Rachel Khoury Facebook ad: “My husband took the bathroom lock off”

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My husband took the lock off our bathroom door with a screwdriver, and he did it while I was in the shower so I could not argue about it. He stood there in the steam with the little brass barrel in his hand and said, "If you go down in there, I am not getting to you in time." He had worked it out on his own, without telling me, that one day he was going to come home and find me on that floor. I'm Rachel, I'm 38, and I live in Leeds with my husband Adam, our two, Molly who is nine and Finn who is six, and a fat old labrador called Bruno. I am writing this for the woman who knows something is badly wrong with her while every single test comes back clean and every doctor tells her she is fine. I was her for nearly two years. Please read all of it, including the boring bits in the middle, because the boring bits are where the answer was. It came on slowly enough that I had an excuse ready for every part of it. The tiredness came first. Not tired the way you are tired after a bad night. Empty. I would sleep from ten until half six and wake up feeling like someone had unplugged me at the wall in the night. I used to stand at the sink holding the kettle, waiting for enough strength to fill it, and then put it back down and sit on the kitchen chair for a minute first. Then the bloating. Flat when I got up. By four in the afternoon my stomach was hard and hot and swollen, and I would sit in the car outside school with my jeans undone under my coat so nobody would see when I got out. By nine at night I looked like I was carrying twins and it hurt to take a proper breath in. I had one big grey jumper I wore constantly. Molly called it my sofa jumper. Then the fog. I would lose the thread of my own sentence, halfway through, with my daughter looking at me waiting for the end of it. I was going through Molly's spellings one night and I stopped on the word Wednesday because I could not remember what I had been about to say about it. I started writing everything on the back of envelopes and then I started losing the envelopes. Then the 3am thing. Every night, near enough on the hour, wide awake with my heart going like I had run up the stairs. I would lie there with my hand flat on my chest counting the beats, listening to Adam breathing, doing sums about the children in the dark. Then my hair. I could not get in the shower without pulling the hair out of the plughole first because the amount of it frightened me. Adam bought a little plastic drain trap off the internet and fitted it and never once said why. I lost about a stone and a half. People kept telling me I looked great and asking what I was doing, and I would say thank you, and get in the car, and cry, because I was eating. That is the bit nobody understood. I was eating more than Adam some nights. I would finish his chips. I was eating, but I was not the one being fed. Then the dizziness started when I stood up. Grey round the edges, sound going far away, both hands on the worktop until it passed. The first time I actually went down was in our bathroom on a Tuesday morning in February. I remember getting up off the toilet, and then I remember the cold of the tiles on my cheek and Bruno's nose pushed against my ear. I do not know how long I was on that floor. Adam was at work, the kids were at school, my phone was downstairs on charge. My cheekbone had caught the edge of the sink on the way down and I told the school office I had walked into a cupboard door. So I did what you are supposed to do. I went to the GP. Visit one: "You've got two young children and a full time job, Rachel. You're run down. Try to get to bed earlier." Visit two, with bloods done: "Your bloods are normal. All completely normal. It's probably stress." Visit three, after the fainting, blood pressure taken sitting and standing: "That's all fine. Are you eating enough? Have you thought about whether this could be anxiety?" Visit four is the one I still think about. I had written my symptoms on a bit of paper because I knew I would lose the thread, and I read them out, and he waited until I had finished and said, "There's no shame in a low mood. Have you thought about antidepressants? We could start you on something today." I sat in the car park afterwards and laughed, which is what I do instead of screaming, and then I drove to Asda and bought the wrong bread. So we started paying for it ourselves. A private GP, one hundred and eighty pounds, who said adrenal fatigue and sold me magnesium at thirty two pounds a tub. A gastroenterologist, three hundred and forty pounds, who pressed on my stomach for about ninety seconds and said, "It's IBS. Try more fibre, cut down on onions." I did the fibre. I got so bloated that week that I could not bend down to do Finn's shoes and had to sit on the bottom stair and pull his foot up onto my knee. Then a nutritionist, ninety five pounds an hour, three sessions, who put me on low FODMAP for nine weeks. Then probiotics, sixty pounds a month for five months, three different brands, one of them refrigerated and posted to the house in a cold bag like it was proper medicine. Then a stool test I paid for myself, one hundred and forty nine pounds, posted off in a little tube, and I want you to remember this one: it came back completely normal. One thousand two hundred and eighty six pounds before I stopped writing it in the notes app, because Adam can see the bank app too and I did not want him seeing the total. By last spring