side effects within hours of his first dose. The doctor insisted it wasn’t statin-related and used every sales gimmick he could (such as “if you don’t take statins you will have a stroke or a heart attack,” or “don’t believe the bad reviews you read on the internet”) to keep my father on it for 2 consecutive years and into a complete disability. I saw what was happening from day 1 to day 730, but my father chose to believe the doctors over his young naïve daughter. Finally, Kaiser admitted his symptoms were statin-related… two years and loads of brain damage later.

Our Death Sentence.

Then onto neurologists who diagnosed those exact same symptoms as PSP. We were told straight out that my father had PSP and will die within five years. The doctor told me “there is NO CURE and death is certain.”

Before that initial and fateful physical exam, my father was healthy, strong, never went to a doctor except emergency runs, you know those crazy days when he cut his finger on the lawnmower picking up a dog toy or getting run over by his friend on the golf course, all of which seem so uneventful now.

My father was my training partner for marathons. He was also my biking, tennis and gym partner. He golfed at least 2-3 times a week. Healthy, strong and young, in fact most people thought we were a couple because he looked and acted my age.

My Search for a Cure.

Unwilling to give up on my father, I went online to find any wee ounce of hope, stumbling across the organization called CurePSP. According to their website, their vision is “A world free of neurodegenerative disease” and their mission is “Awareness, education and a cure for devastating prime of life neurodegenerative diseases.” In fact, they receive more than $2.5 million per year in revenue to operate a website that basically collects money. Then some of this money goes to fund research (which of course is code-word for Pharmaceutical play).

I soon discovered they simply wanted our money. I asked, “But are you close to a cure?”

“Oh well, not for at least 5, 10, 15 years, but rest assured they are hard at work!”

Even though we were ready to donate every last penny of our estate to help find a cure, after doing some math…. It wasn’t very promising:

5 – 2.25 = 2.75

-5 years (from date of symptoms) minus 2 years and 3 months (the day he started statins)

Equals…

-2 years and 9 months!

Therefore, I am not banking on CurePSP to find a cure by the end of my time limit.

Ralda James Was My Answer… So I thought!

I continued my search finding an article about Ralda James, a lady from Australia, who reversed her daughter’s brain damage through nutrition. (Woman’s Day, Australian Edition November 13, 2006). This truly gave me the hope and motivation I needed.

After an intense search to find her… I contacted her with the “I am a journalist with a newspaper in Beverly Hills and we want to interview you”… I immediately received a positive reply.

The interview went on and on but then we got to… “What was in it?” She refused to share.

Frustrated, at the end of the interview, I confessed and desperately begged and pleaded, “My father has been diagnosed with PSP and I can’t lose him. He’s the last of my family.”

Stone cold, she replied, “I can’t offer you the recipe because I’m working with the government in Australia to investigate this and improve it then will be released.”

Mind you, this article was written more than 11 years ago, and no further details have been released on her success story.

Off To Reinvent the Wheel… without help!

Completely devastated and broken hearted I sat there staring at my notes from the interview… until it occurred to me… if she can do this… so can I!

So I started googling words she used (i.e. full fat dairy instead of skim milk, Myelin Sheath). I reviewed the initial article which the only location to find it at the time was on YouTube, someone at the grocery store videotaping it off the shelf. I hung on every word. I went into full study mode One at a time I would hit useful information.

We discussed and documented everything and it literally felt like throwing spaghetti at the wall and hoping it stuck. But then 5-6 weeks in, we started seeing symptoms reverse, such as his blindness, inability to swallow (dysphagia) coughing, unexpected falls, inability to walk and use of the stairmaster again.

Against All Medical Advice, We Found a Cure!

How did I know the improvements were a result of the supplements and not a coincidence? Well, thanks to the greedy tunnel vision doctors who kept convincing my father to stop supplements, we know the reversal of PSP symptoms was directly related to these supplements.

More than once my father decided to stop everything because of a doctor intervening. His health would rapidly decline, we’d end up in ER daily/weekly, until he’d decide to go back on them again. Then we’d see the improvements. So by the time we were on round two and round three, his condition was worse than before at the start and the documenting became more detailed and evolved. I noticed things the next round that I didn’t on the first, like consuming more water is important with high protein intake and so forth.

But Wait… I Found a Cure, Don’t You Care?

Excited by my miraculous findings… I went back to all these organizations including CUREPSP to share and hope for their help but quickly learned the hard cold reality… they just don’t give a damn!

CurePSP had (and still has) NO INTEREST in taking part of this journey!

They have power, doctors, education… AND YOUR DONATED FUNDS. I was simply a young daughter trying to save her best friend, father, hero and the only person left in her family by defeating this evil disease. Why wouldn’t they help me with these life-saving discoveries? After all, their name says they want to CurePSP.

They didn’t care as much as the rat’s bum they poisoned and killed in their research labs. After all, we are run by a country owned and operated by Pharmaceutical Executives who want to protect their trillion dollar scheme. They decide what gets out there, not the truth but fantasy. It has to be medicinal to cure you or it won’t cure you… rubbish!

It didn’t matter though…  because I watched my dad improve, day after day, night after night. I was thrilled and excited. My dad proudly nicknamed me the “mad scientist” and to be completely transparent… his approval was the only bit I needed in anything I ever did including curing PSP in him. However, with a little help I could have gone so far, so fast.

Then They Mocked Me… Not Smart!

So when I opened up my email to find this letter from Lucas Metherall at CUREPSP I choked on my tea. I just couldn’t believe it.

Read the emails from CurePSP here.

They didn’t have the time of day to reach out to me when I had a loving father with a death sentence… they didn’t bother replying when I had some hopeful news and documented progress to report… FOR FREE, now they are reaching out to me in sarcasm because, God forbid the people who actually have PSP find a cure and for free… as, it would put people like Lucas Metherall out of a job.

CurePSP is wanting your money. I want to know why they wouldn’t want to know my findings, my documented improvements, my efforts that I found on curing t

his ugly disease. Is it possible they are simply motivated by money and power. Robbing from people with the disease, waiting for your loved one to donate their life’s savings when they die of this ugly disease. How many have donated to CurePSP because they lost their battle?

His emails ask if there are any reviews on this. Well get off your lazy bum, Lucas Metherall and do your job and get your organization to take what has been learned and expand, test, research, improve and then provide what you are claiming to want, a CURE for PSP.

So time has passed, I no longer am fighting for my father to overcome PSP. He is in heaven with my mum and I don’t have anyone around me that has this deadly disease and I have nothing to gain or lose by sharing my years of work. I have no interest in writing a book or selling a pill. So, I simply am passing it on as my father would have wanted me to do.

It’s the people out there that have PSP and who are listening to their doctor tell them its time to die. If you want to bet your life on believing that doctor, go right ahead but let me tell you, from one person to the next: they are lying to you! There are cures. They just won’t support it because it doesn’t pad their pockets.

What’s ironic is that the person at CurePSP that wrote the email below is from Australia just like Ralda James, the lady that refused to give me the recipe she found that cured her daughter so very long ago. Is it an Australian thing to hide the cures so people can die a tortuous death? Or is that just a coincidence?

If Ralda James was honest and forthcoming to me it would have reduced my endless sleepless nights of research and helped me develop something more accurate. If CUREPSP joined in, we’d have a cure right now for not just PSP but all brain diseases.  How many people need to re-discover the ground recipe from scratch and not have a polished tested, reviewed, and modernly supported program? Instead I was forced to sit up all night alone by my father’s hospital bed as he was painfully coughing and choking from one of the most horrible aspects of the disease (dysphagia) while researching from scratch to find a cure by breaking apart every word she said as if it was a puzzle to find what she already found, tested and succeeded. How unfair is that?!

LUCKILY I found what helped my dad. This is what I’m going to share no matter who tells me I cant. Maybe one day, someone smarter than me can fix this into a simple cure. Because we are all humans and deserve peer help when in need… and anyone standing in the way, including Ralda James or this Lucas Metherall from Australia should rot in hell. No… better yet, can some doctor put them on statins or better yet, shall they suffer by watching their closest loved one get struck with an ugly incurable disease so they can feel as helpless as I did, while others stand by and think “Tsk Tsk… your loss isn’t my loss”

If you stand in the way of the truth, and prevent someone from knowing there is something that reverses symptoms, you are evil and should be charged with the crime of torture. If you are in the business of CURING PSP, taking money from innocent people, you should be taking what people have learned and examining it with every last penny you have collected to find the TRUTH and the CURE. If you are not, Lucas Metherall, then that is an inexcusable abuse of platform, preying on the desperate vulnerability of people who are suffering the worst possible situation, one of whom was closest to me!

The cure is there… do you want it or not? The truth is, CurePSP doesn’t care about curing it. They care about the money, they don’t care about your life. This is a business for them. People like me who suffered beside someone with this tragic disease needs ONLY the truth whether it profits someone or not. The cure is in the truth!

Before you donate one penny to CurePSP, ask them… why wouldn’t you look into a promising cure if it was in the natural foods we eat? Get an answer, even if it’s a lie… maybe one day their conscience will get the best of them.

CUREPSP final EMAILS

The articles addressing statins can be found by clicking on the links below:

The Secret Of Statin Drugs (Part 1)

Our Statin-Induced Nightmare (Part 2)

Statin Cure: Against Medical Advice (Part 3)

Reversing Brain Damage… Possible! (Part 4)

CurePSP: Not Interested In A Cure! (Part 5)

The post CurePSP: Not Interested In A Cure! (Part 5) appeared first on Canyon News.

The first year was about seeing specialists, taking tests and getting opinions… 2nd… 3rd…4th…12th from basically anyone that knew anything about head injuries or hearing and an MD on their door.

Some of the tests were horrendous… especially the one where they lay you on a table then they put little water balloons in your ears and they change the temperature of the water… it literally makes you feel like your spinning and they only stop it when you’re puking.

I often wondered why my parents kept sending me to new doctors, who just seemed more concerned with running up bills retesting me than to really make me hear again. I felt like a reject of sorts… disappointment of not being able to know how to heal myself.

Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance…

Amid all those doctor visits, we learned that one must go through the five stages of grief, learning to deal with a death… or deafness in my situation. Sometimes I wondered if it would have been easier for my mother to cope if I had just died.

As I was juggling these stages of self-acceptance…. my mother was so obviously stuck in denial. Having handicapped children was not in her picture of a perfect life. She was Super-mum, she could do everything… except fix her child’s hearing.

One day I was studying with my feet upon the foot-board of my bed. My mother came in lecturing me about something I had done wrong and she was going on and on. As a new lip reader, I understood maybe 2 out 10 words but I always knew what she wanted.

She kept saying, “Do you understand me?”

I replied in my typical bratty tone, “Yes please stop shouting… I still can’t hear you.”

The look on her face was pure excitement. I was left confused as to why my cheeky reply suddenly made her happy.

By dinner time, she basically told everyone how I could hear her shout!

At first, I didn’t fight it. I let her have her enjoyment as I didn’t want to burst her bubble. After all the hidden sadness, around “hearing” in our house, we needed something to hold onto, some hope… even if it was not true and short-lived.

