Leslie Hosmer Facebook ad: “Support stamina and lung health every day”

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If you have COPD and your oxygen reads 95 or above but you STILL can't catch your breath. PLEASE LISTEN TO ME RIGHT F*CKING NOW. Because mine read 97 the same day my 10 year old grandson walked in off the school bus and found me on the kitchen floor fighting for air. He's the one who had to call 911. I've had COPD for 6 years. I have been telling my doctor I can't breathe for 3 of them. Every single appointment. Same BS. He clips the oximeter on my finger. Watches the number. "94. Looking good." Listens to my chest for maybe 10 seconds. "Sounds clear." "You using your inhalers?" Yes. Advair morning and night. Spiriva every morning. The rescue inhaler in my purse. "Well your numbers look good. Let's keep doing what we're doing." And I'm sitting there thinking WHAT ARE WE DOING. Because whatever it is, it isn't working. I can't get through a shower without sitting on a plastic chair halfway through. I take breaks putting on my own shoes. I eat half a sandwich and have to stop because chewing and breathing at the same time is too much for my body to handle. But the NUMBER says I'm fine. So I must be fine. Right? 3 years of that and you start believing it. You start thinking maybe it's anxiety. Maybe this is just what getting old feels like. Maybe you need to stop complaining and be grateful you're still here. That's what they do to you. They got me believing I was the damn problem. When the whole time something was happening inside my lungs that they weren't even looking for. March 14th. My grandson Mason gets dropped off by the school bus at 3:15 every day. I always meet him at the end of the driveway. Every single day, rain or shine. That's our thing. He comes running off that bus and I'm standing there. That afternoon I was in the kitchen cutting up apple slices. Making him a little plate with peanut butter like I always do. I stood up from the table and it hit me like somebody put a bag over my face. Not a little winded. NO air. None. I grabbed the counter. Tried pursed lip breathing. Nothing was working. My chest was locked shut. My rescue inhaler was in my purse by the front door. 15 feet away from me. I could not make it there. I went down. Right on the kitchen floor. Hanging onto a cabinet handle trying to pull myself back up and I couldn't do it. That is where my 10 year old grandson found me. Backpack still on. Standing in the doorway staring at his grandma on the floor gasping for air. He didn't freeze. He didn't cry. That boy ran to the counter, grabbed my phone, and called 911. 10 years old. Paramedics got there in about 9 minutes. By then I could kind of breathe again. Barely. They put me on oxygen and took me in. At the hospital they ran everything. Chest X ray. Blood work. The usual. You know what they said? "Your oxygen looks normal. Lungs are consistent with your COPD diagnosis. Nothing acute." I wanted to scream at every single person in that room. I was just on my kitchen floor. My GRANDCHILD had to call 911 for me. And you're telling me nothing is wrong? Before we left, one of the ER nurses pulled my daughter aside. She said if Mason hadn't come home when he did and I'd been on that floor much longer, this could have ended very differently. So my numbers are fine but I almost died. And nobody in that hospital could tell me why. My daughter was done. She said we are NEVER going back to that pulmonologist. She found a new one. A Dr. Brandt. His practice was almost 2 hours from us. She didn't care. She put me in the car and drove me herself. First thing I noticed. He didn't clip an oximeter on my finger. He didn't put a stethoscope on my chest for 10 seconds and nod. He sat down across from me and said "Tell me everything. From the beginning." So I told him. All of it. The 3 years of getting worse. The inhalers that don't do anything anymore. Collapsing in my kitchen. My grandson calling 911. He didn't look surprised. Not even a little. "I see this every single week. Patients exactly like you. Numbers look fine. Doctor says you're good. And you're at home at night wondering why you can't breathe." I asked him why. Why does nobody help us. He leaned back in his chair and just looked at me for a second. "Because COPD patients are worth more sick than they are healthy." My stomach dropped. "Inhalers. Nebulizers. Steroids. Oxygen equipment. ER visits. Hospital stays. That is billions of dollars a year. A patient who actually gets better is a customer they lose." I didn't say anything. I just sat there. "Your old pulmonologist is not a bad guy. He's following the script they all follow. Check the oxygen. Listen to the chest. Refill the prescriptions. See you in 3 months." He leaned forward. "But that script does not address what is actually happening inside your lungs." He ordered some kind of advanced imaging. Something I'd never had