The Irish wolfhound is of ancient origins, mentioned as long ago as 391 AD in Rome, where it was famed as a gladiator and courser.

Arriving at a drug and alcohol free spiritual festival with my 11 year old daughter recently, we were excited about sharing some rare one-on-one time together and enjoying some of our favourite local musicians.

We were early to the event at the quaint community hall surrounded by birds and bushland, and it felt like we were entering another world. The firepit was being prepared and people were peppered across the property in small groups sharing in intimate casual conversation. Ordering a herbal tea for me and a hot chocolate for my daughter, we took a seat around the fire and met a few new faces before the festival welcome ceremony began. I took a deep breath and felt a great sense of belonging at this place with these people (most strangers to us at this time). Two large dogs of differing breeds prowled around the campfire hoping to unearth a tasty treat for themselves.

As we entered the main hall for the first act, I wrapped my arms around my girl, ushering her in to find a free spot on the hall floor to spread out our blanket. It was already bustling with the eager anticipation of fellow festival-goers and I can remember feeling a wave of heat from within, before being distracted by the start of the music. Halfway through the act I experienced a slight tummy ache, and nausea, but thought I must just be hungry.

There was a break for food and we lined up to order some of the delicious vegan curry on offer. Finding a pew on the wrap around verandah we took in the crisp night air and watched some fire-throwers twirling their sticks of flame. By this stage I knew deep down that something was up with my belly. Surely I couldn’t be sick? I’d been completely fine just two hours ago when we arrived.

The main headline act was about to start and we headed back into the hall. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I tried to sing along with the first song before suddenly realising I was about to vomit. As someone who never vomits, it came as quite a surprise and I kept trying to suppress the feeling at the same time marking out my exit strategy from our sitting position deep within the centre of the hall. People were everywhere and I roughly calculated that I would need to tread over at least 50 people to reach the back door.

‘Honey’, I said to my daughter. ‘Mummy’s feeling really unwell’.

‘You stay here and I just need to get some air’. I really didn’t want her to have to miss out on her first time seeing her favourite musicians live on stage.

At this point things started to become a bit disorientated. My hands and feet started to buzz and tingle, to the point where I couldn’t feel my right hand. My entire body started to heat from within and I started to sweat. I knew I needed to bolt.

Moving through the crowd of people like a frog hopping from lily pad to lily pad (although much less gracefully!), I made it with relief to the freezing night air outside and ran around the corner and into a muddy clearing where kids were playing in gumboots, jackets and scarves. Ripping off my cardigan to reveal only a singlet top my vision was blurred and I can never remember feeling so nauseated in my life. Throwing my head to one side I felt bile and a train of vomit as it exited my mouth, and I recall a fleeting moment of seeing my daughter’s wide frightened eyes in my peripheral vision.

At this point, I knew without a doubt that I was experiencing a pretty serious reaction and my body was transitioning and shifting as it tried to keep up with what was happening. My hands were completely devoid of sensation and I kept trying to flick my wrists to bring circulation back into them.

I needed to keep my daughter close to assure her I was okay, but more importantly so that I didn’t lose her to the crowds both inside and outside of the hall. I staggered up to her and told her I needed to lie down. Holding her hand, I managed to make my way back onto the verandah and squeeze past the patrons until we found a tiny spot on the wooden slats for me to sit. I collapsed to the spot and put my hand back to steady myself, only to find that it still had no feeling so instead I fell onto my forearm.

I couldn’t budge.

I kept looking up at my daughter reassuring her that I would be okay, but the truth was I was petrified. People were unaware of me at their feet as they stepped on and over me, and just as I was giving up on finding help, one of the dogs from the fire approached. A grey wiry canine of humongous proportion that looked like a cross between a wolf and a hyena literally straddled itself across my limp body, its hind legs on one side of me and its front legs the other. I hugged one of its legs. Once in position, it did not move, and stood there protecting me, preventing people from standing on me. I cried and thanked the dog once I realised what it was doing. There was no other explanation but to accept that it was guarding me, and that it knew that I needed help. I since learned that the dog (named Daisy) was in fact a breed of Irish wolfhound! The Irish wolfhound is of ancient origins, mentioned as long ago as 391 AD in Rome, where it was famed as a gladiator and courser. 

I felt safer but much sicker. I am so proud of my daughter and how she reacted to this situation in the company of many strangers. Daisy the dog continued to guard me until one of the kind souls we met earlier in the night walked past and my daughter grabbed her attention. A swarm of people and helpers almost immediately came to help me, including the beautiful lady who had prepared the ingredients for the food and drinks. In the same instant as help arrived, I vomited violently over and over, tears streaming down my face from the intensity of it. Thankfully I had no ego to experience any kind of embarrassment at this stage, here I was spewing in front of an audience of new friends without a care in the world. They watched with worry in their eyes as I very publicly revealed my vulnerability for all to see.

After it was over I felt so weak and lightheaded that I couldn’t stand up. One of the lovely ladies pronounced that she had no doubt I had experienced an allergic reaction. What had I eaten and drank? We went through all the ingredients one by one until we isolated one particular ingredient in the herbal tea that I had never had before.

Ashwagandha.

 

Also known as Indian Ginseng, ashwagandha is a herbal shrub whose roots and berries are increasingly being used for their medicinal properties. Believed to relief stress, lower blood sugar, improve fertility and sharpen memory, it is commonly being used with reported success all around the world.

Tolerable for most people, ashwagandha does however report side effects for those with certain health conditions or existing medications. According to a Forbes Health report, Ashwagandha may be unsafe if you are pregnant, breastfeeding, immunocompromised, soon undergoing surgery or have a thyroid condition. As a sufferer of Hashimotos Disease (an autoimmune and thyroid disease) this could certainly have been the case for me.

However, the speed and intensity of the undoubted ‘cleansing’ of my stomach (to say the least!), combined with the loss of feeling in some of my limbs to the point where I could not walk, AND the spiritual nature of the environment I was in suggests that an element similar to spiritual cleansing may have taken place. The speed at which I recovered was also almost instant, but with lasting effects in the days after similar to an awakening or remembering of sorts. I was calmer, more grounded, and much less anxious, and I felt a deep revival of my inner purpose and worthiness.

And let’s not mention Daisy the Guarding Dog, whose protection I dreamed of for many weeks after the event took place!

Whether a reaction or a spiritual cleansing, it is safe to assume that I will be avoiding Ashwagandha in my diet from now on.