Long after the doctor testing ceased, my mother continued to do her own hearing tests on me. At random times she would shout and if I didn’t “hear” her, she’d ask, “Oh dear, why didn’t you hear me?” I’d think to myself, “Really?!?!” But it was allowing her a wee bit of hope.

At times, I found it to be embarrassing and degrading so I knew the “talk” had to happen. Maybe it wasn’t cool that I waited so long because this whole time she had been set on that I could hear her certain tone of voice and that made her hopeful.

I approached it gently, “When you speak, things vibrate and I feel your voice.” Her confused gaze was breaking my heart. I took her up to my room and had her place her hand on the footboard while I played music. As gently as possible I said, “I can’t hear you but I’m not dumb, I know you were shouting.”

She argued, “No, you heard me. I know you did!”… but I didn’t. It was such a disappointment for her. If only she could fix me… but she couldn’t. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t fail me as a mother. It just was.

I was coping. I was learning how to find new ways of perceiving sound. The less I tried the more naturally it came to me. Things like feeling music started to have its own joy again. Still, It was painful to accept my own loss than to have to help others accept it as well.

The next few years would include procedures, surgeries, therapies, devices and even a trip to the Starkey Hearing Aid Foundation in Eden Prairie, Minnesota. The amazing owners, Bill and Tani Austin treated me like family and offered me everything available in technology.

I was chauffeured around by one of the Osmonds’ nephew and was taken to parties to celebrate how I can now “hear again.” I sat beside Lou Ferrigno. He was in all the newspapers, on how the original “Incredible Hulk” went from deaf to hearing, as he got the same technology to use as a new police officer.

Mr. Austin is the best of the best and he personally examined and fitted me with all sorts of new technology. I came home with all these devices and new sounds that made us all temporarily happy. The sounds were not like how I could hear before. It was different. It was headache-causing. It wasn’t natural and it felt painful.

But I was doing this for my loved ones so they could feel better about me.

The less I fought it, the more I found peace, answers and alternate ways of understanding sound. Your senses become so much more magical when you only have four.

I love to go barefoot. Everything can be felt through my feet. Having shoes on is like using ear plugs.

I had more sensitivity. Things I wouldn’t have noticed before became noticeable. In fact, there were times I was rooms away and knew someone was at the door but no one heard them knocking.

My vision was no longer one dimensional. My peripheral vision effortlessly became a major tool. I can often predict when and what someone is going to say.

Changes in someone’s body language became more noticeable. Automatically, I anticipate sounds and thoughts. For me, this happens in defense of offending an unsuspecting hearing person.

I pick up on “1-second look” clues. This is when a person has a quick passing facial expression but it means something much more. Like you can almost hear them thinking.

I notice other people’s reactions to find the basis of noise, going off random cues as well as the vibrations I feel. Once you find the source of the noise you can figure out what it means.

For example, a person in a restaurant shouting. How do I know he’s shouting? Because people tables away are looking in his direction. So he’s’ obviously not whispering. I follow where the eyes are going and see a man upset and he’s pointing at his food and then you lip read some and I get it… he’s upset, he’s shouting and it’s a dispute.

One doesn’t have to be hearing to know this. This is how you learn to be deaf and get through in a hearing world.

I know the volume level of a club or restaurant by the expression of people’s faces and how hard or easy it is for them to communicate, continuously leaning forward and talking with more force than if it was a quiet place. You feel the music on your chair or through your glass. You know the vibrations are coming through strong so that means hearing people hear it loud and their communication is affected by the noise levels.

Before I lost my hearing, I routinely ran 6 miles a day, never noticing as much as I did running the same streets while deaf. For example, in some neighborhoods, I began to know when they were doing laundry because I could smell it from the street. I often could tell what people were having for breakfast.

I’d deal with constant interrogations: Why are you playing music? Why are you going to concerts? How did you know I was talking? Somehow people just assume if you can’t hear through your ears you’re dumb and you can’t “hear” at all. You do, it’s just you hear in a different way.

I quickly became tired of explaining this to everyone, my issue of deafness is my obstacle and not theirs. I don’t like being judged by my deafness. Sometimes, I’m with deaf friends and they hear something I didn’t notice and I ask them how did you know of that noise and they usually blow me off. I get it… they’re tired of explaining their deaf-hearing tactics but I always wonder how I can improve my ability to “hear”.

It’s that rare hearing person that enters my life that makes me their charity case, wanting so badly for me to be normal that they find every way to make me “hear” which brings back the aching memories of my mother.

As methodical as the 5 stages of grief, I can usually spot it as it happens. I’m flattered and sometimes get caught up with their idealism which always turns into disappointment.

First, they want to fix how I “hear” by finding a solution: some want me to sign, some will explore every potential assistive device, surgery, new technology, some suggest I don’t sign and just lipread.

After that, they want to fix the way I “talk.” When I was speaking, some will constantly correct my speech and suggest going to a speech therapist… some are so bold to believe they can be my speech therapist. Some believe I shouldn’t speak at all. Now that I don’t use my voice, it’s suggested that I should speak.

When all that doesn’t work, they imagine I can hear them on some level. Same as my mother. If I let them think I can hear them, they are more excited, more relieved, but why would I carry on a lie with someone I care about.

When all this fails, they lose the spark of love and interest in my wellbeing. It’s as if they feel they failed me on some level or maybe it’s just that I failed them. It’s like a bird with a broken wing… how hard do you try to fix it before you just give up and let it die.

When we reach this stage, it’s bittersweet. It usually doesn’t come quickly. I feel their disappointment and how I failed them but I am the one left with the result. All the energy going into trying to make me normal again just exhausts me and destabilizes me.

I have a new bataal teacher in my life and it just occurred to me that he is one of these people. I am saddened because it is someone I feel so comfortable with but it’s better to get unattached before its too late. It never ends well.

I never put my theory into words before… it was only tonight when I was sitting with him as he was certain I could hear him laugh. I realized we are in this cycle. He has done everything to find new ways of me hearing music, such as a vibrating metronome, he’s learned ASL, he’s urging me to speak and he wants to change everything I have been living with for more than a decade for a “better life.”

All the while, I’ve blindly fallen impressed by his undying attempts that I got swept in the hopes. I didn’t even realize until today I was caught up in this cycle; encouraging and believing that I could be fixed.

I’m all grown up now and learned to not allow deafness to define me. Sure sometimes I ask God… “Why do you take the ears of a person that lives for music and let people who don’t even know who My Chemical Romance is to have perfect hearing?”

But it’s my fate… and I accept it. I find myself avoiding people that make me their charity case. I guess it’s because I know that in the end… I’ll only disappoint them.

The post Deaf Not Dumb appeared first on Canyon News.

Luckily, there are not many topics or things that make me emotional or set me off. I’ve somehow seemed to avoid panic buttons in my lifetime… except one secret…

Don’t call me “crazy”!

My mother taught me the word, “diet” before I was old enough to count calories. She kept telling me how I needed to be careful or I’d get fat; how men wouldn’t approve if we were overweight. However, my father was never critical of my weight, ever.

It all started back when I was 4. Comparing my curly big hair, thick lips and chubby cheeks to my peers who had straight hair, thin lips and narrow faces… I stood out, mistakenly thinking that was a bad thing.

I would browse around the kitchen, grocery store and even restaurants asking, “Is this fattening?” “How many calories does this have in it?” People thought it was cute and funny, but it wasn’t. I was obsessed with “not getting fat” yet, that is what ended up happening more times than I’d like to count.

My mother’s way of making sure her kids were “well-rounded” was putting them in every type of extracurricular activity that would fit into the schedule.

Things changed the summer of my 9th year. It was the year I took a break from Irish Dancing, Figure Skating and Karate. I was eating instead of exercising in my free time. I started getting pudgy. My siblings and father were naturally thin and my mother was always on a diet, weighing herself daily.

Any time I tried one of my mother’s crazy diets I ended up gaining what I lost, then more on top of that. It was out of control. I went to my brother who was modeling at the time and only dated models, had a perfect body and spent many hours working out, “Please put me on a diet. Tell me what to eat and I’ll follow.” I felt out of control; I didn’t know what to do.

He dismissed my request as ridiculous and told me to just work out.

My neighbor was a running and track coach at UCLA. Every morning, he would take early morning runs with a bunch of college guys. I knew his kids. His wife had a particular interest in being a mentor to me. I was 12 when I realized if I wanted to fit in to this anorexic culture I had to learn how to lose weight.

On the internet, I learned that each mile you run burns approximately 100 calories and each pound is 3500 calories. It was simply math. I loved chocolate and couldn’t live without it. Well chocolate isn’t that much worse than anything else. I could eat whatever I wanted as long as I cut 1000 calories a day to lose 2 pounds a week, 1500 calories a day to lose 3 and 2000 to lose 4.

According to my weight and age, I burned approximately 2000 calories a day. Therefore, if I wanted to lose 4 lbs a week, I had to not eat anything. Which is basically impossible for me. Running became the way to juggle my calories and eat my chocolate too.

That summer I dropped so much weight that no one recognized me when I went back to school. My waist was 22.5 inches and my thighs were 18 inches.

I began to receive offers to do modeling which was a huge ego boost. Plus, makeup really makes someone look good. I was enjoying all the attention of people asking how I did it. It was truly the first brilliant thing I did.

Well a tragedy struck and my mother was in the hospital for 3 months. My brother left on a world traveling tour and well it was my dad and I in a big house dealing with the aftermath of a huge loss. I wore baggy clothes and no one seemed to notice I dropped as much as I did.

My mother came home and was pleased that I was “thin” and told me “Keep it up!”

I asked “Mum, be honest, how much weight should I still lose to be PERFECT?”

She looked at me and said, “About 20 pounds.”

A few weeks later, my mother arranged to take me and my best friends shopping for my birthday. We sure loved to shop! As I was trying on clothes, my mother came into the dressing room. She looked at me, began crying and quickly left. My friends went to console her. I didn’t understand why she was so upset.

My panties were somewhat big for me and I used my hip bones to keep them up until I was at my goal weight then I’d get new ones. My mother saw that and just freaked.

The next few months were set to be the biggest parent/daughter challenges of my life.

It was my thirteenth birthday and people were treating me like a criminal. I wasn’t sure what I had done wrong. I had done everything they told me to do. Comparing my body to my brother’s girlfriends and all the top models, I still looked fat. The agency I had done those jobs with were encouraging me to shed even more weight… so what’s the big problem?

So off to a doctor my parents send me. The doctor tells me of this lady, a drummer and well-known singer, Karen Carpenter, who he had treated at one time. She died before I was born but her music still lived. Of course, that got my attention because I was a drummer and a singer and I loved the fact there was another girl who was famous for the two.

He comes in with all these magazine articles about her death. She died from Anorexia Nervosa. He told me I was going to die too if I didn’t make some changes. I thought to myself, “Wow that is an exaggeration!” Then he weighed me and said I was about 18 pounds under weight.

IMPOSSIBLE! There is no way that 98 pounds on a 5’6 inch 13 year old is under weight in Los Angeles. The camera adds 20 pounds and everyone else is thinner than me. I disagreed with this overly pompous celebrity doctor who was simply over-reacting.

