Ad copy

A woman in the bleachers at my granddaughter's softball game told me she had been on her toenail fungus prescription for ten years, and that she had added one small thing to her evenings that her podiatrist had approved of. I went home that night and started reading. I am sixty-three. My name is Beverly. Bev to everyone I have known longer than five minutes. I retired four years ago from the school district where I had taught third grade for thirty-one years. My sister, Frances, retired the year before me from her bookkeeping job at the local credit union and moved into the duplex next to mine. We have one daughter and one niece, both in their thirties, both within an hour of us. We have four grandchildren now. The oldest is eight and plays softball on the field down at the park on Saturday mornings every spring. I am telling you this because the story I want to tell you happens on those bleachers, on a Saturday morning last April. And the rest of the story does not make sense without the part about who was sitting in the bleachers next to me. I want to back up two years before that, though, to give you context. When I was sixty-one, at a routine visit, my podiatrist sat down with me at the end of the appointment and showed me my feet. She has been my podiatrist for fourteen years. She is careful and she is patient and she does not push. She told me the fungus in my big toenails had been creeping for three years. This year it had finally crossed into a range she wanted to do something about. Not alarming. Not anything she would have treated five years earlier. But the trend was the trend, and at sixty-one she wanted to get ahead of it. We talked for almost half an hour. She told me my history, my mother had the same thick yellow nails into her seventies, meant we did not want to wait and see. She told me she was going to start me on a low-dose topical lacquer. And that we would watch the nails over the next six months and decide where to go from there. I took it home and started it the next morning. Six months later, the nails looked about where she wanted them. In the ranges. Not borderline. Not perfect. In the ranges. I have been on the same low-dose lacquer for two and a half years. It has done about what she said it would do. I want to say something here, plainly. The story I am about to tell you is not a story about my lacquer failing me. It is not a story about my podiatrist and me having a difficult conversation. It is not a story about my nails being out of control. None of those things has happened. The lacquer is doing its job. My podiatrist is doing her job. I am doing my job. The story is about the quiet question I had been carrying alongside the lacquer for almost two years. Which was whether, on top of what my podiatrist had me on, there was one small additional thing I could add to my evenings. Something general. Modest. Additive. Structure-function. Something that supported what my body was already doing, alongside what my lacquer was already doing, without claiming to fix anything. For two years, I had not found anything I trusted. I had read a great deal. I had not found anything I trusted yet. I am sixty-three and I have spent thirty-one years teaching eight-year-olds. I am hard to sell. None of what I had read had felt like the right shape. The Saturday in April was an ordinary Saturday. I drove over to the field with a folding chair and a thermos of coffee. My granddaughter's team was playing the team from the next town over. Frances was supposed to come with me but her hip was bothering her that morning, so I went alone. I climbed up into the bleachers, slowly, because the bleachers at this field are old and I had been finding myself favoring my feet on the climb. And I sat down next to a woman I did not recognize. She was, I would guess, about my age. Silver hair cut short. The kind of cheekbones that hold up well into your sixties. She was wearing a fleece zipped up to her chin against the spring cold, and she had a coffee thermos of her own. We exchanged the kind of nods women in their sixties exchange when they end up next to each other at a softball game on a Saturday morning. It was a long inning. Eight-year-olds make for long innings. About halfway through, she said something offhand about the girl at second base, who was her own granddaughter. We started talking the way grandmothers do. She introduced herself. Her name was Diane. She lived two towns over. Two daughters. Four grandchildren. The same family geography we did. We talked about the kids and the schools and the houses we had been in for thirty-some years. About forty minutes into the game, when our granddaughters were both back in the dugout, she slipped off one shoe to shake out a pebble and I caught sight of her bare foot for a moment. Her toenails were clear and pink. Healthy looking, the way I had stopped expecting feet our age to look. I caught myself looking and she laughed. She said: the joys of getting older. I asked her, in the way you ask another woman in her sixties about something you are managing yourself, what she was on. She said she had been on a low-dose toenail fungus treatment for ten years. She said the same thing I would have said if she had asked me. The fungus had crept. Her