In early December, 2000, financial circumstances coupled with a man who actually uttered the words “Money is no object” and agreed to what was then the most outrageous fee I could imagine forced me to take a high-paying, even higher-stress gig. By January, I had stomach pains that acted like an ulcer. “Acted like,” as in no, I didn’t get tested or treated. I could not bear the thought of lugging around one more medical label. It was to my mind just another step toward the great beyond.

Bera, who had been recommending this protocol and that and charting (I now find out) my stunning lack of progress throughout the years, had also been insisting I take Noni juice for about, oh, a long time. That winter, she worked out a deal with the South Pacific Trading Company for me to buy it at a greatly reduced cost so I would finally (Please! Please! I’m begging you!) give Noni a try.

Starting sometime in early February, 2001, I drank three ounces of Noni, a juice that tastes different to everyone, every morning. Bera wanted me to drink it twice a day, but while it tasted like parmesan cheese to my landlady, to me it tasted like the bottom of a sewer. This was not good-tasting stuff. I downed it from a glass in my left hand followed immediately with an eight-ounce glass of water from my right. Blech, blech, pftui, ew, blech.

In July, 2001, I drove Bera and husband Ron’s 10-wheeler moving van from Orange, California to Bernalillo, New Mexico, which is just about three tumbleweeds past Albuquerque, on the left.

In the heat.

With night vision.

And energy.

ENERGY.

Real, honest-to-God energy, the kind I hadn’t had since…well, never. I’d never had so much energy, not at any previous stage in my life.

When I came home and went back to work, I discovered that what used to take three months I could now accomplish in three or four weeks. Weeks!

Would it have been as effective if I hadn’t readied my system with all those supplements and detoxes beforehand, if I didn’t do a liver cleanse three or four times a year, if I didn’t lay off grains (ALL grains) as much as possible and chomp down broccoli like it was the latest blend of nectar and ambrosia? Maybe, maybe not—how would I know? I can’t even remember all the things I swallowed, rubbed in, and slurped up that didn’t worked. But the Noni did. I felt better than I had in decades. Noni juice was a miracle!

But…not a cure.

The cure, the two icing-on-the-cake elements that dissipated multiple sclerosis so entirely that it could not sustain itself in my body and had to slink away whimpering like the pathetic, slimey  maggot it is, was a one-two punch from my wacky but loveable client in Mississippi and the zero point field.

The zero point field? The one via which Tom and I were/are psychically connected?

Yeah, that one.