Most everyone at home gave me the silent treatment. The only time anyone talked to me was about food. My mother started having my favorite foods prepared and everyone was so jumpy and quick to order any dish or food I wanted. Daily, I was questioned as to what I ate, what will I eat and any type of food I would eat. I blew them off. People saw I wasn’t going to change because some stupid doctor wanted me fat.

One day after my run, I was hurried into my father’s den where they had a psychiatrist, psychologist, my dad’s business manager along with my father and my mother, who would come and go as my dad would tell her to leave because she kept crying and wasn’t “presentable.”

How was it that I became my mothers worst nightmare. I was only doing what she wanted me to do… be thin so that men would accept me. Now why is she mad at me?

They gave me an ultimatum, I needed to make a change within the next 72 hours to start eating and stop exercising or they would hospitalize me.

The thought made me cringe. I couldn’t believe my parents were listening to a stupid doctor over me. My only defense was the conversation I had with my mother about a month earlier. She had told me that she thought I needed to lose 20 more pounds… so that was my focus.

My mother hated that I held that against her and I’m sure that was the start of many arguments to come between her and my father.

Hours passed as I sat in this grueling meeting where they basically tore apart everything about me, my body and every pound I had lost. The reasons why, what was I doing to my health, my future, etc. I was exhausted, fed up and done being the good girl and I was ready to rebel.

Standing up, I announced in my grown-up voice, a line often used by my father… “This discussion is over.”

As I started to march out, my father said in his don’t mess with me voice “Do not walk away while I am talking to you.”

I stopped.

He demanded to know, “Why won’t you just bloody well eat?”

I took one look at his disappointed face and flippantly said, “WHATEVER!”

That was something the real me would have never done. I truly loved my father every day of my life but at that moment I was feeling so attacked and alone.

In all my life, I never saw my father become unglued, other than this moment. He picked up a musical clock that he had bought me for my birthday and threw it at me. I had never seen him show any sort of violence before or after this incident, so I knew he was not kidding. I ducked and it flew past me, hit the wall and broke into pieces. Silence surrounded us… until I giggled and said “Ha! You missed me!” and walked off, fearing my first corporal punishment to result from that incident.

As I left, my father said in his brilliant Irish accent, “My daughter has gone mad”… then an accelerated pending threat to me, as I left…“If you’re going to act like a crazy person, you will be treated like a crazy person.”

After that, my dad’s business manager took over. He was now my babysitter, care taker, chef, supervisor and dictator. I had to listen to him “or else.” At first, I tried… then I didn’t. I wanted to see how far he’d go. That, I am truly sorry for.

The next few months were hell, including being hospitalized, being held down while they inserted a tube up my nose for feeding, forced to take medications as if I was insane, taken away from my friends and home and isolated from the people I loved. They could no longer handle me.

After that experience, something happened to me. I no longer was a person without a panic button. My father would get my attention easily by calling me crazy. I hated that word.

My dad was not into name calling or degrading people, especially his family, but when he found me not listening and following his, at times controlling, advice… all he had to say was, “You are acting crazy.”

When someone jokingly says, “ You’re crazy” I don’t laugh back. I feel unadulterated sadness. I am not crazy… why are they saying that? If you want to get under my skin, all you have to do is get someone I care about to call me “crazy” and in an instant, I’ve become crazy.

Crazy is my panic button.

The post My Secret Crazy Panic Button appeared first on Canyon News.

I remember our biggest argument was right after my mum died. I was gutted. In 90 days, I had lost my dog, my best friend and my mother. I was done. Surrounded by business people, mostly men, I found comfort in the only female mother-like figure I had left… our housekeeper, Reyna.

One day, about a week after my mother passed, I woke up in a daze of confusion and devastation. I had wondered as to why I didn’t get the normal wake up call from our reliable housekeeper. Half asleep I pushed my way into my father’s office asking, “Where’s Reyna?”

He calmly and matter of factually replied, “She’s no longer with us.”

“WAIT… WHAT?!?!?!”

“She has been terminated.”

“BUT WAIT… she was family!”

My dad did the typical dismissive wave to me which basically means, “leave until you’re more presentable”. So, I left… shocked, numb and feeling like a sharp knife just went through my already shattered broken heart. This was clearly a nightmare… it couldn’t be.

My dad never shared details but I emailed Reyna and found out something had happened with her car and she didn’t phone in until noon which was 4 hours late. My dad let her go with no mercy. She was devastated. We had a bond. She did everything for me. She knew my mother and was the last person my mother taught how to fold the towels the right way and cook Lebanese food and I just felt wrecked by losing yet another person I loved in my family.

The silent treatment was my way of having a temper tantrum. That continued for months. One thing was that I knew better than to ever question my father. He had the authority and he knew what was best however I was at a loss. I couldn’t save my dog, my best friend and my mother from their untimely deaths… but I could save Reyna, she was still alive and she still wanted to be here!

My dad said, “No and end of discussion”.

At that moment, I hated him. I couldn’t believe he would do this to me.

Almost daily he would say in his arrogant sophisticated know it all way with a chuckle, “Are you still mad at me?”. He was always so loving even when I was so angry. My rebellion was always silence. He knew I was mad if I wasn’t chatty and cheerful.

The last talk we had about Reyna, he said, “One day, you’ll understand my decisions and you will learn from this.”

How could I possibly learn from losing these people that loved me? I thought to myself.

Well, I did.

The thing I learned is never give second chances because it invests yourself at a risk. The person has already betrayed you, let them go don’t give them another chance to hurt you again because then it is that much easier to say, ‘”Here’s yet another chance”.

People get comfortable with hurting you if you let them. If you terminate them from your life, its like you send a message to the universe “Don’t mess with me”; and the sadness is temporary.

If you allow them to stay in your life, you’re allowing them to hurt you, repeatedly. Then you end up questioning yourself; you lose self-respect and your boundaries. If only it was this easy though.

My first real crush was on the boy next door… literally! He’s called Jared.

I was 13 and he was older when we moved into the house next to his. I fell in crush with his charisma, his awesome hair, his smile, his confident walk, his flirtatious eyes… but more importantly, his chivalry. What’s more… he was a drummer, just like me!

My parents never formally allowed me to play the drums… I was a girl, drums are for boys. However, my crush got wind of my secret passion and it was an open invitation to his drum studio. He let me pound on his drums as loud as I wanted and he was so happy to see me laugh over my mediocre drumming that I announced was brilliant. He taught me things and well… we had fun.

Jump to years later and we started dating. I had already had my share of dates, boyfriends and even fiancés. I knew what I was looking for and there was something about Jared that had me sold. He was such a gentleman in every regard. He’d bring my mum flowers; he’d talk business, sports and stocks with my dad; he’d open my doors; walk me to my door and made sure I was home safe even though he lived 200 feet away… such a gentleman! I loved that. It was so home to me.

My dating routine was pretty much established, I’d date someone, get to know them, have loads of fun and then a problem would surface…. and I’d break it off. I had no problem saying “bye bye” to a really great guy just because he’d do one thing wrong. Never wanting to be that girl who nagged or tried to change their boyfriend, this was my protocol. So, if they were doing something I thought was inappropriate, I’d kindly and gently end it so that we could find mates that we were more of a match with.

Easy enough! It was very similar to how my dad would handle a business situation: if the boy would let me down or do something wrong, I’d end it, no questions, no looking back. Sure… some of them would beg for a second chance but I never gave one.

Jared was different though. He did things that were really wrong. However I somehow justified that he was different than everyone else. Had my dad been aware of some of the things he did…. he’d have expected me to break up. However, I couldn’t. Once you give that second chance it is so easy to give a third, fourth and then it’s habit.

Now years of a connection have been built. My family is basically gone and its me and this boy that knew me from childhood to adulthood. He’s patiently waited for me in every way. I mean what guy (especially a drummer in Los Angeles!) waits more than 4 years to consummate a relationship…  That just doesn’t happen. I wonder if reducing myself from my ultra high pedestal is appropriate in this situation or if I have just reduced myself to less of a person through the process of giving second chances.

Now he expects it. He has somehow mysteriously changed me. I don’t know how to say, “Bye”. He keeps coming back like an alcoholic to a drink. It’s a bad thing but he cant stay away.

So how do you stop the cycle of second chances?

As I secretly contemplate his invitation to New York this weekend, I’ve counted 3 days and 19 text messages since I have last replied to him. With each message I get a little more weak in the knees., I wonder if I reply to ease the break up…. will it be 19 more text messages or do I stay a cold heart and not reply? The crazy confusion is there… its like I feel one more text message from drummer boy and I’ll end up marrying him.

How did things get so black and white? What happened to this confident girl who knew how to say, “No”, and walk away.

Its been ‘shame on me’ for quite a while. He has done so many things that have crossed the line but it comes down to giving second chances, which fooled me more than twice… and well… shame on me.

The post Second Chances For Drummer Boy appeared first on Canyon News.

My dad was the only person that knew how to calm me. When I was stressed, it took but only 5 minutes of his presence to make me feel everything was going to be okay.

My overachiever personality left few hours of free time and never a dull moment. I always pushed to be a better “me.” I always took up challenges to prove myself, constantly striving to be some perfect person, never making it past average. I wanted my parents to be proud of me. Sadly, my unrelenting passion for perfection existed because they never told me they were already proud, until the very end.  

So I met someone new…perhaps another angel? He’s called Paul.

Paul is like my dad in almost every way. An immigrant who came to America with ambition in his eyes and the energy and talent to achieve the American Dream. Paul is strong, successful, brilliant, calm and genuine. His sophisticated arrogance embraces his charm. He has a subtle transparency of honesty with no hidden agenda.

He could care less about offending or taking advantage of me, nor is he afraid of me, as most seem to be. He has this way of seeing right through my rubbish, knowing what I’m going to say before I say it. He doesn’t care if it will upset me. He is who he is, nothing fake about him.

That is 100% who my father was!

Every time I see Paul, I feel a stronger connection, yet cautiously expect him to burst the bubble at any moment. At the beginning of our time together, I carry whatever panic the world tosses me…. but I leave with a happy “I can do it, everything is going to be okay” feeling I once had. He empowers me. It feels like I just spent time with my dad.

Being around Paul not only calms me but makes me feel safe, something I rarely feel any more.

To make him more amazing, he learned ASL (American Sign Language) on his own. In one month, he was fluent enough to converse without pen and paper. His signing is beautiful and accurate like I’ve never seen in a new signer, utterly unbelievable! Now I am completely comfortable and “at home” in his presence until….

He wants me to speak.

I guess it’s only fair. He learned my language, now I learn his. But it’s not so easy. I can’t speak. I’m too shy. I can’t hear myself and don’t know how god-awful I sound. The mere thought of using my voice makes me want to faint. It takes me to an ugly place I never want to go.

I just left the spot where the love of my life was happy that I didn’t speak. He used to say, “girls talk too much anyhow… so it is refreshing to hear silence.” Now someone wants me to talk?

So Paul goes on and on and on, making all these reasons why I can and should speak. When that doesn’t work, he boasts about my friend, who is silent like me.

“She sounds really good.”