done before. Honestly I can't even remember the exact name of it. But it showed something no regular chest X ray ever showed me. He pulled the pictures up on his screen and pointed. "You see this? The walls of your airways. See how thick they are. They're supposed to be thin." I could see it. The walls were swollen in, like somebody had lined the inside of a pipe with a wet sponge. "And down here. The small airways. The little ones at the bottom, where the air is supposed to get into your blood." He traced his finger along them. They weren't open. They were plugged. Dark little pockets, one after another. "That's old mucus. That's not regular mucus." He looked at me to make sure I was following. "Normal mucus is wet and loose. Your body coughs it up, you spit it out, it's done. This has been sitting in your small airways for years. Packed in. Layer on layer." I was staring at the screen. I could literally see it. "I need to back up," he said. "Because I’m guessing nobody has ever told you what COPD actually is." He said to think about what happens when there's a fire in a building. "That's what's going on inside your lungs right now." “Not a fire you can see,” he said. “A slow burn down inside the lining of your airways.” For most people, it was cigarettes. Sometimes it was somebody else's, a husband's or a father's. Sometimes it was years of dust and fumes on a job. He said it doesn't matter what lit it. Whatever it was got down into that lining and started a burn, and the burn never stopped. That's what COPD actually is. "That's why people quit smoking years ago and still get worse. The smoke is gone. The fire isn't." Then he asked me what happens next when a building is on fire. The sprinklers come on. They're supposed to. It's a natural reaction. That's what mucus is. Your lungs make it on purpose. Smoke, dust, a cold virus, your airways spray the stuff to trap it and get it out. You'd be in real trouble without it. "But yours never shut off. Because the fire's still burning." And it doesn't burn out on its own. It feeds on its own damage. The burn does more damage, and the damage keeps the burn going. So the sprinklers keep spraying. All day. All night. For years. And what doesn't drain just sits there and cakes on. Another layer every night. Until the small airways are packed with it. "And the walls?" I asked. "Same fire. The lining swells up to wall it off. That's what swelling is for. It's supposed to go back down when the fire's out. Yours never went out, so the walls never went down." He pointed back at the screen. "Your airways are like a tube. Air goes in. Air comes out. But the walls are swollen in, and the small airways are plugged. The tube doesn't shut off completely. Air still gets through." He pointed at me. "That's why your oxygen reads 95, 96, 97. Air IS getting through. Just through a much smaller opening." And it clicked. I felt my whole body tense up because it made so much goddamn sense. "So YOU feel like you're breathing through a coffee straw. Because you basically are. The passage is physically smaller. But the oximeter doesn't know that. It only measures what's getting through to your blood. And just enough is still getting through to keep the number looking normal." I was just sitting there with my mouth open. 3 years. 3 YEARS of being told I was fine. "That's why your rescue inhaler doesn't help. It relaxes the muscles AROUND the airway. Opens the tube from the outside. But the swelling and the mucus are INSIDE the tube. It's like trying to unclog a pipe by massaging the outside of it." "And the Advair?" "Lays a steroid on the surface of the lining to calm the swelling. For 12 hours. Then the fire swells it right back up. It never touches the fire." "And Mucinex?" "Thins the wet loose mucus sitting on top. The layers packed underneath? It can't reach those. And it does nothing about the fire that keeps making more." I was crying. Not because I was sad. Because for 3 years I thought I was losing my mind. I thought I was being dramatic. I thought maybe the breathlessness wasn't as bad as I was making it sound and I just needed to toughen up. And this man just showed me on a screen that there is a fire burning inside my airways, and my lungs have been drowning it for years. And nobody in 3 years even looked. "So what do I do. Please. Is there something I can do." He didn't answer right away. "My practice sits on the edge of Lancaster County. Half my patients are Amish. I've got men in their 80s who grow tobacco, smoke it, breathe barn dust from the day they can walk, and walk into my office without a hitch in their breath." He let that sit there for a second. “It drove me crazy for years. I’d spend my morning telling a 60 year old who quit in 1995 that his lungs were getting worse, and my afternoon listening to a clear chest on an 82 year old with a pipe in his shirt pocket.” “So I started asking them what they do that the rest of us don’t.” “Took