podiatrist had started her on something small. It had done about what it was supposed to do. She had been on it ever since. I told her I had been on the same kind of treatment for two and a half years. We talked about it for a few minutes the way women that age talk about their feet. Which is briefly and without performance. Then she said something that stayed with me. She said: About six years ago, I added one small thing to my evenings, alongside the lacquer. I cleared it with my podiatrist before I added it. I have been doing it ever since. I asked her what she had added. She said: an oregano and black seed oil softgel. There is a small company that wild-harvests the oregano and cold-presses the black seed rather than processing it with heat. The brand is called Orgatics. She told me she had picked it because her podiatrist had told her that how the oil was processed mattered for what made it into the softgel. And the cold-press had been the reason that brand had stood out to her when she was reading. She told me she had not changed anything else about what she was doing. Same lacquer, same routine. Same walking. Same eating. Same sleep. She told me she had simply added the one small thing. She told me she had not been pushing it on anyone. Her two daughters did not even know she took it. She had told one woman she swam with three times a week, and that was it. She told me, almost apologetically, that she was telling me because we had been talking about our feet. And it would have felt dishonest not to mention it. I read for three weeks. I am a retired third-grade teacher. I have spent my career being suspicious of explanations that are too neat. Because eight-year-olds are constantly trying to sell them to you. I bring that skepticism to my own health, too. I read about oregano oil. I read about the active compound called carvacrol, the part that gives wild Mediterranean oregano its bite. I read about the long, patient relationship the research community has had with these oils for a very long time. In the context of supporting the body's natural defenses, healthy circulation, and the skin and nails. In people whose nails are already in the range their podiatrists want them in. None of what I read was a fireworks story. It was the opposite of one. It was a couple of oils that have been quietly used for a long time by careful people who were not making outlandish claims. The language being used in the careful, structure-function corner of the conversation was: Supports the body's natural defenses. Supports healthy circulation. Supports healthy skin and nails. Not eliminates fungus. Not fixes anything. Not replaces what your podiatrist has you on. That was the language I had been waiting two years to find. I read about the named mechanism, too, the way they describe what the oils do once they are inside. The chemistry is straightforward. They call it The Dual-Frontier Siege Breaker. The carvacrol travels through the bloodstream to the nail bed and works at the waterproof biofilm armor that topicals bounce off, so the fungus is left exposed instead of hidden under it. The thymoquinone, from the black seed, settles the inflammation in the tiny vessels of the toe and widens the roads, so the body's own immune cells can finally reach a place that age and slow blood flow had turned into a ghost town. That is a slower, quieter idea than a magic cream. It made sense to me. I read about the cold-press, too. The chemistry is straightforward. The thymoquinone in black seed is heat-sensitive. If you process the seed the standard way, with heat, you lose some of the compound to the heat. Orgatics cold-presses the seed at low temperatures because they want as much of the compound as possible to make it from the field into the softgel. That is a slower way to make a supplement. It costs them more. At sixty-three, after thirty-one years of paying attention to who is doing what and how carefully, I have learned something. The small decisions companies make when no one is watching tell you everything. The other thing I liked was the simplicity. Two softgels at night with a glass of water. I have a sister and four grandchildren and a house. I am not interested in a protocol that requires its own shelf. Now I want to tell you the most important part of this letter. Before I added anything to what I was already using, I called my pharmacist. Her name is Margaret. She is the pharmacist at the independent pharmacy in our town. I have been filling my prescriptions there for nineteen years. I called her for a specific reason. Oil-based supplements and topical antifungal treatments can interact with other things you might be taking. The interaction is not necessarily anything. But it depends on the specific medication, the specific dose, what else you are taking, and what your prescribing physician would want for you. That is exactly the kind of small, specific, individualized question a pharmacist can answer in two minutes. And that I was not going to answer on my own. I called Margaret. I told her what I was thinking about adding. I told her the brand, the dosage, the protocol. She pulled up my profile. She looked at my prescriptions, my history. She told me she had no concerns about adding it. She told me to take