Okay, he’s putting me in a competition now. He tells me he won’t force me.

But I can sum up everything he threw at me in one word: coercion

Then finally, I try.

The look on his face was sheer excitement. He’s so happy to hear me say, “off.”

He would lean in to listen carefully for each word and was so excited to hear anything. He says he hears me clearly although I know it’s just a whisper. I still cant use my voice. He’s so happy, so I’m so happy.

Then I think, “Wow, I can speak well after all. Why am I still mute?”

My ego is so inflated, I’m near ready to belt out Whitney Houston’s Greatest Love of All.

He’s trying hard to meet me halfway. The least I can do is speak with a full voice. And so I search for all I have within me to speak.

When that doesn’t work, I reach out to professionals. I search deeper. It’s like I’m 10 years old again wanting to impress my dad at the national spelling bee competition. It’s down to me and three kids, I’m the youngest, trying so hard to spell out words beyond my ability.

I really want to do this. Maybe it’s just a “thank you” for giving me a place that feels safe or for giving me hope to carry on. In the wee months that I have known Paul, he effortlessly comforts me without knowing, grounds me, encourages me.

He has no idea he’s the only one in my life that possesses this magic to make me feel like “everything is going to be okay.”

I’d never dream of telling him, wouldn’t want him to have that much power over me.

I flip-flop between being scared, excited, anxious, competitive, inadequate, miffed, annoyed, insulted, offended, ashamed, betrayed, feelings of wanting to disappear and run away.

I’m justifying the reasons I need to prove myself to him…

Who is he… just a person passing through my life?

Why do I feel I owe it to please him?

Why do people always try to “fix” me?

Is this part of my evil Lebanese curse that I must submit to every demand of male authority?

Then I think I should get all politically correct on him and say “Why the heck are you expecting a deaf person to talk? Don’t you know this is completely unacceptable?” I’m sure the deaf community would have a national protest march with this one.

Then on the other hand, I think he cares. He wants me to break my silence because he knows that speaking is more acceptable in this world than silence.

But really, how can he care after knowing me just a few months?

Yet I know every day would be more fulfilling if I could only find my voice.

Just as I finish my internal argument over to speak or not to speak, I become more comfortable and try more words. I catch a mere glimpse of him listening with this expression of agony and disappointment on his face. Instead of leaning in to hear me, he backs away as if my whispers were the sound of nails on a chalkboard, as if I had some type of mental retardation. My mere speech is an embarrassment to him.

Now that my inhibitions have dissipated, I’m trying to speak words instead of sign and he doesn’t want to hear it. He’d rather I fingerspell the word.

I’m trying harder but the more I try, the less he listens.

Today, he even went so far as to say, “You talk too much”. Wow…I haven’t heard that one in forever.

When I confronted him with his obvious dissatisfaction, he denied it. He tells me how it’s been 4 years since I spoke and therefore “need practice”.  

What is that supposed to mean, that I suck?

I guess I can’t blame him. When I was silent, I sounded great. But then it became clearer he realized my speech isn’t going to happen in his know-it-all fix-it world.

Now he’s backpedaling.

I feel like a complete disastrous failure. I couldn’t do it.

I feel utter disappointment, sadness. I let my wall down to a very scary insecurity. I tried and I failed.

So now he knows my secret… I’m terribly flawed.

Contrary to most people, who think I have a perfect voice and choose not to use it, he doesn’t want to hear it anymore. I feel completely exposed, naked, judged, and rejected. I’m gutted. I’m suddenly reduced to a disabled unspeakable mute.

So as I bounce between my inner child of wanting to succeed and “prove I can do it”…. to this empty feeling of failure… defeat, I’ve ultimately decided…I’m never going to speak again.

The post To Speak Or Not To Speak… That Is The Question! appeared first on Canyon News.

As I watched my insecure friends go through broken dysfunctional relationships, I started realizing it was because their relationship with their dad was not only lacking, but often empty and sad.

Let’s face it…your dad was your first introduction to “man.” That is who you view as the highest level of being, your hero, your Rockstar, your protector and your boss. He’s your superhero. So if your dad was not a good one, that is who you expect your boyfriends to be… for better or for worse!

I think most girls end up dating men that share the same traits as their father. Except for me, I am still unable to find anyone that can remotely compare to half the man my father was.

However, I do know things like being treated like a lady, whether it is the way you are spoken to or the way he walks by your side or whether or not he opens the door for you or considers your comfort as much as his own…. Or how he tells you the unedited truth, even if it hurts… it is likely how your father treated your mother… and you!

In this modern era, the way relationships go is mind boggling. So from the way I understand how most people are courting their future forever-man is:

a)    They meet someone they think is cute.

b)    They have sex nearly immediately.

c)    They hangout (i.e Netflix and chill) …more than they go out, which leads to more pre-marital baby-making activities.

d)    Then they make a concerted effort to schedule a routine date-night because if they don’t schedule it they will forget it and then the relationship goes sour.

So, they go out once a week and then after 6 months if they haven’t stopped their routine by then, they become Facebook official… which is basically girlfriend and boyfriend.

Wow, how terribly depressing. And people think MARRIAGE is depressing? I would rather have an arranged marriage in Lebanon before I would have an American cultural modern relationship.

Who decides this stuff?

So I have a friend who believes I belong in the 18th century and swears I am the only virgin over the age of 16 living in Los Angeles. She basically makes fun of me for it, but then I see her go from guy to guy and I do the math. 1 in 3 people between the ages of 18 and 34 have a sexually transmitted disease.

From my calculations (not that I’m counting) she has been with maybe 17 guys. She has statistically crossed paths with a sexually transmitted disease more than 12 times and she is still complaining that her newest boyfriend can’t stop talking to his ex, can’t stop ogling other woman and prefers to go get drunk with the boys rather than to be alone with her.

OMG really? Well why would he ogle you… you already gave him every experience in your first month, what is left of you? Nothing, it is time for him to move on! So you are really thinking it’s the other women? Nope it’s you! Take responsibility for your body and don’t just give it away like it’s chewed up gum.

On the contrary, in my relationships after the first initial 2-3 months I am begging my guy to go get drunk with his boys because it’s not healthy to spend all this time together. He needs his man bonding time. That is the way it goes. I support that. However, typically speaking, when he’s getting drunk with his friends he’s texting me all night to ask me what I’m doing and if I miss him.

Hmmmm, opposite scenario here! Why is that? Could it be my 18th century values? … because I’m definitely not hotter than my friend. She has to chase her boys after the first few dates and then she’s left every time feeling sad, abandoned, used, abused and well taken advantage of.

When I’m in a relationship it’s exciting and intriguing. I have not been in one relationship where they guy is ogling women and my waist size has deeply fluctuated, yet, regardless of what that current size is… They are still into me, not the size 2 queen model at the next table. My boyfriends don’t ogle… That just never happens in my relationships. I am with a guy who is wanting to be with me not someone else and well obviously it’s not just for sex.

My father was so respectful to my mother at all times, and to me! I was his priority. He opened the doors for me, waited while I got manicures suggesting which color to pick for the day, played basketball with me, and was patient while I shopped for a new lip gloss. He supported me taking care of myself and respecting my body and my confidence. If a guy I like doesn’t share the major traits as my father, he’ll never be my boyfriend.

I pity anyone that didn’t have the experience I had. It allowed me to build character, strength and compassion. It allowed me to intimately trust a man without losing my boundaries and self-respect. And well if something goes wrong which happens in most relationships, I don’t feel used, abandoned or abused. I feel like my most recent break up song (Blue October, Hate Me) says, “And with a sad heart I say bye to you and wave”… and then I think, wow I’m so glad I didn’t have sex with him… now I’m one step closer to knowing who I want in my forever-man.

The post Dads And Daughters appeared first on Canyon News.

They have several incentives to “bring a friend” or “1, 2, 3 Free” which means you get 3 lessons and then a free lift ticket on your fourth visit. I decided to go with my friend who previously gave snowboarding a go at Big Bear, but quickly switched to skis after getting up on the board seemed hopeless. Now determined to learn how to snowboard, off we went to Mountain High.

Purchasing a ticket was very easy online. Took minutes to seal a “Bring a Friend” package deal for $119 online. That paid for my lift ticket and my friend’s lesson and half a day lift ticket.

We arrived around 9:20 a.m. hoping to get in the 10:00 a.m. class. However, we had to wait 30 minutes to check in, then my friend had to wait in line for rentals for 3 hours in the freezing cold before getting boots and a snowboard. Of course, being the good friend I am, I waited alongside hoping, hungry and wanting to play not wait. You’d think they’d find a way for a weekend crowd to move the line faster. It was torturous. As we stood in line, we missed the 10:00 a.m. class, the 11:00 a.m. and the 1:00 p.m. class. After finally getting the gear, we made it to the 2:00 p.m. class.

It was full, but organized. The lead trainer was quick to gather the people in their classes.

Most of the teachers seemed to know what they were doing and did well. Within a few hours my friend was hitting the lift and coming down with smiles. I think in particular it had to do with the clear instructions and advice coming from Mark, the teacher. He discussed how to stop and how to carry one’s weight, as well as how to get up on the board.

We were famished after the long, but short day of snowboarding, and they have a few options for food. A lodge and the Bullwheel Grill up above the bunny hill. Beware that some of this food is just not safe to eat in my opinion and it’s not cheap.

All in all, even though its 20 minutes closer to Los Angeles than Big Bear, the 90 minute drive there, the 30 minute wait to check in, the 3 hour wait for rentals for the 2 hours spent on the slopes wasn’t worth it. I’d say take a drive to Big Bear and enjoy the softer snow and the better choices between slopes.

The post Snowboarding On The Slippery Slope appeared first on Canyon News.

I thought more than twice about approaching this topic since I didn’t want to be a naysayer to a breakthrough show on the telly that employs many people that I know personally and love. So let me start off by saying this show is such a GREAT innovation. The idea of “Switched at Birth” is genius and has so much potential.

However, I’m not yet a fan.

If you are fluent in sign and have been in and around the deaf community it is annoying that the cast can’t learn ASL properly after 4 full seasons. It’s painful to watch Vanessa Marano (Bay Kennish) struggle through her lines as if she has an ASL coach telling her how to sign off set. It’s terrible. She is supposed to have known her deaf “sister” for 4 years now plus she is dating deaf guys for a few years and she doesn’t know the difference between the sign of “English” and “night.”

Politically speaking, the show digs too deep into issues it just can’t handle and it feels like the creators are on a power trip to share their agenda. Approaching political issues would be fine if it’s set to make the audience consider alternate moral solutions and not shove one’s opinion in the viewers’ faces.

Seriously, two college adults get drunk and have sex and they are pushing for rape charges? As a female this is an embarrassment. It condones an anti-male perspective and it happens too. I know a person serving life in prison for a similar situation. Politics have no room in a courtroom or in a television series that can’t handle it.

As the show is struggling with ratings, they start off season five creating a scene where one of the (really gay) actors who is supposed to be straight dresses up as Lil’ Wayne. This is considered racist where he is offending the black culture. How hypocritical… A show that casts only gay actors as straight men, or they cast the lead of the show, a hearing actress as the main deaf character and have her talk with a “deaf accent.” Hmmm and that’s not offensive?