me a long time to get a straight answer. They’re private people. But there’s 1 thing. Every one of those families does it, and none of my patients from town have ever heard of it.” I was leaning so far forward I was almost off the chair. “What is it?” I asked. “A beet.” My face must have dropped because he stopped mid sentence. "You've tried it." "My daughter read somewhere that beets help you use oxygen better. She bought me a bottle of beetroot capsules off Amazon. I took them for 2 months. Did absolutely nothing." He nodded. Like he's heard that exact sentence a thousand times. "It didn't work. But not because beet doesn't work. It failed because of how it was made." He pulled up something on his screen. "The old beet has a pigment in it. That deep red that stains your cutting board. It's called betalain. And it does the 1 thing nothing you're taking does. It goes after the fire." "Your inhalers calm things down on the surface. This gets carried right into the lining, where none of your inhalers go. It puts the fire out where it's burning." "That's job 1." "Job 2 is a signal. Your body is supposed to make its own signal that tells your airways to stay loose. Doctors call it nitric oxide. But your body needs oxygen to make it, and somebody with COPD can't pull in enough oxygen to make the signal she needs to pull in oxygen." "The same root carries nitrates. Your body turns those into that exact signal through a completely different pathway. One that doesn't need oxygen at all." I was nodding. Put out the fire. Bring back the signal. 1 root does both. "So what happens to all of that?" I pointed at the plugged airways on the screen. "Once the fire's out, the sprinklers shut off. Nothing new is caking on top. The swelling comes down and the walls pull back. And for the first time in years your lungs have the room, and the signal, to move what's packed in there." "So why didn't my capsules do anything?" "Because what was in your capsules wasn't that beet." He said the beet in a grocery store has been bred for sugar for a century. Bigger, sweeter. And every time they bred it for sugar, they bred the red down. There's barely any betalain left in it. Then the supplement companies take that beet and spray-dry it at high heat, because it's fast. And heat kills betalain. Boil a beet until it turns gray and you've just watched it die. Then they hide what's left in a blend, so they don't have to tell you how much beet is even in there. "Your daughter bought you a capsule of brown dust. Red-colored nothing. I'd have been surprised if it did anything." "So how do I get the real one?" He pulled a prescription pad out of his drawer. "I can't write you a prescription for a beet. But I can write you this." He wrote for a minute. 4 lines. Then he underlined something at the bottom. Twice. He tore it off, folded it in half, and put it in my hand. "Not every beet is that beet. If you buy one, it has to pass every line on that paper. All 4." I put it in my purse with the rest of the paperwork. "Most of my patients start feeling something shift around week 2 or 3. Then somewhere around week 3 to 4 they hit what I call the purge." "The purge?" "When the fire goes down, your lungs start forcing out what's been packed in there. You'll cough up things you didn't know were in there. Dark. Thick. Stuff that's been sitting in your airways for years. It looks terrible." He looked at me. "It's going to look worse before it looks better. Don't panic. That's it leaving." I had my purse on my shoulder and my hand on the door when I turned around. “Doc. One more thing. Why didn’t my other doctor tell me any of this?” He didn’t take it as an insult. “It’s not his fault. Nobody told him either.” “You can’t patent a beet. No company is going to spend 10 years and a billion dollars running trials on a root an Amish farmer grows for free. So there’s no study a drug rep brings to his office. No sample in his drawer. No line for it in the guidelines he’s trained to follow.” “Advair has a sales force. Spiriva has a sales force. A beet has a 150 year old family in Lancaster County who’d rather you didn’t know their name.” “He’s not hiding it from you. It was never put in front of him.” My daughter drove me home. 2 hours. I didn't say much. That night I sat down at the kitchen table. The same chair I'd stood up from on March 14th. I unfolded the paper. On it, in Dr. Brandt's handwriting, were 4 things. 1. Heirloom Blutwurzel. 2. Shade-dried, no heat. 3. 