Author: Georgia Coleridge
My husband Nick was lying on the sofa, groaning and calling for extra-strength Nurofen. He’d had a bad fall ten years earlier, in his gap year, and ever since had suffered from intermittent sciatica.
The discs in his lower vertebrae were crushed in the accident, and an operation had failed to provide a cure. Hot dry summers helped, but as soon as the weather got damp and cold, his back would go into painful spasms.
Every winter I got used to taking on the role of porter and furniture-mover until the inflammation calmed down. But this could take weeks, and he never knew when the pain would strike.
So, as winter arrived and Nick lay face downwards yet again, I told him he had to find something or someone to help him. My father said he’d just met a marvellous young healer called Jeff: perhaps he could do something?
Nick scoffed and rolled his eyes, but I persisted. I had no idea whether healing would help, but Nick couldn’t pop painkillers for ever.
My husband didn’t give any credence to complementary therapies of any sort in those days, but with much nagging from me, he’d reluctantly hauled himself off to see an osteopath. But all the clicking and cracking hadn’t made a whit of difference. So how could some chap laying hands on him possibly be more effective?
Frankly I wasn’t optimistic either, but he had nothing to lose. Finally he relented, with the tetchy proviso that it would, of course, be a complete waste of time. After all, how could faith healing work on him when he didn’t even believe in it?
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