Although the original cast was good. I can’t say the same for the later additions.

With the exception of D.W. Moffet (John Kennish) and Sean Birdy (Emmett Bledsoe) this show only casts unattractive gay actors playing all straight roles and they can’t sign. It’s unrealistic to have couples with the chemistry of a brother/sister pretending to be in love. Watching them kiss on screen is awkwardly incestual and makes me incredibly uncomfortable, not to mention its just not believable.

So how did they get cast? It’s like the casting director recruits on a Saturday night at the Abbey in West Hollywood, randomly assigning roles to less than qualified people. If so why not at least get the lookers to make it interesting. These characters need something to keep the audience entertained. The show is dying, don’t bring in new dis-interesting and unbelievable characters.

I guess growing up in the business, I notice things more than the average audience. I can’t stand when a nobody becomes a somebody in show biz and then they become arrogant, egotistical and selfish. It was clear to me this had happened with Constance Marie (Regina Vasquez) who is the mother to the deaf daughter. I didn’t know who she was before this role, however, this was a huge step in her career. She was cast for this part without knowing ASL, so learning it might bring on some challenges. Her refusal to sign on the show after ratings were at an all time high was just the typical thing I hate. Suck it up. You got a good job; if you can’t, then the show should kill you off the series. A mother fluent in ASL and not signing for her daughter is just unheard of. This made the storyline weak and unbelievable, but maybe it was just me who noticed that. I later confirmed with someone on the show that they refused to pay for her therapy sessions so she refused to sign. How pathetic!

I have to end with the good.

The base storyline and characters are pretty good. It’s a rather interesting plot. It also has made people more aware of deaf issues who normally wouldn’t have exposure to them. There has been a noticeable change for the better in the way strangers treat me when they learn of my deafness. Almost everyone knows how to say thank you in ASL now. I believe this is from “Switched at Birth.”

D.W. Moffett and Lea Thompson are heartwarming and genuine. The idea of having a traditional family demonstrating good morals and ethics on a television series with interesting obstacles was a breath of fresh air.

Sean Birdy, playing the role of Emmett Bledsoe, is undeniably talented. He is a great modern day James Dean. He’s charismatic and doesn’t appear to let his deafness define him. He plays the role perfectly. My friends tell me he’s become an arrogant jerk in real life, but for “Switched at Birth”…he’s the star.

The post “Switched At Birth” Falls On Deaf Ears appeared first on Canyon News.

We lost track of time whilst in a heated discussion and so he had to leave quickly because he was late for his flight. He left his laptop behind, opened up onto his email and Facebook page. I noticed it a few minutes after he left but I was so mad at him for being a jerk I didn’t rush out after him.

An hour later, the housekeeper came in and said, “Your guy is on the phone to see if he left his laptop, is it here?” She had known of our disagreement as she was doing her share of snooping in and out. I could tell she was more siding with me from all her expressions and sighs.

I nodded that it’s here… and as we both glanced at it together, I knew what was coming next….she gave me with the all so familiar wink wink nudge nudge look…

After she disconnected the call, she said with massive excitement as if I had just won the lottery, “Go on, look to see.”

Well first of all I don’t like peer pressure, especially when I have my mind made up. But more importantly, I have a strict boundary against any type of snooping, even if the person gives you permission which was not the case in this situation….but still… I can’t do it.

I guess this personal boundary dates back to when I was just a wee child. I’d see my mother sneaking money from my dad’s pockets. She’d put her finger over her lips to say “Shhhhhh,” I never quite understood that because I knew my dad gave her whatever she wanted. She wrote checks, she had credit cards, and he always made sure she had cash for spending money, so why did she go into his pockets and deceitfully take money?

I often asked her about it and she said there is a thrill into taking it without him knowing. Me, even as a child thought, that is borderline stealing… A CRIME! It’s confusing for the person that unsuspectedly reaches into his pocket to pay for his lunch to find his money is missing and wondering if they lost the money you stole or if someone on the house staff is a thief or what?

Around that same time of my life… my aunts and uncles on my mother’s side who had an obvious ongoing curiosity turned jealousy about my father’s success, constantly quizzing him on his business tactics. It was so hard for them to believe how an Irish immigrant coming to America with $35 and not asking or taking handouts could possibly turn into such a success so quickly.

It was typical to hear comments from them that my father was an undercover spy for the IRA (Irish Republican Army). Of course, I never believed them until one day my mother asked me to go get something out of my parents’ dresser drawer and I found a gun wrapped in a type of thin cloth, like you see in the movies! Scared to death I ran to my brother and let him know. He said he knew already and I made the assumption that my aunts and uncles were right. My dad was a spy. My brother, with his dry sense of humor and his love of pranking me, thought it was funny for me to believe it. And he encouraged the notion that yes, our dad is a spy!

I went on to believe this for many years until I started working for my dad then I realized I had answers to all the questions and my dad was the most honest straight up guy who never even lied on his taxes…and that silly assumption from having my childish hands in his private dresser was so damaging. You can’t unthink things.

So somewhere around these early childhood experiences I developed an intense dislike for having my hands in other people’s private spaces. Whether it was my mum telling me to go get money out of her purse and me coming back with her purse to do it herself or a co-worker asking me to get something out of their personal desk or my friend asking me to retrieve something from her laptop or book bag or anything. I just don’t go in other people’s things.

I don’t want to find anything… I don’t want to see anything. I don’t care what it is, I don’t want to know anyone that intimately.

Many didn’t like this unwavering boundary I had set for myself. I dealt with constant criticism as it slowed things down from time to time. “Can’t you just get $5 out of my wallet please, we are going to be late?” I would say NO, I can’t. They didn’t get it. I didn’t get it… until now!

I keep a modest size purse with lip gloss, chapstick, cards and money then my iPhone. I don’t like anyone putting their hands in my purse. I don’t like anyone going on my computer or in my desk. My computer is completely G-Rated and I have nothing to hide on it I just don’t like the idea of someone seeing something, rushing to a judgement and then believing that like it happened at least once.

At work we share computers via a program that lets you remotely access computers. One night I was alone in the office and my co-worker working late at the other office needed my guidance on how to do research so I showed her then let her work off my computer remotely. Another co-worker came in as I stepped away to get food and he plopped down on my desk and without asking started using my computer…and when I came back he said with a guilty grin “By the way I closed all the windows and deleted your browser history. I said well okay thanks and didn’t think much of it… other than, “Wow that’s odd.”

Months later at an event, I saw him. Excitedly he told me how he scored some Molly and wanted to know if I wanted some. I said “no! I don’t do drugs…embarrassed and probably scared he’s going to lose his job… he said, “Oh I’m sorry, I thought you did.” I found it to be a peculiar assumption because just about everyone knows I’m as goodie two shoes as you come….  but I didn’t think more of it.

Later another co-worker told me that he had told them I was looking to buy drugs online. Why on earth would I be doing that? Sheesh, then I remembered back to this person jumping on my computer, using it without my permission and I remember the assignment that was being done that same day…. It was only after that… months later… where I pieced all the weird comments together.

So when you snoop… it gives you details without guidance… your mind wanders and reaches conclusions when it shouldn’t and it never helps anyone to jump to conclusions…it tarnishes trust, makes your imagination go mad and it just is a boundary people should create and respect.

Now back to my distrusted boyfriend who left his laptop open to his Facebook, his yahoo page etc… the last thing I’m going to do is cross that boundary. I already think he is lying to me about something he swears he didn’t do…. So now what if a pretty cousin named Tiffany that I never met Facebooked him. I would forever think; okay why didn’t he mention this Tiffany before…. Who is this person… he’s cheating with her? And since I shouldn’t be on his computer to begin with, how can I ask for more details on her.

Snooping is just not right and its more damage to the person that snoops then the person that is being snooped on.

Also I already feel he is lying to me about something else, and we’re not married, so why in the world would I invest more emotion, time, possible heart ache into this relationship by seeing his private emails. If you can’t trust the person you are in a relationship with…GET OUT! Don’t dig into an area that will give you more reason to care, to get mad, to get sad, to get happy… Just get out! Trust is built between two people mutually…its not found secretly snooping through email.

The post Snooping: Left His Email Open appeared first on Canyon News.

I’m the type that hates planning. I go spontaneously and love salons I can walk into, be taken immediately with no appointment required which often ends up being a less than fantastic experience. It is only on rare occasion where I just love the place so much I make sure I go… even if it is across town.

I Love Nails is probably the best manicure pedicure experience I have had in a very long time. Could it be the Audrey Hepburn feeling you get in the delicious retro ambiance or could it be that all the staff actually care about you. It might just be that it’s the one place where I always walk out with fresh fingers and toes and perfect paint.

I loathe those salons that cut corners. You know the kind that put the icky nail thinner to get their last bit of nail polish out of the bottle. They tell you they don’t and if you are an expert like I am, you know when they do only after you leave the salon to find your nails not drying even an hour afterwards. They tell you the
thinner is okay and doesn’t do this it just takes longer to dry. The problem is, that is a lie, it never dries, even 4 to 5 hours later while you are sleeping you see the nail polish shift on your nails and your pretty nails you purposely protected from touching anything for the last many hours are now ruined by your covers in bed.

I Love Nails is located on Third Street in West Hollywood, very close to the Grove. They have decent hours, 10-8 Mon through Sat for those of you that work late and they often stay open to take you in if you are in desperate need of relaxation and even open Sunday 10-7.

Their décor has red and green colors and their equipment is always sanitized and clean. This is one of the few places I highly recommend as you get the same excellence every visit.

Visit I Love Nails at 8036 1/2 W 3rd St, Los Angeles, CA 90048 or phone ahead for an appointment (323) 651-4700. I assure you, you won’t be dissatisfied!

The post You Will Love I Love Nails! appeared first on Canyon News.

Luckily, I had an amazing mum that always put her children’s interest before any others, including herself. She worked hard to build the American Dream so that her children could have a better life… and we did!

I’d often hear people talking badly about their mother and it always sat poorly with me. Some just look at the glass as being half empty but others have a legitimate reason to dislike their mother. However, no matter who you are, there is something to thank your mother for.

Jenny Moss is a tremendous mother and was a special friend to me during the loss of my parents. Even though, she has three adorable children, who are mature way beyond their years and hadn’t experienced loss by way of tragedy in her life, she always knew just the right thing to say to me.

She wasn’t afraid of being there for me even on difficult days. She just knew how to be such a good friend.

Last June, Jenny lost her son Andrew. He was 22.

Tragic.

I can’t even begin to imagine the pain of a mother bringing a child into the world and having to put them to rest long before their time. All I can comprehend is the pain I feel from losing my mother, a pain that was unimaginable and life changing.

A few weeks ago, after having a difficult day, Jenny put her thoughts into a lovely poem that I want to share with all of you, especially those that have a missing child at the dinner table for their Mother’s Day celebration.

Andrew

By Jenny Moss

Andrew my baby…

I’ve loved you for so long

There’s never ending pain inside

to know that you are gone.

I laugh with you, I hold you

I kiss you in my mind.

But I wake up, I’m alone again

and pain is all I find.

