This story seems unbelievable, but I promise it is true.
Imagine the scene with me, three and a half years ago. I’m sitting in a plastic chair across from one of the finest neurosurgeons in my large, metropolitan city with one hand resting on my pregnant belly. I can’t feel the baby kicking today. Sometimes she does, but they tell us it doesn’t mean anything. She isn’t supposed to be able to move her legs at all, but sometimes the muscles and nerves fire randomly. They tell us not to assume it means anything.
“What are the chances she’ll ever walk?” I ask the neurosurgeon, who is a kind man with red hair and a sad smile.
He considers his answer carefully. “Ten to fifteen percent, I think,” he says.
I numbly write this down in the notebook dedicated to my daughter’s overwhelming list of medical complications. My notebook is already full of diagnoses, prognoses, and percentages. Words to google, numbers to call, surgeries to prepare for. Our baby will be born with severe disabilities, including spina bifida, kyphosis, bilateral clubfoot, and a rare, rare condition called segmental spinal dysgenesis that causes a twisted, malformed spinal cord and vertebra. Her body will be distorted. We have already seen the MRIs, and in the strange contrast of the pale amniotic fluid against the dark spaces of my womb, she looks like a mermaid bathed in milk, her lower half and clubbed feet curled like fins. She is beautiful, and I am terrified.
Ten to fifteen percent chance of ever walking, he said. I think he was being generous with me.
These were not good odds, and the path ahead was steep, but I have never been a quitter, and I didn’t intend to raise my daughter to be one, either.
Fast forward three years. I have never given up, and neither has my daughter. She has learned to drag herself on her elbows and then, to hop like a frog to get around because she cannot crawl. Surgeries, serial casting to straight her legs, bracing, physical therapy… we did everything faithfully, exactly as prescribed. Weekly and then monthly appointments with specialists. X-rays and MRIs. Hospitals and clinics and in-home therapy. But in addition to following the doctors’ orders, I was relentlessly searching, reading, scouring the internet every night for more things that we could try. Red light therapy, myofascial release, acupuncture, and more. We tried everything, some with success, some with disappointment. And our daughter thrived and grew stronger and went farther than expected.
But she didn’t walk.
I tried many things. And more things. And even more things.
And finally, I got the Rife Machine.
I waited a long time to make the purchase, because it felt like I was fully committing to some sort of mad science. This machine was more than a hand-held laser or a set of magnets or a secret phone-call appointment with an energy healer. This was a monster of a machine, something that would sit in front of us and either remind us of a failure if it didn’t work. The price was high, but we’d tried so many alternative things and seen so many gains, and we’d already reached the limits of what traditional western medicine could reasonably expect.
I was willing to spend the money now. How could I let a few hundred dollars stand between my daughter and radical improvement, if that was all that was in the way?
I chose the Spooky 2 company because you made the process easy and you explained everything well. Two generators to start with, and a computer dedicated solely to running them when it became clear that the family laptop would not suffice. I assembled the mass of wires and blinking pieces on the living room floor, feeling like Nicola Tesla or Marie Curie. My husband looked on, unconvinced but mildly supportive. He had grown used to my experiments with the weird, and this was just one more thing in a list of many, many things that grew stranger and stranger.
I set up the Rife Machine and began to run daily frequencies for spine, paraplegia, muscle spasticity, bone stimulation, nerve growth, and more with remote and contact modes on my daughter’s spinal deformity and legs.
One week later, my three-year-old daughter took her first independent steps into my mother’s surprised arms. These were the first steps she’s ever taken without poles, a walker, or someone holding her hands.
I was shocked, thrilled, incredulous, and overjoyed. I didn’t think I would see results so quickly. I ordered more generators. Now, I’m running frequencies on everyone in the family. (I’m running frequencies on myself while I’m writing this!) Even our cats are getting some Rife in their lives, and the grouchy old things are looking slimmer, sleeker, and younger. We’re all sleeping better, losing weight, gaining energy, and feeling joy and hope. I’m committed to this for the long haul, and I have high hopes for the future.
Best of all, my daughter is growing straighter and stronger every day. Her crooked body is unfolding like a flower in the sun. Her leg movements are becoming more neurotypical by the day. Sometimes, she sits cross-legged like my son while they watch TV (she never used to be able to do this before), or she moves her ankles in slow circles in an astonishing display of muscular control. She’s started climbing on things with confidence and taking bold, staggering strides across the living room five and six steps at a time before she goes back to her knees. Her physical therapist is speechless. I cannot wait to see the reaction of her neurosurgeon and orthopedist during our next visit. I’m excited for the results of our upcoming MRI as well!
She still has miles to go, and her medical outcomes are still wildly uncertain, but I have a hope like I’ve never had before.
I am so very, very thankful. Thank you, Spooky 2. You’ve probably changed the course of my daughter’s life.
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