Holistic Medicine

Cops: They run on doughnuts, cigarettes, chili dogs and beer. They get most of their exercise climbing in and out of patrol cars. And they don't know the meaning of the word relax. For decades, that life style has been almost as much a part of a police officer's image as the uniform he wears. And if it leaves him wanting a "skosh" more room around the waistline of those blue trousers, hey--it goes with the job.

When Dr. Brian Berman first saw him two years ago, the man's face was paralyzed by pain. The 54-year-old cameraman suffered from trigeminal neuralgia, a condition that produces severe facial pain. He had found some relief through anesthetic nerve blocks and narcotic painkillers--but at a terrible price. He couldn't sleep, couldn't concentrate and was often depressed.

It was on a Monday I learned that the routine biopsy on the lump in my breast might not be so routine, and that it would be a few more days before definitive word. My husband, Steve, and I decided not to tell anyone, to spare needless worry in case this turned out to be nothing. On Tuesday, my friend Patricia called me. In addition to being a successful sci-fi fantasy writer, she's also the witch who married Jim Morrison in a pagan ceremony. (One does enjoy having interesting friends.

It looks like a scene straight from "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Ten patients lie on massage tables. On one, a woman sobs; the guy next to her laughs uncontrollably. The other folks are silent, but two breathe so deeply that their spines undulate as gracefully as waves. Welcome to Network, an approach to chiropractic in which gentle spinal adjustments can produce dramatic, cathartic releases--physical and emotional.

Marilyn Horne travels with a complete medicine chest. Simon Estes gulps vitamins daily--at least 3,000 units of Vitamin C. Sherrill Milnes wears a scarf and rarely talks in the cold outdoors. Leigh Munro washes her hands often. Benjamin Luxon doesn't worry about his health and even spends time cutting wood on his farm. Opera singers sometimes take extraordinary precautions to avoid catching a cold or the flu. After all, that first sneeze can lead to a temporary loss of livelihood.

Since the age of 11, Alicia Hanna had suffered debilitating daily headaches that interfered with her concentration at school and made her feel just plain miserable. After years of gulping down nine ibuprofen tablets a day, she turned to pain specialists and more prescription pills than she can remember. In October, figuring she had nothing to lose, she joined hundreds of thousands of Americans tapping into a popular alternative treatment: magnet therapy.

An occasional health report from The Times' foreign bureaus * Ghanaian priest David Angamah stood over Efua Badu, resting a Bible on her head as she sat in an open courtyard, her eyes tightly closed. Angamah recited the Lord's Prayer and the Apostles' Creed in loud, heated tones, accompanied by a high-pitched chorus of responses from assistants adorned in red dresses and head scarves.

Crush some garlic and add a dash of cayenne pepper. Brew with the juice of six grapefruit. Bombard with positive thoughts--this, like, being Southern California. And, oh yes, let someone tuck you into bed with tender, loving care. This concoction was among the nearly 200 responses sent in by readers who shared their best cures for wintertime colds and flu. Chicken is big, booze is bigger. And lots of readers have faith in salt, onions, garlic, and sizzling teas and soups.

"Music exalts each joy, allays each Grief, expels Diseases, softens every Pain, subdues the rage of Poison and the Plague." --John Armstrong, "The Art of Preserving Health, Book IV" (1744) * Earlier this decade in what was Yugoslavia, an amazing discovery occurred. It was a segment of the thighbone of a cave bear, used by Neanderthals who walked the Earth more than 43,000 years ago. The amazing aspect was that the bone remnant contained four carefully spaced holes: It was a prehistoric flute.

It's enlistment day at cardiac boot camp. Survivors of heart attacks, strokes or bypass surgery have trooped in from around the world to the stately old Claremont Resort and Spa in the hills above Oakland because they are dying. And if there is one thing every decent, self-respecting heart patient knows by now it's that you have to reckon with Dr. Dean Ornish. So 109 mostly middle-aged recruits, or in a few cases their insurers, have paid $3,600 each to learn a completely new way of living.