My Father, the Witch Doctor
One day, back in the early 70s, my father suddenly discovered that he had the astonishing ability to talk to the dead and heal the sick (for real!).
By day, he was a successful interior decorator with clients ranging from the Presidents of Cuba and Haiti to assorted mobsters and the illicit rich. Mom was a brilliant, glamour-rama whose style lit up any room including when she was shaking the dice in some Havana casino.
Overnight, our Miami home became like Lourdes as people arrived with blind babies, in crutches or with bottles of medication only to leave seeing, walking and drug-free. Over the years, my father healed thousands of people, many of whom wrote testimonial letters detailing their cures. Needless to say, the presence of such a miracle man put a strain on our family. I wanted a normal dad who mowed the lawn and fell asleep in front of the TV. Mom wanted her old husband back who wasn’t distracted by disembodied spirits who suddenly appeared to give my father medical advice on how to handle a particular case or patient.
More startling, however, was the threat that my father posed to the established order. The FDA sent agents to harass and hopefully jail him, the police were constantly knocking on our door with complaints of “voodoo and witchcraft” and doctors had him thrown out of hospitals and threatened to have him arrested for “practicing medicine without a license” even though he never charged a dime for any of his healings. He felt that he given a special gift that was meant to be shared and not used to line his pockets.
My, how times have changed. Today, my father would most likely be on Oprah, have several grants from the NIH to study energy