1,300 mg a capsule, no blends. And 4. Lab report posted. And at the bottom, underlined twice: RED = the real thing. BROWN = dead. Overheated. I got up, found the bottle my daughter bought me in the back of the cabinet, and twisted a capsule open over a white saucer. Brown. Dull brown dust. Like dirt. I'd been swallowing that for 2 months. So I went down his list, and I looked up why each thing mattered. There are 4 things to check, and that bottle failed every single one of them. The first is heirloom Blutwurzel. It means "blood root" in German. That's the old seed, the one Amish families in Lancaster County have been saving by hand for over 150 years. The grocery-store beet has been bred for sugar for a century, bigger and sweeter, and every time they bred it for sugar they bred the betalain down. The old one has 10 to 20 times more. My bottle just said "beet root powder." The second is shade-dried, no heat. Heat kills betalain. Almost every company spray-dries their powder at high heat because it's fast. That's the brown dust in my saucer. The Amish hang the roots in the shade after the first frost and let them dry slow, for weeks. The third is 1,300 mg a capsule, no blends. That's the amount that actually does something. Mine said "proprietary blend," which means they don't have to tell you how much beet is even in there. The fourth is a lab report, posted. From an independent lab, with the certificate right on the website where anybody can read it. Mine had nothing. Finding 1 that passed took me most of the night. I started with Amazon, because that's where my daughter bought the first ones. I went through the first 3 pages of beetroot capsules, bottle by bottle, with his paper next to me. Not 1 said what kind of beet was in it. Half of them said "proprietary blend." A couple bragged about being "extra strength," which told me nothing. I couldn't find a lab report on a single one. Then I tried the health food store sites. Nicer labels. Higher prices. Same story. Not 1 was heirloom Blutwurzel. Not 1 was shade-dried. By midnight I'd decided Dr. Brandt's beet just wasn't something you could buy. That you had to be Amish, with a root cellar. Then I typed the word off his paper into the search bar. Blutwurzel. 1 company came up. Rosabella. I went down the list with my finger on the paper. Heirloom Blutwurzel, grown by Amish families in Lancaster County. The same county Dr. Brandt's office sits on the edge of. Shade-dried after the first frost, never heated. 1,300 mg in every capsule, and nothing else in there to stretch it. And the lab report was right on the site, from an independent lab, where I could read it myself. All 4. The Lancaster County families control the supply, and they sell through that 1 website. That's why I'd never seen it anywhere else. I still almost didn't order it. I'd already swallowed 2 months of brown dust and gotten nothing. My daughter walked through the kitchen, saw the screen, and said, "Another one?" She wasn't being mean. She'd watched me try everything for 6 years. She'd watched me on that floor. What got me was the guarantee. 90 days. If it didn't work, I could send the bottles back, even empty, and get all of it back. Nothing from my pharmacy ever offered me that. So I told her, "If this one's dead too, I get my money back. If it's not, I get to breathe." I ordered it that night. When it came, I sat down at the kitchen table. Same chair. The first thing I did was twist a capsule open over the same saucer. Deep crimson. Almost violet. I touched a drop of water to it and the red bled across the white like a fresh cut. I took 2 capsules with a glass of water. And I sat there and waited. About 17, 18 minutes later I felt warmth moving down my arms and into my hands. Then across my chest. Not a jolt. Not like caffeine. Just warm. I never felt anything like that on the brown ones. That's not your lungs, by the way. That's the blood moving. The lungs take longer. The feeling isn't the proof. I'm not going to sit here and pretend it was some miracle overnight. First 2 weeks I honestly wasn't sure it was doing anything. Maybe the tightness in my chest was a little less in the mornings. Maybe not. I couldn't tell. Twice I twisted a capsule open just to make sure it was still red. Week 3 is when it started. I woke up coughing harder than I have in years. But it wasn't my normal dry useless cough. This was deep. Wet. Coming from somewhere low in my chest I'd never felt before. What I was bringing up genuinely scared me. Dark brown. Thick like paste. Stringy. I almost stopped because I thought something was wrong. I called Dr. Brandt. He said "That's the purge. That is exactly what's supposed to happen. Don't stop." So I didn't. For about 10 days every morning was rough. More coming up than I'd seen in years. Darker. Thicker. Going through tissue boxes like crazy. But every day the amount got a little less. And every day my breathing got a little easier. Like each morning I was coughing out another layer and there was just more space in there afterwards. By week 5 the purge slowed down. And I felt something I had completely forgotten existed. I took a breath and it went all the way down. Not the shallow little sips of air I'd been living on for years. A real breath. Where your chest opens up and you can feel the air actually filling you. I sat on the edge of my bed for I don't even know how long. Because