I'll never forget the morning I realized my pain pills were quietly destroying me.
I was sitting at my kitchen table with my coffee, lining up the day's medications like I'd done every morning for the last six years. Two ibuprofen for the knees. One acetaminophen for the back. A prescription anti-inflammatory my doctor had switched me to after the last one started "irritating" my stomach. Plus the proton pump inhibitor he'd added to protect against the irritation from the pills.
I looked at that little parade of orange bottles and I thought, this can't be right.
I was 67 years old. I'd been a teacher for 34 years and I'd never missed a day for being sick. Now I needed three medications just to walk from my bedroom to the kitchen — and a fourth to keep the first three from eating a hole in my stomach.
And the worst part? My knees still hurt. The pills didn't fix anything. They just turned the volume down — for about four hours at a time — and then the pain came roaring back, sometimes worse than before.
I felt defeated. If modern medicine couldn't help me, what could?