Traditional Tibetan Medicine
In December of last year I went to see an Amchi, or Tibetan doctor. I had been thinking on a system to support my mental and physical health for some time, particularly after some important family losses.
I also feel I am entering middle age, and I want to start thinking about how to take care of my mind and body as I age. Ideally, I wanted to return to a holistic and relational system. When I was in my 20s I started to see a Tibetan doctor, and when I moved to Belgium I quickly found an Amchi in Brussels.
After I moved to The Netherlands, twice per year I would travel from Leiden to Brussels to go see her, but eventually I stopped.
Through a Google search I found a handful of Amchi. One of them engaged my imagination and I decided to make an appointment to go see him.
The day of the appointment I arrived an hour early. Because it was my first time, I didn’t want to be late. The place was a typical modern Dutch house in a residential area. I knocked on the door and the Amchi let me in. Then he immediately took me to a shed at the back of the house.
The shed was made into a room for consultations. It was a very small room but quite beautiful, it looked like a mini-Buddhist temple. I immediately felt good and welcomed, it was a nice refuge from the miserable gray day. The Amchi left for a moment and then came back with tea for both of us and started the consultation. I felt bad because I was over an hour early, and when I came in, I could smell lunch was ready.
Because I had seen two Amchi regularly before him, I thought I knew what to expect. But unlike other Amchi, this consultation lasted two hours. He first took my pulse and asked about my life and why I was there. I told him that in the last two years I had a late-term pregnancy loss and that I had also lost both of my parents.
He took his time to talk to me. He talked about kindness and how important it is to be kind to everyone. He talked about gratitude and asked me to make space every day to be grateful. He then checked some points around my body, like my upper back, lower back, the sides of my legs. A couple of places were moderately painful, and when he touched one point on my left leg it made me scream in pain.
And after nearly two hours, when he was finished, he prayed.
My parents had different religions and belief systems, and growing up like that made me non-religious. But both of my parents always prayed for me, and they would mention it sometimes and I would roll my eyes.
Eventually, as I grew older and the years living abroad accumulated, I started to soften to their good wishes and appreciated the ways in which they showed me their love. After their passing, I was surprised to discover I was actually sad no one would pray for me anymore. Even though I don’t believe in a God, it felt like a real loss.
And there was my new Amchi, praying for me.
I thought I was looking for an Amchi but I think I was looking for my dad, his steady moral advice, his care and love and good wishes.
One of the things that caught my attention most when I was seeing my previous Amchi in Brussels is that she would seem genuinely happy every time I would come back with my health a little bit improved, after taking my pulses she would almost jump with joy and run around the room getting pills and powders to prepare my next treatment. I always found that so beautiful. It is rare to find people who can so freely and immediately care.
When I left Amchi’s house I felt I was going back into the world more protected, cared for, even stronger. As the days went by, I felt less fearful, less guarded, my mind more relaxed. Being kind became easier, and finding a moment every day to be grateful became something to look forward to.
Self-Ethnography 