I genuinely forgot what that felt like. Week 6 I took a shower standing up for the first time in over a year. No plastic chair. No sitting on the tub ledge. No stopping halfway through to catch my breath with the water running down my face. I didn't even reach for my rescue inhaler before I turned the water on. It's still in my purse. It's staying there. I just got in. Week 7 I changed my bedsheets by myself. I know how stupid that sounds to a normal person. But if you have COPD you know that used to be a 4 hour job with 3 breaks in between. I did it straight through. Pulled the fitted sheet on. Pillowcases. Comforter. Didn't sit down once. Week 8 I cooked Mason his favorite dinner. The whole thing. Chicken and rice and green beans. Standing at the stove for 45 minutes straight. Didn't need to sit. Didn't need my inhaler. Just stood there and cooked like I used to before any of this started. That same week my daughter drove me the 2 hours back to Dr. Brandt. He did a spirometry test. That's the one where you blow into a tube as hard and fast as you can, and it tells you how much air your lungs can push out in 1 second compared to a healthy person your size. He looked at the numbers. Then at the old ones. Then back at the new ones. My FEV1 went from 42% to 57%. He actually stood up out of his chair. “You found the beet.” “One that checked all 4 boxes,” I said. I’d brought his paper with me. “I’ve been writing that list for 6 years,” he said. “Half the people I hand it to never go looking. The other half buy the first bottle they see, come back, and tell me the beet doesn’t work.” He sat back down and tapped the printout. “15 points. I have never seen Advair do that. Keep doing exactly what you’re doing.” Then he did something I never thought I'd see in a pulmonologist's office. He took me off the Spiriva. Right there. Said with numbers like these he didn't see why I needed it, and if my next test holds, we'd talk about cutting the Advair too. 6 years of adding things. That was the first time anybody took 1 away. My rescue inhaler is still in my purse. I keep it handy, just in case. But I honestly can't tell you the last time I reached for it. My friend Darlene from my pulmonary rehab class noticed before I even said anything. She's Stage 3. She brings a whole plastic bag of tissues to every session. She pulled me aside after class one morning and said "okay what is going on with you. You just did 15 minutes on the treadmill without stopping. I've never seen you do that." So I told her everything. The kitchen floor. Dr. Brandt. The fire. The sprinklers. The brown dust in my saucer. All of it. She ordered it that night. 3 weeks later she came into rehab and grabbed my arm before class. "It's happening. The dark stuff is coming up. You were right." By week 6 she said her mucus was the lightest it had been in over a year. She was sleeping flat for the first time in months. Her son told her she wasn't clearing her throat at dinner anymore. She told our rehab therapist. He pulled me aside after class and asked about it too. Last month he ordered a case of them for the clinic. He keeps them in his office now and gives them to patients who are struggling. The first one he gave them to was a man in our Tuesday class. Retired welder, 71, a lifetime of breathing shop fumes. He comes in with a portable oxygen tank, and his wife drives him, because he can't make it from the parking lot to the door without stopping twice. He never said much. He'd do his arm curls and stare at the floor. About a month later his wife caught me in the hallway. She had tears in her eyes before she got a word out. "He slept through the night. I woke up at 4 in a panic because I couldn't hear him coughing. I thought something had happened. He was just sleeping." Last week he walked in from the parking lot without stopping. Still had the tank with him. But he walked the whole way, and when he got to the door he held it open for me. Last Tuesday I was standing at the end of the driveway at 3:10. Waiting for that bus. Mason came running down the steps and froze when he saw me. "GRANDMA YOU'RE OUTSIDE!!!" Like it was Christmas morning. That little boy should not have to think it's a special occasion when his grandma can stand in the driveway. I am not a doctor. I am not selling anything. I'm 67 years old and I spent 3 years being told I was fine while a fire burned inside my airways that nobody was looking for. If your oxygen looks normal but you KNOW something is wrong. You're not crazy. You're not dramatic. You're not just getting old. There is something burning inside your airways that your doctor is not looking for. And there is a way to put it out. I'll put the link right here. https://track.tryrosabella.com/cdc16426-3e48-40a7-9fad-21098084f6cf I don't get anything from this. I just remember being on my kitchen floor watching my 10 year old grandson dial 911. And I remember every single appointment where I begged for help and got sent home with a refill. Think about what you're spending right now. The Advair copay. The Spiriva copay. The rescue inhaler. Mucinex. A specialist every 3 months who clips a thing on your finger and sends you home. I spent 2 months swallowing brown dust on top of all that. None of that ever came with a refund. Nobody ever promised me I'd get better. They promised to manage it. Rosabella has a 90-day money-back guarantee. If your mornings don't get easier, if you still can't get through a shower, if your breathing test doesn't move, you send the bottles back and get every penny back. No argument. No fine print. 