He enters the waiting room to greet me, a large but frail elderly man with a big smile that exposes his discolored teeth. The first thing I notice are his hands, which are covered in circular dry spots, as if he’d had, but was getting over, a skin infection of some sort. The second thing I notice is that his shoes have very thick soles, like they’ve been stacked to make him seem taller or perhaps weighted to keep him from toppling over like an old tree with weakened roots.

He leads me into his exam room, where I wait while he processes my credit card. The room is small, with just enough space for a chiropractic table, a desk and two chairs. Several windows are nestled between shelves full of herbs and supplements. The room smells sweet — like flowers at the peak of their bloom — but not too strong. I am surprised by how comforting I find the space.

It is not until the naturopath has come back from processing my payment and taken a seat adjacent to me that I notice his fingernails. Several are jaggedly torn back deep into the nail bed. All are thick and discolored, about the same shade as his teeth. Most disconcerting is that they are painted with clear polish. This gives them a worn out but lustrous look, much like spraying a shiny coat of Maaco automotive paint on a run-down vehicle that should be retired to a salvage yard.

It’s not the polish that I mind as much as what I think he might be trying to cover up. Given that his hands have what appear to be not-quite-healed sores, and given the general state of his nails, I suspect the naturopath might be using polish to seal something in, something that could otherwise get on and infect his patients.

And by his patients, I mean me. But of course this is my tendency: to worry. A man wearing nail polish can’t simply be a man wearing nail polish in the world I inhabit. No, it must mean something more, and particularly it must mean something bad is in store for me. I tell myself to settle down and just go with it. The naturopath is a doctor, after all. He wouldn’t do anything to put his patients in harm’s way, even if that meant refraining from practicing until his horrible flesh-eating disease healed.

My attention drifts from his nails to his shirt. It’s white. Somewhat wrinkled, which is no cause for alarm in the Seattle area, where most people haven’t seen an iron in years and the messy I-don’t-give-a-shit look prevails. It’s the front of the shirt that catches my eye. There is a large, dried stain that runs down the middle, from his suprasternal notch to his waistline. The stain is faint in the middle but darkens toward the edges and is approximately the color of rotten oak leaves. This is clearly a shirt he has sweat in, a lot — and repeatedly I would guess — until the stain has managed to set and cling to the fabric despite being laundered.

I’m having a very difficult time getting past the shirt issue, along with everything else, when the naturopath begins asking me questions. All I can think of are his hands, nails and shirt stain. After a couple of questions, he excuses himself, lumbering off to his office in his bulky shoes, because he can’t hear anything I’m saying. I always forget to put my hearing aids on, he says to me a little too loudly.

He appears again a few minutes later, adjusting the aid in his right ear until it’s properly positioned, and begins describing his method to me. Kinetic something-or-other. Basically, he will use the strength and weakness of my muscles to determine what supplements I need. I don’t really understand what he’s saying. After all, I’ve only come here to get some L-tryptophan* so I can sleep better. I don’t want extensive testing, but I try to be open-minded. Who knows what wisdom this dilapidated man in a stained shirt might possess. At this point, I am willing to look practically anywhere or to anyone for help with my health issues, even to this unconventional healer.

The naturopath instructs me to lie down on the chiropractic table and begins pushing on my muscles. He starts with the legs, telling me to lift my right leg into the air. He presses against my calf hard with both hands, telling me to resist the force he’s applying. He repeats the process several times, saying, Again, again, again. He calls this a strength test.

He paces around the exam room, muttering and shaking the finger on his right hand, as if he’s on the cusp of remembering something vital. He grabs a bottle from one of the shelves, returns to me, lays the bottle on my stomach then repeats the strength test several times.

Unpleased with the result, he snatches the bottle from my stomach, paces around the room in the same manner as before, grabs another bottle and places that one on my stomach. He goes through the same routine a few more times until he appears to find a satisfactory result with one of the herbs. He opens the bottle, breaks open a capsule and tells me to open my mouth.