I think about you everyday

and all your unlived years.

And once again I find myself

crying endless tears.

If only I could hold you

and touch you just once more

The tears would still be coming

but happy ones would pour.

I look outside and wonder

how life can just go on.

I want to say to everyone

“What are you doing? 

My baby’s gone.”

The pain I have inside my heart

I feel will never end.

Can only look forward 

to the day we meet again.

Happy Mother’s Day to every mother and here’s hoping your house is full of love, laughter and good vibes today for your Mother’s Day memory.

The post A Mother’s Day Memory appeared first on Canyon News.

I think I’m back, at least temporarily, thanks to waking up to my fluffy-faced German Shepherd sweetly licking my face, pleading me to carry on.

People have been talking, saying how much they enjoyed this column so far. Little do they know, I have decided to quit. In fact, you’d not be reading this if it weren’t for me accidentally opening Twitter on my phone while half asleep and seeing so many encouraging messages.

Some say thank you, that my column helped them and made them feel unalone or appreciated. Some decided to change their lives. Some now have hope for their statin-affected loved one. All this after seeing my private words splattered across their unsuspecting eyes. They think I’m some good person for telling them my darkest secrets.

But there is one fan, one that every week without fail would be the first to read my newest confession. He’s called Josh.

Josh wasn’t just a fan. I met him many years ago through a client in my family’s business. He caught my attention because I thought he looked like John Mayer. I caught his because he said I was “mysterious” and liked my hair.

He kept in touch no matter where I was in life. He loved Secret Summers and couldn’t believe that I was able to keep so many secrets from him for so long.

He always seemed to make nice words that came from an honest spot. I always took it for granted that he would be there for me. He was a rock, someone you just knew would be there.

Over the last two years, not a day went by without me hearing from him. He’d send me a snapchat, or text me if he was busy. He’d be the first to tell me how great he thought I was, how he wished he could spend his life with me, or how he felt all my decisions were just perfect. He’d smother me with compliments: how beautiful, smart, special, and magically different I was, how much he wished he were good enough to marry me.

When life got to be too much and no one seemed to care that I wasn’t able to handle it, he would tell me to come over. He’d take all of my problems away and let me smile like I used to before my life began to shatter. He’d tell me, “Just say yes, I’ll marry you today and handle all your problems.”

He adored me, but why?

Last month, his mum died unexpectedly and he was crushed. He apologized for not being more understanding of what I went through when both my parents left.

He was having such a difficult time with it. He told me he never felt this down in his life. I tried, but there was only so much I could say.

The only time we ever argued were the times he would say, “I love you.” I told him, “don’t tell me that or I’ll run.”

He promised he would stop, but felt it was hard to conceal his feelings.

Last week, we were playing Word with Friends, and he spelled “olive.” Then, he messaged me saying, “Olive you.” I backed away, as is my natural instinct to this thing called love. Quickly, I became annoyed, reminding him the concept really scared me.

He apologized and wanted to talk about it…I didn’t.

A few days later, on schedule, he’d text me to say he had read my article, the third and final part to the Suicide series. He told me it hit him hard and he wanted to talk to me. I told him that I wasn’t going to write anymore, but he insisted I continue writing. I wasn’t available for this conversation.

Every time he said he wanted to talk, I said “not now.”

Wednesday, at 5:04 p.m., he messaged me asking if I was there. I said, “not now… working… busy,” to which he replied, “ok.”

Two hours later, he was found in his car…dead.

Thursday, I woke up thinking of him. Later in the day, I sent him a text saying, “I’m thinking of you… what do you want to talk about?”

A few hours later, our mutual friend broke the news to me by mistake. He had assumed someone had already contacted me.

He texted, “omg I heard about Josh? I’m devastated, I can’t stop crying.” I replied with a question mark, sitting paralyzed waiting for his reply, hoping for a “jk” but knowing it had to be bad. Our friend is pretty masculine and I’ve never known him to cry…or tell bad jokes.

He told me what happened, then told me how much Josh loved me. He confessed it was hard for him to hear Josh talk about how he felt he was never going to be “good enough” to make our relationship more than it was.

My heart stopped in this moment of complete and utter darkness…but he was good enough!

How does a rock disintegrate that quickly without notice?

How does someone go from being such a strong person to nothing at all? Why is it that after everything I’ve experienced, I didn’t realize someone was in pain and needed me?

Someone that adored me, appreciated who I was, supported me, and thought I was everything, was truly wrong…

He was good enough… I wasn’t.

The post Good Enough appeared first on Canyon News.

LAUREL CANYON—My mum used to say, “If your friends jumped off a bridge, would you?”

Of course, she was being facetious. Her intention was to get me to think for myself and not follow my friends’ poor choices, or more specifically, the modern American culture.

People thought I copied everything Tara did. She had a tattoo on her wrist. My mum forbade me to get one, and honestly, I didn’t want one until I saw hers. We had matching red Jeep Wranglers, but only after I begged my parents to allow me to have one like Tara’s.

Our energy was fun, happy and contagious. We giggled constantly. People wanted to be around us. Together, we were unstoppable.

Her suicide forever changed me. I was plagued with an evil, stigmatic curse. At first, I was only told she jumped off the 17th floor of a building on Wilshire. For the next several months, I would count the floors of every building I passed.

I tried to stop, but I couldn’t. I wanted to know what she felt, how it looked, what gave her the strength to do that to herself.

Tara hated heights. It was my masochistic way of reliving her tragic moments, making myself suffer again and again from the agony of losing my very best friend.

After her suicide, I became afraid of heights. I couldn’t even walk on the Santa Monica Pier to a regular hangout. I could no longer get on the roller coaster or Ferris wheel, even though they were always my favorite rides.

I was hating the murderer, my best friend and mourning the victim, my best friend. How could I love and hate someone so much in the matter of one decision? How could she break her promise to me?

My friends compared notes at the funeral. Apparently, Tara had given many warning signs of suicide and no one helped her. Her husband and the entire cast of his show made it into a Hollywood production. Their eulogies were so phony and transparent. They cared so little when she was actually alive, but in passing acted as if she were family.

I was in a state of paralysis. Why wasn’t I a better friend? Why didn’t I know and stop it? How could I have prevented my mistakes?

You’re poisoned by an evil thought that wraps you around the notion that maybe you deserve the sort of evil end she chose. No matter how normal, happy, and non-depressed a person is, you can spiral into a deep, dark hole of suicidal secrecy.

My friends seemed to carry on. Their lives continued. Mine, not so quickly.

Tara just kinda disappeared, rarely coming up in everyday conversation. It was like no one wanted to remember all the good she brought to us.

After that, I haven’t ever gotten close to anyone else in the same way. I think about her daily. Everything she did and said haunts my mind. I feel her with me at times and other times I feel so angry at her for leaving me, for breaking our promises.

When the last of my family died, the only option I wished for was to be brave enough to copy Tara. How could I do that? I’m an educated, decent human being without a violent tendency in me.

I never could do something like this to people. How can I love myself that little where I would even consider it? But it’s easy to swallow the bottle of pills and just deal with the consequences later when you have few reasons to be here.

Many say Whitney Houston’s “accidental drowning” was suicide. I clearly remember watching the news on February 11, 2012 seeing her daughter break down over her mother’s death and thinking to myself, “That poor daughter will never heal from this”. Almost three years to the very date, Bobbi Kristina was found in the same position as her mother, face down unconscious in the bathtub. It’s almost like death becomes you and there is no way out.

It’s almost like you’re cursed with a spell. When you are influenced by someone so closely, it automatically becomes a bolded option in your multiple choice question. It’s in your mind as an alternative, whether you want it to be or not.

It’s just there, kind of like the tattoo I never wanted until she had one. Then, in times of despair, you think, “If only I could be as brave as her and complete the mission, I would be satisfied.”

When I wonder how I got to this place of contemplation, I continually arrive at the same conclusion: suicide is contagious.

If you are having thoughts of suicide, please reach out and get help. It ends in an instant for you, but everyone that cared for you, loved you, and treasured you will be punished forever with the evil poison of suicidal thoughts. It’s truly contagious. Don’t force it on your loved ones.

The post Suicide Is Contagious appeared first on Canyon News.

LAUREL CANYON—As expected, Tara’s mother contacted me that Saturday morning, but our conversation didn’t go as expected.

She asked if I was with Tara and I told her that I wasn’t but had been expecting her call.

We were both confused, as it was Tara had apparently predicted the future. The hospital contacted her to be with Tara when she was discharged that Friday. But no one had seen her since Friday at 3:00 p.m..

Panic began to set in.

We were concerned this had something to do with her husband, understanding his controlling and abusive nature. We thought he had done something.

He behaved oddly when he picked-up Tara’s parents from the airport and drove them to the Wilshire Crest Inn before speeding off to some Hollywood party and leaving the rest of us look for her.

We went through all of her favorite hiking trails, hung posters, sent emails, posted on social media, frantically scouring everywhere she could possibly be.

Monday morning, we discovered that her Jeep had been towed just a block away from the hotel her parents were staying in. Further investigation led us to the discovery that an unidentified female was at the morgue. At 1:30pm, Tara’s step-father identified her body.

As he broke the news to me, I felt consumed by a dark evil poison, one that filled me with contempt. My legs were weak, my mind was numb. Nothing was ever going to be the same.

It was my fault and no one knew. I felt the life of me was immediately sucked out of my body. Her suicide was my secret and my secret killed her.

At first, they hid the details from me. I spent the next few weeks counting floors on the buildings I randomly passed. They had told me it was a 17-floor building on Wilshire Boulevard. Every building I saw, I counted: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 8, 10.

Nope, that’s not tall enough. I’d find a taller building: 2, 3, 4, 7, 15, 20. Nope, that’s too high. Then, I’d find a shorter one.

I confided in my dad. I asked him what was wrong with me. Why couldn’t I stop counting building levels?

My dad, calm as always said, “Why don’t you ask for more details and let them know you are mature enough to hear it?”

This might put my mind at ease.

I followed his advice.

She had been released from Cedars Sinai at 2:00 p.m. on Friday and had been dropped-off at Elizabeth’s house. She left Bailey there, the water running the rug turned up and messy, behavior very unlike Tara.

She drove her Jeep to the corner of Crescent Heights and Wilshire. She entered 6300 Wilshire Boulevard shortly before 4pm.

The front desk secretary, working through her first day on the job, asked Tara if she needed help. She was trembling and looked unsure of herself.

She shook her head and headed for the elevators. The cameras show her taking the elevator, getting off at the top floor, and then walking towards the roof.

The law firm in the adjacent building saw her body fall from the roof.

Her parents were staying at a hotel just 500 feet from where she died. Her Jeep sat just a block away from where we were actively searching for her.

Depression and suicide had never hit me until that fateful day. I was somewhere between catatonic and hysterical. That was the first time I had ever cried so uncontrollably. They phoned my dad and he took me home to the comforting arms of my mother.

Complete disbelief.

How could someone put all their faith into one person? Then, when that person betrayed them, end their own life? It didn’t make sense.

But how could I judge her husband for his betrayal? I had done the same thing. She put her faith in me by telling me these details and I betrayed her by keeping her secrets.