it at night, alongside my routine, the way the bottle suggested. She told me to come back to her if anything changed, if my podiatrist adjusted the treatment, added anything new, or if I noticed anything I wanted to ask about. She told me, before we got off the phone, that she wished more of her patients made the call I had just made. I want to say something now, plainly, to every reader of this letter. If you are on a prescription antifungal, or any oral medication, please make the call. Do not, under any circumstances, change your prescription on your own. Not on the basis of what you read in a letter from a retired third-grade teacher in our town or anywhere else. Do not add a supplement to a medication without asking the pharmacist or doctor who knows your chart whether it is safe for you. The two minutes the call takes is the most important two minutes of your engagement with any supplement you might consider adding. I called Margaret. I would not have added anything to my routine without that call. Neither should you. I was adding the softgels to my routine. Not stopping the lacquer. Not adjusting it. Not changing anything else. The lacquer continued, exactly as my podiatrist had it set, throughout everything that follows in this letter. I started on a Monday. The first two weeks I felt nothing in particular. I had read enough alongside what Diane had told me to know that bodies are different. Some people notice something within the first week or two. Some people take much longer. Some people don't notice much at all. I was prepared to land in any of those camps. What I noticed, I noticed slowly. The first thing I noticed, around week five, was at the kitchen sink one evening. I had been clipping those same big toenails for two years, thick and yellow and stubborn. For the last year I had needed both hands and a deep breath just to get the clippers to bite. Around week five, I sat down to clip one Saturday morning and realized halfway through that the edge was not fighting me the way it had. There was the faintest line of pink at the cuticle I was not sure had been there before. I didn't make a thing of it. I had read enough not to make a thing of one observation. The second thing I noticed, in week seven or eight, was the walks with Frances. We have been walking the same loop around our neighborhood for twenty-two years. Three-quarters of a mile. One small hill. For about a year, I had been wearing the same closed-up shoes even in the heat, because I did not want anyone seeing my feet. Around week seven, I caught myself putting on a pair of open walking sandals on a warm morning without thinking about it first. She did not say anything about it. She is a quiet woman and she notices things. The third thing I noticed was the long days with the grandchildren. We had the two older grandchildren for a full Saturday in early June. They spent the night Friday. We did the zoo Saturday. We did the ice cream place after dinner. We did the bedtime routine at my house and they slept over. A year earlier, that kind of day would have meant socks the entire time, even in the sprinkler, even at the splash pad. That Sunday, I let the kids talk me into the splash pad, and I stood in it barefoot with them. I was not hiding. I was just standing there. I want to be careful with what I am telling you. I am not telling you Orgatics did any of those things on its own. My lacquer continued to do exactly what it had been doing for two and a half years. I had been walking. I had been keeping my feet dry and clean the way someone with my mother's nails should. I had been sleeping seven hours most nights. I had been doing the careful prudent things my podiatrist and I had agreed on the day she started me on the lacquer. I had been doing all of that more deliberately in the months after Diane. There were several things changing at once, the way there are when a person decides to pay attention. All I am telling you is that I added one small thing to a long list of things I was already doing. I kept everything else exactly the same, including the treatment my podiatrist has me on. And a quiet stretch of months followed that was qualitatively different from the year that had preceded it. That is the honest version. I would not trust anyone who gave you a cleaner one. I went into my regular six-month follow-up about four months after I started. My podiatrist looked at the nails. They were where she wanted them, in the same ranges they had been the visit before, maybe a touch better at the base. Not borderline. Not perfect. In the ranges. She told me to keep doing what I was doing. I told her about the softgels. She had no concerns. She told me Margaret had it in my chart already and that we were all in agreement. She told me to come back in six months. That is the whole story. If you are someone who is on an antifungal treatment that is working, and doing the careful prudent things alongside it, and you have been quietly looking for one small additional thing to add to your evenings, I want to say a few things to you carefully. I do not know you. I do not know your treatment, your dose, your history, or what your doctor has said. Bodies are different. Some people notice something within the first week or two of adding something