Thursday and Friday this week reminded me of fourteen years ago in Grangeville, Idaho where repeated visits to an indifferent MD almost killed me. While he had plenty of time for teenage girls, older men were more of a bother than anything and I only got an appointment because his staff thought I was the local mini-tycoon by dint of sharing his first name.
Going to the only doctor in town for a sore throat got a quick Rx for antibiotics and a “don’t let the door hit you in the butt on the way out”.
It was getting real bad by the end of the first 10-day course, so he wrote for a stronger dosage and sent me packing with a by-the-way “you might want to check with a dentist”.
The dentist, who fit me in immediately, was aghast. “You have an infection the size of a peach. It will kill you within days if not hours. I’m calling ahead to Lewiston. You are driving straight there. Make no stops. Waste no time.” The specialized surgeon yanked the offender and extracted the toxic soup around it.
Those two women climbing inside my mouth with pry-bars hurt more than anything in memory, but … no pain, no gain, eh?
I think that was the last time I took a plumbing problem to an electrician … and it certainly sowed seeds of distrust that have since grown and blossomed.
I have spent the last two years keeping infection away from a broken filling by regular use of colloidal silver gel (awesome antibiotic/antimicrobial). Multiple motivators inspired me to finally have the inevitable tooth extraction. That appointment, scheduled a month ago happened to coincide with the end of my impromptu 11-day fast. 
I went in Wednesday at the absolute peak of my ketosis cycle, with all the little soldiers my body could muster coursing through my veins on seek-and-destroy missions for any agents who did not belong.
Darn good thing.
I pretty-well knew going into the dentist’s office what result I wanted and expected. “I’m 72. I am not interested in extraordinary efforts to retain a tooth.” He understood, found the game tooth to have no infection near the surface, but a pocket of it around the root base.
Its departure was less fun than a family picnic, but I have had worse (see above).
Those infective agents ran for it, hightailing all over my body looking for places to hide, attacking the host wherever they went.
Doc Og’s fever metric system
MILD: wearing unseasonably warm clothes (long sleeve tee, longjohn leggings), get-up-and-go not quite there
MODERATE: add a vest to the above, no interest in physical anything, often using electric blanket on 1 when going to bed, usually off a few hours later
HIGH: living in the recliner, wearing all the above plus my lovely full-length heavy fleece blanket, going to bed with electric blanket on 2 or 3, typically off several hours later
EXTREME: Missy would freak out if we put a Fahrenheit number to it. Heavy bundling doesn’t cut it. Thank the Matrix for electric blankets … mine is turned up to 6 and stays that way all night. Don’t have enough energy to get a drink of water.
I cannot remember ever hitting Doc Og EXTREME, but I got there Thursday. By Friday I was below HIGH, perhaps at MODERATE +. By Friday evening it was mild.
A good friend visited Thursday. When he came back Friday he said the day before I appeared to be at Death’s door, but that I looked A LOT better now.
I am thinking the deep-rooted infection has been the source of multiple problems that not only inspired my recent fast, but also prevented it from producing the comprehensive cure it otherwise might have.
My little army and I will proceed onto the mop-up operation.
I expect Doc Og back here soon. He has some more advice to share.