Sanoviv for Type 2 Diabetes, Part I

by Tina Moody
(Austin, Tx USA)

Sanoviv: A Place Worth Knowing, (whether you have Type 2 Diabetes or not)


Deb and I watched the Southwest Airlines plane taxi toward the runway with our babies aboard. I knew they’d be okay, but there was still an apprehension in my belly, more for myself than them. Anxiety has always been my pathology of choice and at the moment it was full blown. This marked the official start of my two weeks at Sanoviv.

In April I’d mentioned to Deborah Kern, an author, national speaker, and all ‘round authority on women’s health, wellness and movement, that I wanted to go to a spa, maybe somewhere in Mexico, to “get back on my feet” after recently having been diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes. Without missing a beat she blurted “Sanoviv”. Little did I know at the time what that place of “healthy life” would mean to me. So here we were, at the San Diego airport, waving good-bye to our children and toe-tappingly awaiting transportation to Rosarita, Mexico and what I’d come to think of as my stint in medical prison.

Pedro found us easily enough. I was the one sweating bullets and Deb was waving sweetly in greeting to her seemingly old friend and neighbor. They chatted away as Pedro hefted our luggage aboard and helped us into the van. Off we went, my stomach dropping with every tire rotation and each breath a shallow gasp. I’d soon come to know more about that particular breathing practice, but for now, I knew I’d best chill out or risk heart failure. No way was I coming this far in the adventure to miss those seaweed wraps, paraffin masks and meals perfectly prepared for me, not by me, that cinched the deal for my deposit.

After passing “Jesus on the hill” (you’ll have to go to Sanoviv for your own particular interpretation of that experience) we approached a monolithic white structure rising out of the land or was it the water? It was so close to the shore I wasn’t sure which. I thought to myself, “I was right. It is a prison, or maybe an insane asylum.” There were no windows. Here we were right on the shores of the Baja peninsula and there are no windows? What’s up with that?

Turning off the road a massive iron gate complete with sentries was the only potential opening in a 20 ft. white stucco wall. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted the gate to open or not. After all, Lisa B. gives a great pedicure and Lisa M., a fine facial. Melanie C. can’t be beat for massage, so what was I doing here? And why do I feel like I’m fixin’ to die? It couldn’t be that I was afraid of being hungry. Regardless of the regimented rations here, I had a stash in my suitcase: peanuts, raisins, low glycemic protein bars, and roasted almonds. I could make it food-wise, even if it need be on the sly. Maybe I was afraid the great “They” in the white towers were going to tell me I was dying. No news there either. With the many recent departures of friends and family I was well aware that the organism gives out, even as life goes on, I’ll be no exception to that. But, then there were the kids… Whether or not I could nail the rationale, I was scared as the gate completed its slow retraction and the van entered…..

Although the distance from the gate to the Mansion was short, it was amazing and I was, once again, holding my breath, but not in horror. A veritable oasis amidst the dry, brown hills we’d passed during the trip, the lawns were pristine emerald green grass punctuated with manicured beds of lettuces, zucchini, carrots, geraniums, honeysuckle, groves of palms, and bougainvillea, to name a few. Later I’d learn that we drank that lettuce and kind men, small in stature, big in heart, actually swept the grass clippings off the lawn with whiskbrooms. We stopped under the porte cochere and disembarked.

The doors opening to greet us, revealed a long vaulted runway, each terraced level complete with it’s own courtyard every 20 feet or so, descending to a pinnacled wall of glass framing a grand piano against an horizon of ocean. All that marbled architecture took me back to the Museum de Anthropologie de Mexico in Jalisco, Mexico. James, my brother, and I had traipsed there from Vera Cruz after my dramatic diabetic discovery in Hospital D’Maria at the beginning of the year. The kids having already returned home we were hard pressed to find something to do with our time while waiting days for our return flight to the states. And here I was again, back in the throws of unwelcome medical mysteries wondering what this venture would mean for my life and that of my family.

Fortunately for her, given my state of angst, Deb had her own room. She’d opted to enroll in the detox program for a week and Sanoviv policy prohibits two patients (not guests, that should be a clue) from sharing a room. The suites, not “rooms” at all, compared favorably to many a five-star hotel in which I’ve had the privilege of accommodation for short periods of time. A king sized bed and generous sitting room were ensconced behind walls of glass. One step out the transparent sliding doors took me onto a covered patio overlooking the thelasso pools, the infinity pool, the lap pool, the palm trees, courtyards and infinite ocean beyond. The marbled bathroom had an unusual feature I couldn’t quite figure out. Not a toilet; the toilet was obvious and located quite logically, I didn’t know what this low bench with a hole in it was, but was wary, indeed.

Let’s face it, wary applied to everything with an exponential bump to panicked. What was I doing here? Oh, yeah, it looks nice and the “guest coordinators” greeting us were cordial enough, but here I was almost alone (Deb was one flight up) with all my demons jousting to be first in line to pounce on me. No distracting children, clients, work, chores, or administrative duties to keep the psychical monsters at bay. I knew they’d find their order soon enough, and then I’d really get it. A big, fat, middle-aged woman with chronic degenerative disease coming face to face with all the evils of a life questionably lived. The gig was up. No faking my way through all the impending blood work, urinalysis, stool samples, physical evaluations, x-rays and psychological and nutritional questionnaires. What did I eat as a child? Are you kidding? Of course, one look at me was evidence aplenty. I was going to be caught being me.

The ocean is what got me through the days of being poked, probed, prodded and pried. When I awoke in the middle of that first night, famished, all I could think about was how hungry I was. No, I did not get out of bed and raid the suitcase, but I did wonder how I was going to make it through two weeks of desperation. My gut was roiling from more than hunger. But from what, was still unclear. Knowing I’d be doing a whole lot of listening to myself, my demons, my delusions and, hopefully, my better parts, as well, I began. Yet, all I heard was the crashing waves of the ocean on the wall of rocks below Sanoviv. The more I listened, the more I was absolutely certain the sounds were the same as the rushing blood through my mother’s veins as heard within the walls of her womb.

----End of Part I-----