I had quietly decided I was dying of something they had not found yet. I do not mean I was worried about it. I mean I had accepted it and moved on to the practical side. I used to lie in the bath and work out which of Adam's sisters would take the school run, and whether Finn would remember me properly or just remember the shouting, because he was five and he was getting the worst version of me. I put the passwords for the bank and the gas and the kids' school app in a note on my phone and called it Boring Stuff so it would not upset anyone if they found it. I shouted at Finn about a cereal bowl one morning. A bowl left on the settee with milk still in it. I shouted like he had done something wicked, and he stood there with his mouth open, and I went and sat on the stairs and put my jumper over my face. I did not tell Adam any of it. He worked it out anyway. He started ringing me at eleven every morning and pretending it was about the shopping. He stopped going to five a side on Thursdays and said the lads had knocked it on the head, which was a lie, because Molly's friend's dad still went. He asked me twice not to lock the bathroom door and I told him not to be daft. Then that Sunday he came up with the screwdriver. He took the whole lock out, put the brass barrel in his pocket, and then he sat down on the landing carpet outside the open door until I had finished in the shower, because he did not trust the next ten minutes. You cannot carry on as normal after that. Your husband has just turned the only room in the house with a lock on it into a room you are not allowed to be alone in. What actually changed it was my sister Beth, who lives over in Wakefield and has never accepted a professional opinion in her life. She came over on a Wednesday with a bottle of wine she did not open and a notebook out of Molly's school bag, and she did the one thing nobody had done in two years. She did not look up one symptom. She wrote all of them down on one page. The bloating. The empty tiredness. The fog. The 3am waking with the racing heart. The hair in the plughole. The weight coming off while I was eating. The dizziness. The stomach flat in the morning and hard as a drum by teatime. Then she searched the whole list, all together, at once. She started reading it out to me and I nearly closed the laptop, because what she had found was intestinal parasites. And I thought, no. Not in Leeds. Not in this house, where I wash the salad and bleach the loo and hoover under the sofa cushions. That is something you get in a jungle. Then I read it myself, properly, and it went down my body line by line. The World Health Organisation estimates around one in three adults in the developed world is carrying an intestinal parasite. It has nothing to do with being dirty. You get them from undercooked meat, from bagged salad, from the dog, from public toilets, from swimming pools. We have a labrador who licks Finn's face and eats things he finds in the park, and I take the kids to Pudsey baths every Saturday. They attach to the gut wall and they take the iron and the B12 out of your food before your body ever gets near it. That was the empty tiredness. That was why my bloods came back fine while I sat down to fill a kettle. That was eating without being fed. They release waste that gets into the blood and reaches the brain. That was the fog, and that was 3am with my heart banging, and that was me shouting at a six year old about a cereal bowl and then sitting on the stairs hating myself. They inflame the lining of the gut. That was my IBS. That was the hot swollen stomach a consultant charged me three hundred and forty pounds to prod for a minute and a half. And here is the bit that made me angrier than any appointment. They hide behind a biofilm. A slime shield they build over themselves. Standard stool tests miss up to ninety percent of them because of it. So my one hundred and forty nine pound test was never going to find anything. Not once. Not ever. I spent two years collecting normal results from tests that could not see the thing that was in me, and every normal result made me look more like a woman making it up. So I did what everybody does. I went to the health shop on the high street and bought oregano oil, twenty one pounds ninety nine. Two and a half weeks of it. Nothing. Not a flicker. Then I read the small print on the back and it was sixteen percent carvacrol. Sixteen. You need at least eighty percent to get through that biofilm. Below that you have not bought a treatment, you have bought expensive olive oil that smells like a pizza, and the parasites sit behind their shield completely untouched. I would have written the whole idea off as rubbish if Beth had not gone and checked the numbers on the bottle for me. She found the one with the chemistry right. Herbies Oregano+. Eighty percent carvacrol from wild Mediterranean oregano. Cold pressed black seed oil in the same softgel, for the thymoquinone. Third party lab tested. Nitrogen sealed so it is not sat oxidising on a warehouse shelf. No fillers. No oily burps, which mattered more to me than it should because the cheap stuff had me tasting garlic bread until teatime. Carvacrol ruptures them and dissolves the biofilm. Thymoquinone stops them reproducing and helps flush the mess out. Both of them used for thousands of years, and not one of the six people I paid said either word to me. Two softgels every morning with my tea. That is the whole of it. I will be honest about the first two days because nobody warned me and I nearly stopped. What came out