I find the entire process laughable, but what can I do? Should I get up and leave? Should I tell this old man that I think his methods are bunk? I decide to do what anyone in my position would do, despite the fact that I don’t want this man’s hands anywhere near my mouth — I open wide. The naturopath lets the contents of the capsule fall onto my tongue. It is mildly acrid with a subtle, fruity aftertaste. He tells me we need to wait a few seconds, then he repeats the strength test. Lo and behold, my muscles are much stronger, he says.

He works his way along my entire body in this fashion, testing for strength, pacing the exam room, placing bottles of herbs and supplements on me, re-testing for strength, opening capsules and dropping their contents into my mouth, testing for strength again.

He ends with his test for my insomnia. This entails lifting my arms straight above my face and holding my palms together while he tries to pull my arms apart at the wrists. At this point, things are getting a little too close to S&M for my taste.

To make things even more S&M, the twist on this test is that the naturopath covers my eyes with a thick towel to simulate sleeping conditions. Again, again, again, he says as he tries to pull my arms apart. Then he grabs a bottle of L-tryptophan and places it in my right hand. Much stronger, he says as he tries to pry my arms apart. This will work for you.

In the end, I walk away with the L- tryptophan, a bottle of dandelion root extract and a $25 bottle of organic vitamin E complex, which I must say I find rather tasty. So tasty that I break open the capsules and eat them that way instead of simply swallowing them whole. I know I didn’t need to buy the dandelion root or the vitamin E, but what was I to do? The naturopath put so much effort into his method, quacky as it was, that I felt obligated to buy what he prescribed. You might do the same thing in my position. Or perhaps not.

This experience is not unlike a visit I made to a chiropractor in Kansas City about 10 years ago. She came highly recommended by everyone who worked at the natural grocery store I frequented. I went in with high hopes, and I was very excited when she told me she was going to do some testing for any medical conditions I might have.

As it turned out, the testing entailed having me lie face-down on a table while she asked a series of questions about my health. She then shook my feet and “read” the position of my feet for the answer to the question. If one was higher, the answer was yes. If the other was higher, the answer was no.

This approach is flawed for so many reasons, like the fact that she was limited to yes or no questions, since apparently feet only give those two answers. You can’t ask feet “What is wrong with Dana’s thyroid” and get a response. Even a Magic 8 Ball provides more answers than “yes” and “no.” Also, what the hell? Shaking feet for answers? What kind of test is that?

I knew it was nonsense, but I ended up buying a $90 bottle of fancy oil and a fancy cloth. I was instructed to douse the cloth in the oil and lay it on my stomach once a day. This is what my feet told her: that my path to healing involved basting myself with an oily rag.

But my point is, I could have left as soon as the foot-shaking began, and I certainly could have walked away without the oil, but I didn’t. Just as I didn’t bolt when the naturopath pressed on my body and fed me herbs. Apparently, there’s something in me that buckles, and opens my wallet, in the face of that which is oddly entertaining. Just imagine if I went to see a psychic. Who knows how much money I could blow there. Oodles, I’m guessing.

I’m proud to say that I did draw the line somewhere, though, with the naturopath. He wanted to do a chiropractic adjustment inside my mouth, which he said would help me sleep. I told him no. I could tell he was disappointed. I felt so bad, I thought of retracting my “no” and saying OK, but I couldn’t bear the thought of my tongue brushing across one of those painted nails. We all have boundaries, and that apparently is one of mine.

* * *

Oh, and can I interest anyone in some dandelion root? I’ve found that it’s too bitter. I don’t really care for it.

* * *

*I do not *at all* recommend taking L-tryptophan. My neurologist says it can cause bad reactions, and she thinks it might partially be responsible for my paresthesia, since I started taking it the day before that symptom started. So even though it’s touted as being all-natural and safe, it’s best to avoid it. It’s also best to avoid certain naturopaths, particularly the type described above. Even if they are on your insurance plan.**

**Yes, that naturopath is on my insurance plan. I am fairly certain they have no idea what kind of tomfoolery he’s up to.