My suicidal secret killed her.

Read Part Three, Suicide is Contagious.

The post My Secret Was Her Suicide appeared first on Canyon News.

We were twins. We thrived doing girly things. We loved hiking, dieting, and fawning over adorable animals. We both had curly, waist-long hair that we sometimes put in 100 little braids for fun but you knew we were getting serious about something if we tied it into a knot.

We loved lip gloss and owned every color. She liked the dark serious ones and I liked the light fun ones. We quietly commiserated over the fancy Hollywood events we were regularly expected to attend.

We had big plans for the future. She was going to throw my 21st birthday party and be my maid of honor. She would babysit my kids and animals while I ran a thriving media company.

We planned many a holiday together. We were to go on snowboarding and jet skiing excursions. Pampering ourselves would be a lifelong necessity, shopping and treating ourselves to manicures and pedicures every week for the rest of our lives.

We loved taking the doors and tops off our matching red jeep wranglers and flirting with guys at stop lights.

Yet we were also opposites. She loved to plan everything perfectly. I never planned anything. She was clean and I was messy. She was computer illiterate and I was a budding tech-wiz. She read manuals but I never needed to.

She could pass on chocolate, I was addicted to it. She was always polite and diplomatic while I was bubbly and bratty. She loved to wake up early, I loved to go out late. She was the reasonable think now, do later one. I was the spontaneous, do now, think later one. She was street smart, I was naïve.

Her husband was a 30-year-old actor who was rarely around. He had recently won an Oscar and was in high demand, leaving little time for her. One day, she discovered an email on his computer. She employed my tech-wizardry to investigate.

He was having an affair with a 50-year-old executive at Paramount Studios. She was crushed.

One day, she told me she wanted to celebrate something secret, but wouldn’t tell me what. She brought over gift baskets to my home, a strange gesture. But as usual, we had fun together.

But I sensed something. She finally broke-down and told me her secret. Earlier that week, she tried to kill herself in her Laurel Canyon home.

She had sealed-off ventilation to her garage and locked Bailey, her dog along with herself in the car. She then ran the engine. Miraculously, our friend Brian unexpectedly dropped by and halted her suicide attempt about 45 minutes into it.

When she confessed this to me, my ignorant, insensitive response was, “Why would you want to kill Bailey?!”

Shocked at my reaction, she looked at me, as I naively returned her gaze. She made me promise not to tell anyone. I made her promise she wouldn’t do it again. We made a pact!

Our secrets were always safe with each other and our promises were always kept. But this was heavier than I could handle. I couldn’t help but share the burden with my parents. They both advised me to tell her parents, but I couldn’t. She would never forgive me.

I searched the internet for answers. The only options presented for suicidal people felt limited and drastic. I’d lose her friendship, or more importantly, her trust. For the next several months, I was constantly on guard, watching over her.

If she showed-up five minutes late to a meeting, I would think something terrible had happened.

Eventually, we decided we would move-in together. I naively believed leaving her husband and living with me would resolve her sadness.

She planned to serve the divorce papers while back home in Canada. Meanwhile, we found a flat in Beverly Hills, signing the lease on Halloween. I moved in the same day, getting everything organized as best I could while she was away on holiday.

On November 7th, I was rushing to get ready for a Hollywood event, the kind we both hated, when Tara phoned to tell me that she was back from Canada. As she pressed me for details on our new home, I told her that I didn’t have much time to talk because I was scrambling to get ready for the event.

I had promised to arrive early for my god mum, who was performing that evening. Both of us knew how strict my god mum was about punctuality.

Tara told me that she needed my attention, that this was an urgent call. There were police present and she was being committed to the hospital at Cedars Sinai.

She said her mother would phone me the following Saturday morning with further details. She complained that I was always too busy for her, lamenting that she wasn’t as important as this event.

I told her that wasn’t true. Then she said, “Please don’t think less of me for this.”

I promised I wouldn’t. She told me I was her guardian angel. I told her she was mine. She said, “I love you sister,” and I said, “I love you too.” Then we hung up.

Knowing she was on a 5150, a psychiatric hold, I felt selfishly relieved. I was beyond exhausted by worry that she was going to kill herself at any minute. Now, she was under professional care. Thinking the suicidal secret was out, my worry blindly evaporated. The next 5 days would be the last days I would live without worry.

Read Part Two, My Secret Was Her Suicide.

The post My Suicidal Secret appeared first on Canyon News.

MALIBU—We were getting closer by the day to reversing brain damage in my father. Although I felt magically guided in some ways, I found myself hitting my head against the wall in others. It was months of witnessing a miraculous statin cure in my father’s speech, balance, vision and swallowing. I was relieved and proud.

Then, one early morning, I was frightened out of a deep sleep. People were screaming at me, “Your father has fallen! Come quick!”

I always dreaded those emergency wake-up calls after the 1-2 hours of sleep I got each morning, all too familiar after statins were introduced into my world.

Without experiencing so much as a minor tumble in four months, this was the fourth unexpected fall in three days. We lifted my dad from the floor and he told us it was alright, but it wasn’t. My hope was shattered.

Frustrated, I questioned the house staff. All of us loved my father dearly and were committed to making him well again. Flor said, “Everything has been given on schedule without any problem except the one I told you about.”

“Huh?” I had forgotten.

My days were occupied with running my father’s firm, a task I was far from qualified for. By night, I was taking a crash-course on becoming a self-made scientist, learning things I thought my brain incapable of retaining.

There was no balance in my life, no activity befitting a normal 20-something-year-old. I was exhausted. This was a simple, but costly oversight.

Two weeks before, she had set the empty bottle on my desk with a post-it. It had fallen behind my desk, ensnared in a web of computer cables.

Three of us crawled under and behind the large corner desk before Flor announces, “this one!”

As we both sat back on our heels under the desk, looking at the orange and white NOW bottle of an amino acid, named Glycine Propionyl L-Carnitine (GPLC), an incredible desperate energy filled my heart. Everything I lived for went into the inkling of hope that THIS was THE answer to his recent relapse.

GPLC was an amino acid I found buried deep within the internet. I studied it’s positive effects on restoring damaged brain cells. It was scarce to find locally, so I had to order it online. We had no evidence of how much of a role, if any, it played… until now.

Reviewing our journals, we deduced that he had not received this supplement for the last week. That was the only change in his regimen.

I scoured the Internet while the house staff took to the phones to find every open vitamin store in LA. It was about 5 p.m. on Sunday.

I drove everywhere locally, finally ending up in Riverside at a health food store where the owner waited for me to arrive and pay $95 for a small bottle.

During the long drive home I was a proud scientist-in-training, thinking this small bottle contains my hope that the cocktail really works. I rush home, give my father a few capsules with apple sauce and eagerly watch him. I felt like a desperate pauper who believes they have the winning lotto ticket.

We watched him closely for the next few days, ensuring no falls happened but our vigilance proved unnecessary. He was back on a swing of improvement.

We laughed and giggled, talking about curing brain damage worldwide with my secret formula. I had never in my life been so proud to help my dad. He was the best dad ever and I was lucky to have cracked the code to reverse the brain damage the statins caused, which the neurologists had conveniently labeled as the incurable Progressive Supranuclear Palsy (PSP).

Once more, the unexpected falls stopped. True to our scientific method, we tested the effect of a missed dose of GPLC. Once more, he fell. Armed with this compelling data, GPLC became a cornerstone of his daily treatment.

Despite our discoveries, the doctors and nurses stepped-in, telling my dad that his supplemental treatment of 80-90 daily supplements was madness. Spurned by their “professional” opinions, he abandoned the regimen that had so markedly helped him regain his health.

They told him the supplements were only prolonging the inevitable, that regardless, the PSP was going to claim his life. After all, it was a deadly disease claiming the life of many, including British actor, Dudley Moore.

My dad was never one to prolong the inevitable, never the kind of man to accept a disease-stricken existence. He agreed with the medical professionals and quit treatment around May 1, 2011.

Within a month, his condition was worse than ever. Death seemed imminent. In less than two months, we went to the emergency room nearly 40 times.

On July 2, 2011, he was hospitalized at UCLA in terrible condition. He had difficulty swallowing food and drink. He had no strength. He couldn’t independently sit up or stand. His eye exam with the strongest lens possible was 20/400. He was legally blind again.

Once hospitalized, the doctors strictly prohibited any supplemental treatment. My dad realized the magic of the cocktail and agreed to resume. I rolled my eyes at him with my typical “whatever!”

But I was so happy when he said, “Seriously, come on give them to me.”

So covertly, I snuck his supplements into the hospital. I felt like a drug dealer! Late at night, I sat at the table of In-N-Out Burger, organizing the spread of thirty pill bottles in front of me. Unable to openly administer the treatment, I sat in the restaurant opening the capsules and mixing them into a cup of apple sauce. Then, I went to the hospital and secretly gave my dad the magical apple sauce, our loyal housekeeper standing guard at the door while he took them.

My dad would survive this scare. In four weeks’ time, he was able to sit up straight and started to walk again with assistance and use the Stairmaster. His speech returned, albeit slowly. Ever resilient, my dad, found a silver lining in his condition: the illness made his distinct Irish accent sound far more American, something he was always aiming for.

His supplements were coupled with a diet of nutrient-rich smoothies, full-fat organic dairy products, avocados, lima beans, barley, and tomatillos, to name just a few of the long list of magical foods. His former strength was returning. Even his vision, thought irreparable, made a remarkable recovery.

We went for frequent visits to the doctors to officially record his progress:

June, 30th: 20/400 (wearing strongest correcting lens)

July 3^rd: Started Magic Cocktail
July, 14th: 20/200 (wearing strongest correcting lens)
August, 3rd: 20/100 (wearing strongest correcting lens)
August 16th: 20/50 (without any lens or corrective lens)

In shock, the optometrist asked if I would share my recipe with her. She had a seventeen year-old patient who suffered brain damage after receiving the Gardasil Vaccine. She was now living a wheelchair-bound existence, left without hope of escaping death. Unlike James, I happily shared the recipe.

Tragically, her family was averse to the idea of anything beyond the conventional wisdom of modern medicine, shipping her off to family in Mexico to continue a sickened and deteriorating existence. They too, had given up hope. My dad’s optometrist, a first-hand witness of his miraculous story, was devastated.

Three months after my dad’s hospitalization, his recovery remained consistent without trips to the ER. He could swallow liquid without coughing or choking. His speech, though slurred, was easy to understand. Even his high cholesterol, the red flag that earned him the misguided statin treatment, had returned to the medically proposed healthy levels and he remained free of any medication.

Discovering the recipe proved a long, testing process. I spent many nights by my dad’s side while he slept, scouring the Internet for the missing ingredients of this magical recipe. At times, I’d be so excited by a discovery that I would wake him and share my findings.

Typically, my father was most displeased to be roused. But woken with a promise of good health, he shared my excitement, laughing at the sight of my child-like joy and encouraging me with his favorite phrase “Brilliant!” and his thumbs up sign.

It was exciting for both of us. I was so desperate to find a cure. And we found one! Thank God, we found one.