like this. Some people take much longer. Some people don't notice much at all. That is the honest version. Anyone offering you a cleaner one is selling you harder than I am. Here is how I think about Orgatics now, in the words I would actually use. It is something the body uses. The research community talks about it in the context of supporting the body's natural defenses, supporting healthy circulation, and supporting healthy skin and nails. It is not a fix for anything. It is not a substitute for an antifungal treatment. It is not a substitute for anything your doctor has you on. It is one small thing you add to the long list of things you are already doing for yourself, alongside everything else. Please call your pharmacist or your doctor's office before you add it. If you are on a prescription antifungal, or any oral medication, this is non-negotiable. I called Margaret. I would not have added anything to a routine without that call. Neither should you. The people who know your chart will tell you in two minutes whether the supplement is safe for you, given what you are already taking. I am a retired third-grade teacher whose only authority on this is that I called my pharmacist before I added an oregano and black seed oil softgel to my routine. I am not the person to ask. Your pharmacist or your doctor is. The company has a ninety-day satisfaction guarantee. If you are not satisfied, for any reason at all, including just changing your mind, they refund you. It is not tied to your nails. It is not tied to any photo. It is not tied to anything you have to prove to anybody. If you are not satisfied, you are not satisfied. That is the whole policy. The oregano is wild-harvested on a small operation that gathers on its own schedule. There are stretches when they are in stock and stretches when they are not. I mention that not to push you, please do not let anybody push you into a health decision, but so that if you go to the site and they are out, you know why. That is all I have. Thank you for reading this far. I hope something here was useful to you. And I hope, somewhere today, Diane is sitting on a different set of bleachers watching her granddaughter play, having a quiet good morning of her own. Bev P.S. I want to come back to the cold-press for a second. The thymoquinone, the part of the black seed the research community keeps circling back to, is heat-sensitive. Process the seed the standard way, with heat, and you lose some of the compound to the heat. Orgatics chose the slow way. Cold-press. Low temperatures. More of the compound through to the softgel. It costs them money and time. They made the choice anyway. At sixty-three, I have come to pay attention to the small decisions companies make when no one is watching. Those decisions tell you everything. P.P.S. Two softgels. At night. With a glass of water. That is the entire protocol. No soak to time. No file to remember. No schedule taped to the inside of the cupboard. I keep the bottle on the kitchen counter next to the lacquer. I take the softgels in the evening, with a glass of water before bed. That is the rhythm of my night at sixty-three. Frances has the kettle on most evenings. We have earned a simple evening at this point. P.P.P.S. I am going to say it one more time, because I have to. Please. Call your pharmacist or your doctor's office before you add anything new to what you are already taking. Especially if you are on a prescription antifungal or any oral medication. They have your whole picture in front of them. I have written you a letter. There is a difference, and the difference matters. The two minutes it takes to ask are the most important two minutes of your engagement with any supplement. P.P.P.P.S. The guarantee, again, in case you skimmed. Ninety days. Any reason at all. You do not have to prove a single thing, not to them, not about your nails, not about how you feel. If you tried it and you are not satisfied, you are not satisfied, and they send the money back. That is the whole policy. A small-company policy. The kind of thing companies used to do when companies still answered the phone. P.P.P.P.P.S. The thing Diane said to me at the softball game has been with me for almost a year now. The careful way she said it. The small apologetic tone. The way she walked me through how she had checked it with her podiatrist before adding it. I do not know what your equivalent of Diane is. Maybe it is a woman you sit next to at a softball game. Maybe it is a woman you swim with three times a week. Maybe it is a woman in line behind you at the pharmacy. I do not know whether you have one. But if you do, and she says something quiet to you about what she has been doing for a long time, I hope you listen. And I hope you go home and read about it carefully. And I hope you make the call before you add anything. And I hope, in a year from now, you are sitting at your own kitchen sink clipping your nails and you realize halfway through that there is a line of pink at the cuticle. I hope that for you. That is the whole reason I wrote this. B. https://tryorgatics.com/pages/nail-fungus DISCLAIMER Individual experiences vary. These statements have not been evaluated by the FDA. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.