6 years of inhalers never offered me a dollar back. Right now they're running Buy 3 Get 3 Free. It's only on their website. It's not on Amazon and it's not at any pharmacy, and there are already knockoffs on Amazon using the same kind of words on the same dead brown powder I threw out. Fair warning, they're a small company and they sell out. It's 1 seed line, grown by a handful of Amish families, harvested once a year after the first frost and dried slow. When a season's batch is gone, it's gone until the next harvest. If the Buy 3 Get 3 Free is still up when you click, grab it. If I can keep even 1 person off that floor I'll sleep better tonight than I have in years. And PLEASE. If your doctor clips that oximeter on your finger and tells you everything looks good. Don't just accept it anymore. Your oxygen number can look perfect while your airways are closing from the inside out. I almost learned that the hard way. Don't wait until your grandchild is the one making the call. https://track.tryrosabella.com/cdc16426-3e48-40a7-9fad-21098084f6cf P.S. A lot of you are asking if you can take it with your inhalers. Yes. That's how I started. I didn't stop a single thing on my own. Dr. Brandt took me off the Spiriva after he saw my numbers, and that's the only way to do it. Do not stop Advair, Spiriva, or any lung medication on your own. Never skip your rescue inhaler and never leave the house without it. Mine is in my purse right now and it's staying there. Start Rosabella alongside whatever you take, then bring your next breathing test to your doctor and let him make the call when he sees the numbers. https://track.tryrosabella.com/cdc16426-3e48-40a7-9fad-21098084f6cf P.P.S. About the dark stuff. Darlene and I both got the rough mornings. Not everybody does. Some people just breathe a little easier every week and never cough up a thing. Either way it means the fire is going down. If the rough mornings do come, don't quit at week 3 like I almost did. That's it leaving. Call your doctor if you're scared, the way I called mine. But don't stop. P.P.P.S. You'll feel something in the first 20 minutes. Not a jolt, not caffeine. Warmth moving down your arms and into your hands. That's not the lung benefit. That takes weeks, and it shows up on a breathing test, not at your kitchen table. What you feel that fast is the blood moving. And if you want to know whether you've got the real thing before you swallow it, twist a capsule open over a white saucer. The wrong ones are brown dust. Rosabella is deep crimson, almost violet, and a drop of water makes it bleed red. That color is the betalains, and it means they made it into the capsule. The feeling isn't the proof. The breathing test is the proof. https://track.tryrosabella.com/cdc16426-3e48-40a7-9fad-21098084f6cf P.P.P.P.S. If you're the daughter or the husband reading this. If your mom's oxygen says 96 and she's sitting on a chair in the shower, put the capsules by her coffee. Don't argue with her. Don't send her studies. Don't show her this post and wait for her to agree with it. You don't have to win the argument. You just have to get the bottle in the house. 2 every morning. Darlene's son did exactly that with her second order, and last week she walked into rehab without the bag of tissues. First time since I've known her. P.P.P.P.P.S. It's not on Amazon. It's not at CVS. It's not at any pharmacy. The Lancaster County families control the supply and they ship through 1 website. I've already seen knockoffs on Amazon using the words "heirloom" and "Blutwurzel" on the same dead brown powder I threw out. If it doesn't say Rosabella, and it's not from the link below, you're buying what my daughter bought me. 1 harvest a year. When it's gone, it's gone until next fall. P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I still make Mason his plate of apple slices every afternoon. Peanut butter on the side, like always. The difference is I'm standing at the end of the driveway at 3:10 when the bus pulls up, and he doesn't yell anymore. He just runs. That's all I ever wanted back. If your oxygen says you're fine and your body says you're not, please don't wait for the floor. https://track.tryrosabella.com/cdc16426-3e48-40a7-9fad-21098084f6cf

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