Auld Lang Syne had been sung and I had a full belly (that really did shake like a bowl full of jelly. No really…) The Warrior that I had shelved for the holiday was starting to get restless and it was time to face reality again. I had gathered a list of Functional Medicine practitioners in this area and got to work. With each phone call I got a bit more deflated. Either the practitioner wasn’t an M.D., or the receptionist was a gum-cracking flake, or their website was from the dial-up era… I was not interested in putting my health into the hands of any of these people. And not a one of them, including the M.D. I did find who seemed reputable, accepted insurance. This was a deal breaker for me. I didn’t want just any one who hangs out a shingle and calls themselves a practitioner of Functional Medicine to be a part of this journey with me (although I’m sure there are many worthy shingle-hanging people out there). More importantly, I simply could not go down any path that wouldn’t have a stamp of approval from my health insurance powers-that-be. This was a detour I hadn’t expected. But not one who is easily deterred, I made up my mind that I was committed to this process and that there must be a way for me to be in the drivers seat of my health. Alas, my old friend and fellow German Johann Wolfgang Goethe’s words proved true: At the moment of commitment, the universe conspires to assist you. Within a day, aided by my new best friend Google, I landed on this article. The Cleveland Clinic had recently opened a Functional Medicine practice. Staffed with board certified M.D.’s and registered dietician’s, this was something I could really wrap my head around. Undeterred by the two hour commute, I called and made an appointment. Evidently I wasn’t the only person who had this bright idea as that call was made in the earliest days of January, yet they couldn’t fit me in until April 7th. This gave me time to prepare for the adventure.