of me in the first two days was poop, bad bacteria, and worms. Literally everything. I was in that bathroom with no lock on the door, half disgusted and half fascinated, and I texted Beth saying I think I have made a mistake. Then after those two days I felt amazing. Day six is the day I am not going to describe in an advert. I will only tell you that I had the phone torch on, and I looked, and then I sat down on the floor. The same tiles I had gone down on in February. And I sobbed. Not from disgust. From relief. Because there it was, in my own bathroom, after two years of stress, run down, anxious, low mood, IBS, and fine. It was never in my head. It was in me. I rang Beth and could not get any words out for the first bit of the call and she just kept saying I know, I know. Week one, the bloating started going. By the Friday I sat down at ten at night and my stomach was still flat. Flat at ten at night. I put my hand on it about six times to check it was still true. Week two, I slept from eleven until quarter past six without waking up once. One whole night. I woke Adam to tell him and he sat up fast because he thought something was wrong. Week three, the fog lifted, and this is the part I still cannot explain properly. I had not felt properly awake since my early thirties. I read a whole page of Molly's reading book out loud and could have told you afterwards what happened in it. I did the food shop from memory. I was in a conversation with Adam's mum and I was all the way in it, the whole time. Week four was the energy, and that was the best part by a mile. Not coffee energy. I felt light, happy, full of power. I took Bruno up to the park before work because I wanted to, and came back and did breakfast and the packed lunches, and I had not done both of those things on the same morning in about four years. Week five, the snapping stopped. Finn tipped a full glass of orange juice across the table and I got a cloth. That was it. No sharpness, no horrible flare of temper that I would apologise for later while he was asleep and could not hear me. My skin also went clearer and less oily, which I did not ask for and will happily take. The Saturday of week six, Adam went out to the shed and came back up with the screwdriver and the brass barrel, and he put the lock back on the bathroom door without saying anything about it. Then he took the kids down and put the telly on, and I ran a bath, and I turned that lock, and I lay in there for fifty minutes with the door locked like a normal woman in her own house. I came down with wet hair and he looked up and said, "There you are." He told me weeks later that for about eight months, every time he came in from work, he checked the bathroom before he took his coat off. The only real problem now is that I have had to buy new clothes because my old ones are too big, and I know exactly how that sounds. You only need to do it once or twice a year and it is all natural. I do mine in January and again at the end of summer. Adam does it with me now, and Beth reorders for herself and for my mum. Now I understand why so many people order it again. And it is not only for people who got to the end of themselves like I did. Most of the reviews are the everyday version. Bloating that no diet shifts. Tired all the time. The fog. Not being regular. Ordinary people who took it and found the misery they had quietly agreed to live with started lifting inside a few weeks. You do not have to end up on a bathroom floor with your cheek on the tiles before it is worth looking at. Nobody is paying me to write this. I do not work for them and I get nothing if you buy it. I am a 38 year old mum of two from Leeds who spent over a thousand pounds being told she was fine, and I told Beth that if it worked I would tell every woman I could, and this is me doing that. Herbies Oregano+ is eighty percent carvacrol from wild Mediterranean oregano, cold pressed black seed oil for the thymoquinone in the same softgel, third party lab tested, nitrogen sealed, no fillers, no oily burps. Two softgels every morning. Do not make my mistake first. Most oregano oil on a shelf is fifteen to fifty percent carvacrol and it cannot get through the biofilm. That is why it does nothing, and that is why people decide natural stuff is rubbish. There is a 30 day money back guarantee, so you genuinely lose nothing. If you feel no different you email them and you get your money back. They are a small company and they sell out regularly, so I am sorry if it is gone by the time you click. That has already happened to two people I sent it to. If it is showing below, it is in stock right now. Rachel P.S. The lock is back on the door and the two screw holes Adam made when he took it off are still there in the wood, slightly off from the old ones, and he keeps saying he will fill them. I have asked him not to. For eight months my husband believed he was going to find me on that floor, and the thing doing it to me was something none of the tests we paid for could see. If your list looks anything like mine did, do what Beth did. Write all of it down on one page and look at the lot at once, not one bit at a time.

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herbies.co

My husband took the bathroom lock off

Feeling bloated, heavy, or drained after meals? Oregano+ combines the natural power of oregano oil and black seed oil in one easy-to-swallow softgel capsule. Together, they support your gut balance from the inside out, no side effects, no oregano burps. 2 capsules a day. 30 doses per satchet. Simple...