All the Stupid Ways People Try to Cure My Incurable Disease

I have a disease called ankylosing spondylitis.

It's ok if you've never heard of it—neither had I until my doctor told me it was the reason I couldn't get out of bed without my flatmate's help. It's an autoimmune disease. Essentially, my body is attacking my bones, and my bones don't like it so they are fusing together.
I'm in pain all the time and have to take a shitload of drugs to live a somewhat normal life.
You know hunchbacks? Well, that's what ankylosing spondylitis looks like untreated.

There are some positives about getting sick. It forced me to take stock of my life in a way I wouldn't have if I had been healthy, I wrote most of my novel when I was bedridden, and now people think I smoke weed for pain relief.

A major downside, though, apart from the pain and the premature death, is that people are constantly trying to cure me with some bullshit they read on Facebook.

I'm all for alternative medicines and using diet to try and treat illness—I've managed to keep mine relatively under control with veganism and a mountain of turmeric, as well as Western meds—but if you're wasted and not a trained professional, chances are you're not going to be much help.

These well-meaning amateur medics usually fall into three categories.

There's the aggressively concerned dude at the bar who finds my illness an affront.
"What's wrong with your neck mate?"
"I have an autoimmune disease."
"Fuck mate, you need to go paleo. My friend was getting headaches, went paleo, sweet as now."
"Ok, thanks,"
"Serious mate, what's your email? I'll send you some links."
"Nah, it's ok thanks."
"Do you like being sick, dickhead?"

Then there's the hippie who won't stop rubbing my neck at one of my own gigs.
"Your energy is out of sync."
"Sorry, I'm trying to get ready for my show."
"You need to come see my friend; she does crystal sound healing."
"Please stop touching me."
"I'm just doing some Reiki."

Lastly, there are the weirdos who sound like they're just making shit up.
"Bee pollen and minced organic lamb five times a day."

On top of this, I'm broke, and most of the shit people swear will cure me is fucking expensive. I'm sure spending hundreds of dollars a week on specialists would make the world of difference, but I'm a poet, so I'm lucky if I can afford the bus to the doctors.

My favourite time was when I met someone for a work meeting, and after hearing about my condition he asked if he could pray for me. I was getting paid by the hour so I was like, "Sure, why not." He put his hands on my neck and started doing his thing. I felt a bit tingly, which was cool. When he finished he stepped back and looked at me expectantly.
"So?"
"Umm, yeah thanks," I said, not sure what was meant to happen next.
"Do you feel cured?" I tried to move my neck.
"Nope, still fucked."
"Hmm, let me try again," he said, worried that God might have missed that last prayer.

So we went through the whole process again, only this time when he asked if I was cured I said "yes", fearing otherwise that we'd be stuck there until either he lost his religion or God relented and cured me.

Dominic Hoey is a rapper, poet, novelist, and playwright. His one-man show, Your Heart Looks Like a Vagina, is on now at the Basement Theatre in Auckland.