He wasn’t as strong as he was pre-statin, active in running, biking, tennis, rugby and golf. But before an unrelated tragic event stole his life, he was progressively returning to form. I refuse to jealously guard this information, even though my attorneys think I should.

If you want a free copy please send me US mail including a self addressed stamped envelope. It must include your full name, physical address, and a legitimate phone number with a brief description of why you are requesting it. No post office boxes or borrowed addresses. I will keep your information private. Before negotiating with me on this, realize this is my work and therefore I want to know who is getting it. If you are not willing to be transparent with me… then you do not deserve to have my private information.

Canyon News c/o Secret Summers, 9701 Wilshire Blvd 10th Floor, Beverly Hills, CA 90212

The health of our loved ones is priceless. It’s very painful for me to reflect on the years of statin damage or of my father’s tragic passing. Against my better judgment, I was pushed to tell my story by co-workers and editors, so here it is. One day I will be strong enough to go through our video diary and daily journals and share these details with you.

But that is not today.

If you learn anything from reading about my tragic secrets, please take with you that “high cholesterol alone does not kill.” Many people live long stroke-free, heart attack-free lives with very high cholesterol well into their 90s and 100s, including my ancestors.

These people stay relatively youthful and active in their daily lives not relying on medicines, frequent doctor visits and canes without a strict vegan or other specialized extra healthy diet. These people eat butter by the tablespoons, bacon, meat, milk and other things our modern trend screams about. Hereditary and other non-related health issues push that number up. The myelin sheath is made up of 99 percent cholesterol and that protects the nerves from your brain.

The drugs and pill pushers do not want you to know because this truth will halt their $30 billion dollar a year revenue stream.

Don’t be a victim like my family was. Do your research, and just say no to drugs, even if the dealer is in a white jacket, well-educated, and drives a Jaguar.

The articles addressing statins can be found by clicking on the links below:

The Secret Of Statin Drugs (Part 1)

Our Statin-Induced Nightmare (Part 2)

Statin Cure: Against Medical Advice (Part 3)

Reversing Brain Damage… Possible! (Part 4)

CurePSP: Not Interested In A Cure! (Part 5)

I would love to hear about your experiences with statin drugs. Please email me at hazel@canyon-news.com. Find me on twitter at hazel90210.

The post Reversing Brain Damage… Possible! (Part 4) appeared first on Canyon News.

MALIBU—My young, fit, healthy father was the strongest, most powerful man I have ever known. After joining Kaiser and getting an initial physical, he was prescribed statins and immediately suffered horrifying side effects.

For two years, doctors vehemently denied the cause was Lovastatin. It was not until another doctor diagnosed him with statin-induced myopathy, which mimicked the symptoms of Progressive Supranuclear Palsy (a form of Parkinson’s), that the search for a statin cure began, a search that started and ended against professional medical advice.

With my dad’s rapidly declining health and time working against us, I studied his condition, refusing to accept defeat. He was far too young and I needed him. I continued to research every day after work, often studying into the wee-hours of the morning and keeping a daily video journal to record the progress of his walking, speech, ability to drink fluids, and his doctor’s appointments.

I scoured the Internet for an inkling of hope. I stumbled upon Ralda James, an Australian woman who claimed to have augmented her 12-year-old daughter’s recovery from brain damage with a special dietary recipe.

I contacted her as a journalist from Canyon News. Thrilled at the prospect of publicity and impressed that we were in Beverly Hills, she happily shared her story.

But when I attempted to get her recipe, she refused to disclose any details of the foods or supplements that saved her daughter’s life.

Out of desperation, I came clean, explaining my dad’s fading health and my theory that the information could save his life. He was the only family I had left. Though apologetic, she told me the Australian government was prohibiting her from sharing her research. Frustrated and shaken, I resolved to crack the code of James’ secret recipe.

I was left with but confirmed hope and the Internet to find the same miracle as James did.

For months, I dissected every detail from James’ interviews, supplementing her public articles with research about dietary means of restoring neurological health, specifically damage to the myelin sheath. She hadn’t sounded too bright in conversation, so I decided that if she had discovered a cure through internet research, so could I.

I quickly learned that there was a myriad of information as long as I used the proper search terms and didn’t get hung-up reading the horror stories so similar to ours.

For example, in one interview, James mentioned that she had changed her daughter’s diet to full-fat dairy, so I researched everything there was to know about dairy products and their effect on the brain.

By now, my father’s physical condition had deteriorated prolifically. He was wheelchair bound, legally blind, and could barely speak or swallow even thickened fluids. In three years, he had aged forty. He now needed full-time caregivers to move him and even bathe him. He couldn’t function without assistance.

And yet, he maintained mental clarity, managing to operate multi-million dollar businesses while making important decisions through his business managers. Figuring he had nothing to lose, he let go of his ambivalence about alternative treatment. I enlisted him as my research assistant. Together, we collaborated on our magic cocktail.

My biggest revelation was how to search for the cure. After learning how statins work, how they tear down the cholesterol in the brain, mostly within the myelin sheath which is made of 99 percent cholesterol, I googled topics such as: “How to repair the myelin sheath with food,” “How to reverse brain damage with natural supplements,” and “Effects of Lipitor on the myelin sheath.”

Every time I searched, I found more data and gained more understanding of the mystery behind the cholesterol scare. I was overwhelmed with information and words I couldn’t even pronounce, but I continued to take notes and ask questions.

Working through trial and error, I developed a list of supplements. But there was still more to learn.

Through my research, I came across Dr. Duane Graveline, a 23-year family physician who, in 1965, was selected as one of six astronauts to work on NASA’s Apollo program. Graveline was stricken with his own statin-induced neurological disease, in his case, Lou Gehrig’s disease (ALS).

However, after a supplemental treatment regimen, his symptoms miraculously vanished. He went on to become a ground-breaking medical author against statin prescription.

Luckily, we had a connection with his good friend and fellow astronaut Buzz Aldrin. I wrote Graveline an email to which he replied, giving me hope. I continued to communicate with him, a correspondence that eventually led to Dr. Graveline’s own weekly column in Canyon News.

Although his column was later canceled by advisors concerned with a decline in book sales, the former astronaut remained available to me for personal guidance.

As if we were VIP guests at the Disneyland candy store, the doctors continued prescribing unnecessary medications to my father. At first, it was a struggle with my dad, who was used to believing everything the doctors said.

They would hand him a prescription and we’d argue until agreeing upon on a natural replacement. Eventually, he would agree and toss the prescription. Then, we’d come to realize he didn’t need the medication to begin with.

It was a difficult transition, but we learned to say “No!” to prescription medication. Everything had a side effect and it wasn’t resolving the issues, it was creating more of them.

We found alternative solutions for everything. Dealing with the medical professionals was a hassle. I had to learn to be a bully to them. They were persuasive and adamant about medicating constantly.

After learning of their “compensation” from pharmaceuticals, it gave me a clearer vision as to the financial dynamics behind the training of health care practitioners.

It seemed that no matter what hospital we went to or what doctor we saw, they were all under a spell, almost as if we were part of some sci-fi flick where the doctors had been programmed and brain-washed.

It was surreal, walking in time after time, dealing with the same push to give a pneumonia shot, a flu shot, or whatever other crazy vaccinations they were pushing.

At one point, UCLA told me that they had to discharge him from the hospital if they couldn’t medicate him. He was in critical discomfort from the brain damage and they had to “justify his stay” by medicating him while performing tests.

This didn’t make any sense to me. So they need to medicate to pay their bills? Meanwhile, they refuse to accept his natural supplements even when being taken off of them so clearly reversed his progress?

I continued to be a vocal advocate for my dad. Once hushed by him, I now had his thumbs-up and his support.

As we were on the path of natural recovery and my dad regained his strength, it came to mind that in spite of the almost daily interaction with medical professionals, no one had inquired about his cholesterol, not once!

It was time for me to ask.

His primary care physician said, “Those haven’t been checked in quite a while.”

“Why not?”

When he first started at Kaiser, they insisted that they test his cholesterol at least ever six weeks. Otherwise, he was at risk of having a stroke.

They also sent frequent letters starting out with, “Your cholesterol at your last test was 218 and this is very dangerous. I’d like to up your lovastatin to 40mg per day.”

It was like a form letter with my dad’s name on it and his cholesterol number.

Now, all of a sudden, they don’t care to test his numbers? He can’t speak, run, play sports or even drive a car and they don’t care that his cholesterol might be wacked out?

Yet, when he was healthy, slightly elevated cholesterol meant possible stroke or even death?

After many unanswered requests, I demanded to know. They assured me it wasn’t necessary because he was unable to take statins.

I explained, there are other ways of lowering cholesterol. But why the sudden lack of concern?

They told me I had to pay cash for the test, and I did.

Reading the results, I was happy, shocked, and mortified all at the same time. His cholesterol levels were perfect.

I asked for the last read-out to compare when he was on statins, but they didn’t want to share that without a proper release of records. Since my father could no longer speak, they insisted I had to go down and fill out loads of paper work to get this number.

So, we went through the entire process only to find that his cholesterol levels while on statins had remained high, around 230, and at his last test, after two years of statin treatment, he was around 220.

Now, with no medication, it was around 190.

So he’s med-free, taking natural supplements, eating healthy, and recovering from the brain damage created by Lovastatin and now his cholesterol and all his numbers were perfect

But the doctors were uninterested.

I argued, “You’re telling me that now his cholesterol is perfect. Then why don’t others do what he’s doing, rejecting all medications and seeking alternative remedies?”

He had no response except, “Can I do anything else for you?”

I said, “No, you go eat your lunch by Corner Bakery downstairs, which has been funded by the same blood money that stole my father’s health, and don’t worry about a thing. I’ll wheel my father out of here, taking 5-10 minutes to get him into the car and cry through the night while I sit awake researching ways to fix what you did,  wondering why my father trusted you over me.”

The doctor seemed unphased, numb to my situation. Was he really aware of what these drugs were doing? And is he aware that the free catered lunch was paid for by Merck is a bribery to push their drugs?

Our devised cocktail of supplements began working wonders. We saw him go from complete and total inability to function to now doing eight minutes on the stair-master without assistance.

His vision went from 20/400  with the strongest lens possible (legally blind) to 20/50 without any lens in just five weeks. He was now able to swallow a glass of water without any thickener. It was evident that these natural supplements alone were restoring his brain damage back to normal.

He wasn’t quite the fierce rugby player of his adolescence, but a certain fire reignited within him that filled us both with energy. We were hopeful and on the road to recovery! It was nothing short of a miracle. We found a cure against medical advice.

Click here to read part four of this four part series: Reversing Brain Damage… Possible!

The articles addressing statins can be found by clicking on the links below:

The Secret Of Statin Drugs (Part 1)

Our Statin-Induced Nightmare (Part 2)

Statin Cure: Against Medical Advice (Part 3)

Reversing Brain Damage… Possible! (Part 4)

CurePSP: Not Interested In A Cure! (Part 5)

I would love to hear about your experiences with statin drugs. Please email me at hazel@canyon-news.com. Find me on twitter at hazel90210.

The post Statin Cure: Against Medical Advice (Part 3) appeared first on Canyon News.