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If you have diabetic neuropathy and haven't heard of gastroparesis, you're fighting an uphill battle. My battle was driving. I crashed my car 14 months ago because I couldn't feel the pedals beneath my feet. It was a bad enough crash. Sprained my wrist, messed up my neck. The tree that kept me from going through into the car in front of me had a big dent in it. This was more than just a car accident though, and I knew what it meant. So I stopped driving myself places. I stopped accepting invitations that required me to drive home after dark. I started planning my whole day around who could take me and when. Most people assumed it was my eyes. But I've had peripheral neuropathy for four years. Diabetic. The kind that starts quiet and doesn't stay that way. I tried gabapentin for nine months. The numbness got a little better. But I gained 18 pounds and couldn't think straight. My husband said I seemed like I was somewhere else all the time. He wasn't wrong. So I stopped it. Then I did 1,200 milligrams of alpha lipoic acid a day and 1,000 micrograms of B12 a day. For a year. People online swear by it. I felt nothing. The neuropathy spread. That's the thing nobody warned me about. It spreads. First it was just my toes and heels. Pins and needles when I sat too long. Then the burning started, not all the time, just at night, just enough to wake me up at 3am and keep me sitting on the edge of the bed until 5. Then I started double-checking the floor. You don't realize how much you rely on feeling the ground until you can't. I'd stand up in a dark room and have to think about where my feet were. Like my legs had been replaced with something I was borrowing. I dropped a coffee mug one morning. Not because I lost my grip. Because I didn't feel it leave my hand. I had a pair of heels I'd bought for my daughter's rehearsal dinner. I'd worn them a dozen times. They went into a box in the back of the closet. Not because they didn't fit. Because I didn't trust my feet in them on stairs anymore. How do you explain to someone what it feels like when your body stops being yours? I did everything my neurologist said. My A1C was under 7 for 18 months straight. I lost 22 pounds. I walked 30 minutes every single morning, even when my feet burned on the pavement. My blood sugar improved. My nerves didn't. What else was I supposed to do? My daughter had been planning a trip to Japan for the two of us for almost a year. Kyoto, Tokyo, and a night at a ryokan near Hakone. She'd booked it before the neuropathy got bad. By the time the trip came around, I'd thought about canceling more than once. I went anyways. They had a women-only onsen at the ryokan. You go in the early morning, before the mist clears. My daughter went ahead, and I came in a few minutes after her and sat at the edge of the water carefully (the way I do everything now), testing the surface, thinking about my feet, making sure I knew where I was before I committed my weight. There was a woman already in the water across from us. She was older than me by at least fifteen years. She looked at peace, the kind you can visibly see when someone’s comfortable in their own skin. A youthful kind of peace. She stepped out at one point to reach a towel, on wet stone, and I watched her do it. No hesitation. She crossed back to the water without looking down once. I know what it looks like when someone is compensating for feet they can't fully trust. She wasn't. My daughter noticed me watching. She asked the woman, in the careful Japanese she'd been practicing for months, how long she had been coming to this onsen. The woman smiled. Every season, she said, for more than thirty years. My daughter asked if she had any health conditions, was the water helpful for anything specific? The woman paused. Then she said she’s had diabetes for twenty-two years. I asked my daughter to ask her what she did for her feet. The woman looked at me. Then she said, in English: "My feet are fine." She wasn't saying it to be dismissive. She said it like it was simply true. Like it was just information. I sat in the water for a long time after that. That night I asked one of the staff members, an older woman who managed the front desk, if she’s seen any diabetics use the onsen for neuropathy. She spoke pretty good english, and what she said still plays in my head to this day. “Many. The onsen is tradition in Japan, it lets the body soak up minerals through the skin.” She handed me a sheet of paper that had more information about the water in the onsen. She pointed at one of the words. “Magnesium.” “Very good for nerves and muscles.” She said it matter-of-factly, like it was common knowledge. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking about all of the supplements I’d taken. All the pills I’d swallowed. 1,200 milligrams of alpha lipoic acid every morning. 