Monday, March 17, 1986
It's my first visit to a chiropractor. I'm skeptical. You hear all these stories (mostly from doctors) that chiropractors are money-grubbing charlatans.
Her name is Marcy. She's pregnant. Instantly I trust her. How could you not feel safe with a pregnant chiropractor? She glances at the clipboard, the form I've just filled out. "You're in construction?" She shakes her head. "Wow."
"You wrote here you've been in constant pain for ten years."
"No I didn't. I said sometimes it's worse than others."
"Does it ever go away?"
"That's constant. And what have you done about it?"
"I ignore it. I'm good at that. It's a job requirement."
"But now you're here."
She watches me walk from the waiting room to the examining room and says, "How long have you had scoliosis?"
"All my life." I hadn't mentioned the scoliosis on the form. "So it's obvious?"
"To me it is. One of your shoulders is higher than the other. One of your legs is shorter than the other. Didn't you know that?"
"I just knew I had bad posture."
"Of course you have bad posture. Your spine is curved. And it says here you went to an orthopedist. What did he say?"
"He said my scoliosis isn't a problem. He said nothing is wrong with me."
"And were you in pain? Did you tell him?"
"Did he believe you?"
After an examination, Marcy determines that I have a loss of nerve sensation in one leg.
I ask, "Why didn't the orthopedist tell me that?"
"Did he look at you?"
"He took an x-ray."
"Did he test your reflexes?"
"Did he touch your legs?"
"Orthopods." She rolls her eyes.
Marcy asks me to lie down on my stomach. She says she just wants to do one thing on this first visit. I've brought my wife along as witness, guardian, interpreter. Marcy tells my wife that because I'm so "locked up" she wants to start slowly, gently.
Marcy places the heel of one hand and the fingers of the other hand on my lower spine. I can't see what's going on, but I can feel it.
Inside my spine there's this sensation of a rusty piston being pulled out of a dirty old cylinder. I see stars. It doesn't hurt. I simply see stars.
In five minutes, it's over. I'm lightheaded.
My wife drives me home. I feel stoned. There's no way I could handle a car right now. I feel ten years younger.
"What did it look like?" I ask.
"Like nothing. Until I saw how spacey you got, I thought she hadn't done anything."
Twenty-five years later, I still remember that piston unlocking from that cylinder. I've never felt anything like it again. I'll never have to because I'll never let it get that bad. For construction work, part of the job is knowing who to call and when to call them: roofer, concrete crew, backhoe guy. And a chiropractor.