I could no longer work or drive when a minor infection became a life-threatening illness as a result of antibiotics prescribed for me by a gynecologist. I sent my young son to live with my ex-husband because I was too ill to take care of him.

The doctor scheduled major surgery, promising a hysterectomy, removal of one kidney, and he “didn’t know what else” until he “got in there.”

“You’ll be dead in three months without the surgery,” he said.

If I did allow myself to be cut up like a chicken for dinner, I would “most likely” survive, but as a lifelong invalid.

In the hospital the night before the surgery, I kept hearing a voice in my head, “There is a better way.” But what?

The nurse came along with a monster needle to give me a shot of Keflex. “What is Keflex?” I asked. “I’ve been taking it for months, and I’ve only gotten worse.”

“It’s a derivative of penicillin.”

I screamed! Pushed her away with all the adrenaline-powered strength in my ninety-three pound body.

In my gynecologist’s office, I had seen the bright red scribble on my chart alerting them to my extreme allergy to penicillin. I realized the doctor had been slowly murdering me.

“Doctor’s orders.” She stomped toward me with her needle weapon. “Now be a good girl and turn over so we can get this over with.”

I scrambled off the opposite side of the bed to escape Nurse Ratched and fell onto the floor. “No! I’m allergic to anything penicillin. Now I understand why I’m so sick. And I don’t take shots. I’m leaving!”

The woman in the other bed frantically punched the nurse’s call button. Three people galloped into the room, terrifying me. One of them turned out to be the head nurse—who saw my panic.

“Everyone leave.” When the room emptied out, she helped me back into the bed. “Okay, what’s this about.”

I told her all of it, and that I wanted to go home. I couldn’t have the surgery. I just could not do it! This time, I listened to my inner voice and not the doctor’s scary prediction.

“I won’t say this in court, dear, but your gynecologist practically has a factory going in here with all his hysterectomies. That, and the Keflex, is reason enough to leave. Find another doctor,” she said.

Required liability paperwork signed, I called a taxi. The kind taxi driver assisted me inside my apartment and left me his card. “Call me if you need a ride. No charge this time.”

The voice in my head spoke again, “Let your fingers do the walking.” I didn’t know what to look for in the Yellow Pages but my fingers stopped on a health food store.

What was a health food store? This was 1978, in Houston, Texas, and my favorite foods were whipped cream, Three Musketeers bars, CocaCola (the real kind in small green bottles, or a fountain Coke over crushed ice; and no, Pepsi would never do) chocolate ice cream on chocolate cake, and fried bacon. Does anyone remember Cheetos? I thought they were food. I didn’t yet appreciate food in terms of health benefits.

The health food store recommended a holistic M.D.

“I’m sending you a large bottle of vitamin C,” he said, “and a twenty pound bag of tangerines. Be sure you eat as many of the tangerines as possible and include the white pulp with the fruit. The white part contains the bioflavonoids that make the C in the fruit more effective. Tangerines are the highest source of C and bioflavonoids in one fruit.” I loved tangerines, and it was December when they were available. Tangerines still smell like Christmas and healing to me.

Horrible pain with embarrassing symptoms kept me out of public places and made the most simple actions difficult.

“Start with two grams of the C, then one gram every hour until the pain stops. It will stop. It may take a few hours or a few days, but it will stop,” the holistic physician assured me. “Take the C every hour, even at night, until that happens. Then you can reduce it to one gram every two hours while awake until you can come in to see me.”

Eight months of constant agony ended in three days. Until the torment stopped, I had not realized pain was so noisy and took up so much mind space. In another three weeks, two huge ovarian cysts broke up and left my body. That’s when I learned the cysts were how my immune system attempted to protect me from the poisonous antibiotic.

Because of vitamin C, drugs nor surgery were necessary. My healing process began then, but my lifelong quest to stay healthy, and keep up with research as it unfolded, never stopped.

That wonderful holistic M.D. saved my life when he introduced me to supplements, protein drinks, and healthfully prepared food. If I had not discovered him and the world of alternative healing, I believe I would not be alive today.

My fingers took another stroll through the Yellow Pages (there were no computers or Internet) and led me to a hypnotist who changed my mindset to wellness. I’ve never looked back—and, I’ve still got all my parts intact.

I’ve learned about many supplements that would have assisted my healing during that traumatic time, but I haven’t forgotten, or underestimated, the power of real, non-GMO, vitamin C combined with bioflavonoids to work miracles. I would not have needed an antibiotic, and I’ve never taken one since.

Five months later, happy to have my son back with me, we were celebrating with dinner in an Italian restaurant one night and saw the doctor with his family a few tables over. On our way out, I gleefully let him know I was still around, getting healthier every day—and I did not do it with drugs or surgery.

Loved the look on his face. Tiramisu revenge!