Cultic Studies Review, Vol. 2, No. 2, 2003, Page 152
familiar Waldorf-affiliated-doctors only. As our situation progressed for the worse, we also
began to phone hotlines and read books in an attempt to learn more about my child‘s
illness. My husband met with the Chinese Buddhist doctor, recommended by our doctor
friend, in another attempt to secure medical help for our child. The monk advised my
husband to place photographs of his deceased mother around the house and to speak about
his mother to our child. He believed that my husband‘s mother‘s spirit might have entered
our daughter wanting attention. I thought the monk‘s advice was bizarre and continued to
search for help, but not in the right places.
On September 26, 1998, my husband and I waited for the Anthroposophic doctor who
makes his rounds in Waldorf schools. Faculty members had suggested we schedule an
appointment to meet with him, informing us that he was a medical doctor with credentials,
who visits Waldorf schools around the country. Trusting the faculty and with great
anticipation, we hoped that he could help us with our problem.
Sitting at the school, waiting for the Anthroposophic doctor to arrive, did not strike me as
odd. I did not wonder what type of doctor we were about to meet with nor did it seem
unusual that the school was providing a doctor in the first place. Waldorf was once again our
world. The small room attached to the sick room was draped with silk scarves. I remember
feeling that things seemed foreign to me that day. I had not spent much time at the school
in recent months because we‘d been in Jamaica plus I was avoiding the school as much as
possible because, unlike my husband, I had developed a strong aversion to it—even driving
past the school made me feel ill. Long before my daughter became sick, before our break
from Waldorf in third grade, I had found myself crying about the school for reasons I did not
understand and could not articulate—the school made me sad.
A seemingly gentle and caring man entered the small room and listened attentively as I
tearfully disclosed my family‘s predicament. Our nine-year-old was gravely ill, depressed,
and had lost a lot of weight, because she refused to eat. The Anthroposophic doctor made a
diagnosis: my child had lost the will to live. He announced one of the potential cures—we
were to give our daughter red, yellow, and orange crayons to color with! I looked at my
husband in disbelief. When the doctor instructed us to make the sign of a flame out of
Aurum cream over my child‘s heart at bedtime, I was dumbfounded! I asked the doctor to
repeat himself. Indeed, I had heard correctly. I was to make a flame of Aurum cream over
her heart at bedtime. Mystified, I asked the doctor what the flame should look like and he
showed us with his hand. He told us to apply the gold cream from below the heart upwards,
towards the sky at bedtime. I was so baffled by his instructions that he took it upon himself
to draw a small diagram of a torso on a prescription pad sheet, with an arrow
demonstrating the direction in which the gold flame was to be applied. Some other
recommendations were made then he suggested we purchase the medicines from ―Uriel,‖
giving us Uriel‘s telephone number. During this encounter with the Anthroposophic doctor I
had an epiphany of sorts. After paying him his fee of $50, we left the school and I turned to
my husband and said with certainty, ―We are in a real live cult!‖
Soon after our visit with the Anthroposophic doctor, the woman homeopath/doctor that we
were seeing every two weeks informed us that she would have to hospitalize our child. The
reality sunk in. I realized that the homeopath could not help us. We had lost precious time.
With fear and trepidation about the medical establishment instilled in us by Waldorfers, we
made our way to a hospital four hours away in Iowa City. Insurance sent us back to a
hospital in Wisconsin—a mere forty minutes away from our house. This hospital had an
experienced, professional staff that helped us. I shall always regret not going there first—
before my child reached a critical point. The new doctor told us that a child should never
lose weight and that a couple pound drop would have caused her concern. I told our
therapist about the flame and the Anthroposophic doctor, I also told her that Waldorf made
me feel sick. She said that usually she would not advise a school change during such
familiar Waldorf-affiliated-doctors only. As our situation progressed for the worse, we also
began to phone hotlines and read books in an attempt to learn more about my child‘s
illness. My husband met with the Chinese Buddhist doctor, recommended by our doctor
friend, in another attempt to secure medical help for our child. The monk advised my
husband to place photographs of his deceased mother around the house and to speak about
his mother to our child. He believed that my husband‘s mother‘s spirit might have entered
our daughter wanting attention. I thought the monk‘s advice was bizarre and continued to
search for help, but not in the right places.
On September 26, 1998, my husband and I waited for the Anthroposophic doctor who
makes his rounds in Waldorf schools. Faculty members had suggested we schedule an
appointment to meet with him, informing us that he was a medical doctor with credentials,
who visits Waldorf schools around the country. Trusting the faculty and with great
anticipation, we hoped that he could help us with our problem.
Sitting at the school, waiting for the Anthroposophic doctor to arrive, did not strike me as
odd. I did not wonder what type of doctor we were about to meet with nor did it seem
unusual that the school was providing a doctor in the first place. Waldorf was once again our
world. The small room attached to the sick room was draped with silk scarves. I remember
feeling that things seemed foreign to me that day. I had not spent much time at the school
in recent months because we‘d been in Jamaica plus I was avoiding the school as much as
possible because, unlike my husband, I had developed a strong aversion to it—even driving
past the school made me feel ill. Long before my daughter became sick, before our break
from Waldorf in third grade, I had found myself crying about the school for reasons I did not
understand and could not articulate—the school made me sad.
A seemingly gentle and caring man entered the small room and listened attentively as I
tearfully disclosed my family‘s predicament. Our nine-year-old was gravely ill, depressed,
and had lost a lot of weight, because she refused to eat. The Anthroposophic doctor made a
diagnosis: my child had lost the will to live. He announced one of the potential cures—we
were to give our daughter red, yellow, and orange crayons to color with! I looked at my
husband in disbelief. When the doctor instructed us to make the sign of a flame out of
Aurum cream over my child‘s heart at bedtime, I was dumbfounded! I asked the doctor to
repeat himself. Indeed, I had heard correctly. I was to make a flame of Aurum cream over
her heart at bedtime. Mystified, I asked the doctor what the flame should look like and he
showed us with his hand. He told us to apply the gold cream from below the heart upwards,
towards the sky at bedtime. I was so baffled by his instructions that he took it upon himself
to draw a small diagram of a torso on a prescription pad sheet, with an arrow
demonstrating the direction in which the gold flame was to be applied. Some other
recommendations were made then he suggested we purchase the medicines from ―Uriel,‖
giving us Uriel‘s telephone number. During this encounter with the Anthroposophic doctor I
had an epiphany of sorts. After paying him his fee of $50, we left the school and I turned to
my husband and said with certainty, ―We are in a real live cult!‖
Soon after our visit with the Anthroposophic doctor, the woman homeopath/doctor that we
were seeing every two weeks informed us that she would have to hospitalize our child. The
reality sunk in. I realized that the homeopath could not help us. We had lost precious time.
With fear and trepidation about the medical establishment instilled in us by Waldorfers, we
made our way to a hospital four hours away in Iowa City. Insurance sent us back to a
hospital in Wisconsin—a mere forty minutes away from our house. This hospital had an
experienced, professional staff that helped us. I shall always regret not going there first—
before my child reached a critical point. The new doctor told us that a child should never
lose weight and that a couple pound drop would have caused her concern. I told our
therapist about the flame and the Anthroposophic doctor, I also told her that Waldorf made
me feel sick. She said that usually she would not advise a school change during such