1,000 micrograms of B12. How nothing had gotten me even close to moving the way that woman did in the onsen. When we got home, I searched for why pills didn’t work for me, but mineral water worked for that woman. That’s when I found something that connected every dot that’s led me to this point. A single fact about digestion I had never been told. Oral supplements hit the gut wall first. And most of what you swallow doesn't survive that. A healthy gut absorbs maybe 30 percent of oral magnesium on a good day. But a diabetic gut is different. Slowed digestion is extremely common in Type 2 diabetes. Most people have it without knowing it. It doesn't feel like anything dramatic. It just means the already-bad math gets worse, some people are absorbing closer to 10 percent of what they swallow. And then what does survive still has to reach your feet. The body distributes what it absorbs to everything it considers urgent first. Organs, blood, every system ahead of the one at the end of your legs. The nerves in your feet get what's left over after everything else has already taken its share. The woman in the onsen wasn't a mystery. She was a demonstration. She wasn't swallowing it. She was absorbing it through her skin. I began looking for ways I could take the minerals I needed that way. My first thought was a patch, the same way nicotine and hormone patches work. Same process. That’s when I found Avalaine. They sold exactly what I had pictured, a patch called NerVana+. Magnesium chloride, alpha lipoic acid, B12, folic acid. All four in a patch. No gut involved. I'd taken every one of those compounds orally. None of them had worked. But that was the point, wasn't it? I almost didn't order. I'd been disappointed too many times. But I kept thinking about that woman stepping out of the water onto wet stone. Not looking down. Not thinking about it. I ordered. The first patch arrived eight days later. I applied it that evening before bed. Nothing happened. I didn't expect anything. Day nine: I slept through the night twice in the same week. I didn't connect it to the patch at first. Week two: I was standing at the kitchen counter making coffee, looking out the window. I looked down and realized I hadn't checked the floor once. I'd just been standing there. I'd forgotten to check. If you don't have neuropathy, that probably doesn't mean much to you. If you do, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Week three: My husband said, "You walked to the mailbox without holding the railing." I had to think about it. He was right. Week five: I drove to my sister's for dinner. At night. First time in 14 months. I didn't tell anyone where I was going before I left. I just got in the car. Week eight: Neurologist appointment. Nerve conduction study that he runs once every six months. He looked at the results. Looked at me. Looked at the results again. I'm not going to quote my numbers here. I don't want anyone treating this as a substitute for managing their diabetes. It isn't. Your A1C is your A1C. But he looked up from the chart and said: "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it." He said it twice. I wore those shoes to my daughter's graduation last month. The ones in the box. The black heels I'd written off. We were outside on a lawn for two hours. Uneven ground, folding chairs set up in a field. I walked to find my seat. I walked to find my family after. I stood for photos. I didn't think about my feet once. I'm 59. My neurologist told me nerve regeneration at my stage was unlikely. I'm not healed. I'm not going to tell you I am. But I'm driving again. And I can feel the pedals beneath my feet. NerVana+ is the only patch I found with all four compounds together — magnesium chloride, alpha lipoic acid, B12, and folic acid — in a transdermal format. Not a cream. Not a capsule. A patch. The patches are cold-processed in small batches because the extraction quality degrades at higher temperatures. They can't scale up without changing the formulation. I learned that the hard way when I tried to order my second pack and it was on backorder for three weeks. Now I get them delivered automatically. It's easier that way. I want to apologize in advance because if you click the link below, you might see that they're sold out. If they're not (and I hope they're not) there's a 60-day money-back guarantee. 60 days. Because if you have diabetic neuropathy and you're burning at 3am and you can't feel the floor beneath you and your feet are waking you up before your alarm, you deserve to find out if this is the thing that finally works. 👉 https://uk.avalaine.com/pages/avalaine%C2%AE-magnesium-nerve-relief-patches-story PS: The 60-day guarantee means two months to find out. After everything I spent on gabapentin and injections and supplements that didn't deliver, I would have paid ten times the price just to have known sooner. You try it. If it doesn't help, you get your money back. No argument. PS2: I drove to my sister's house in the dark last Tuesday. Windows down. Radio on. Feet on the pedal and feeling every inch of it. I didn't plan it as a milestone. I just got in the car and went. Some things you don't realize you've gotten back until you're already doing them.