This has been a busy week. Okay, two weeks. So busy, I just now got around to approving the last comment on my last blog. Thank you Judith. . .
What have I been doing? Many things. And most of it very, very slowly. Apparently, it is possible to get the bronchitis virus in your knee. That, or I am truly a freak, as people who play online games with me will claim.
Since the Spring of this year I have had various joints stop maneuvering. Overnight. And one joint at a time. First it was my right ankle. It dislocated while I was sleeping. Unless I have multiple personalities and one of them is a flamenco dancer, there was no rational explanation for that. Then, overnight again, it popped back in and my left wrist stopped working. I became lobster woman with pincers instead of fingers. And they didn’t quite meet. You should have seen the cashiers at Wal-Mart eyeing me as I counted out my change.
On it went, leaving one joint to set up in another. Why didn’t I go to a chiropractor, you ask? Money. Okay, we’ll visit that topic again, later.
Then finally, it set up in my right knee. I envisioned some sort of rotating arthritis that would eventually result in a knee replacement. I’ve had two members of my family go through that. First my older brother, whose stories of how they tape your eyes shut during surgery gave me nightmares, to my eighty-year-old mother who now waddles like Baby Huey on tranquilizers. I couldn’t see myself go through that. The dentist has trouble deadening my gums before a procedure. I can only imagine how successful the anesthesiologist would be in getting me to go under. He would have to kill me, which would make the surgery pointless.
Then, overnight again, my knee became functional. But now I had bronchitis. Horrible, gasping, feverish bronchitis. The kind that stops sleep because you have to sit bolt upright and concentrate on not dying. I ran out of tissue. I had rolls of toilet paper on every available surface. I stopped eating everything except Jello. Now there is some great nutrition to help your immune system.
It lasted exactly two weeks. Then, surprise of surprises, after the bronchitis subsided, my knee was messed up again. And it has been ever since. I would have my good days, where I could walk anywhere I wanted to. Granted, I couldn’t go up and down stairs, or walk quickly, or refrain from complaining every 10 seconds that my knee hurts, but I could walk. Then I would have my bad days where my knee would click and whistle like an African bushman every time I stood up to go to the bathroom.
Then, suddenly, I went from a being a human to being a wounded kangaroo. Hop, nearly fall down, rest a few seconds, hop, nearly fall down, rest a few seconds . . .
Time for a chiropractor. Not only could I tell my knee was out of joint, so was the rest of me from the waist down. My butt was pretty much facing the same way I was.
So Randy made an appointment for me at Arkansas Health and Physical Rehab. (http://www.bestfayettevillechiropractor.com/)
First, before I say anything more, let me tell you that Dr. Blair Masters is good. Freakishly good. And his clinic is people friendly. Do not take my delusions and delirium seriously. You will understand as you read on. . .
When I was growing up, my mom took all three of us kids to the chiropractor. Why? I don’t know. We were healthy, with nothing maladjusted except our personalities. The chiropractor would put us on the slab and pop everything that didn’t rip free.
I’ve been to other chiropractors since then. My favorite was an Osteopath my husband and I would see when we were in our twenties. She would pop our backs with every appointment, even if we were there just to give the lab a urine sample. It was like a free air freshener with every lube job. She was tiny, about 5 feet tall, and as strong as a Sumo. Being short, she would have to climb onto the table with us. She would then tell us to take a deep breath, relax, and exhale. We could do everything but the ‘relax’ bit. We knew what was coming. As soon as we exhaled, she would rhythmically shove each vertebrae into the table with the force and speed of a jackhammer.
But to get back to Dr. Masters. . . When I had first walked into Arkansas Physical Health and Rehab – and this is where the hallucinations come in – I found myself slightly unnerved. There was no waiting room, just a counter, a table, rubber mats, therapy equipment, and scads of silent people going about their own therapy. No music, no talking. It wasn’t until I saw the young woman holding her arm out in front of her while gently bouncing her head off the wall (or so it looked to me) that I realized the source of my unease. This wasn’t a chiropractor’s establishment. This was an insane asylum. I expected to see one of the patients turn around and show me the poo stripe on their pajamas.
Now I can rightly blame my reaction and skewed perception on my lack of sleep, not Dr. Masters’ establishment. The pain had kept me up for two nights running. I was slap happy. Which was a good thing. I kept envisioning the good doctor having to twist my swollen knee like a screw to get it to go back in, and the thought made me slightly nauseous. Being sleep deprived lent an unreality that made the anxiety bearable. Kind of like being under morphine.
So I sat there in my seat by the door, watching all these silent people going about their business. The only thing missing, according to my sleep deprived brain, were the unearthly howls of schizophrenics in the basement.
Then it was my turn. I was questioned, tested, then sent to the next room to get 6 x-rays done. Very thorough. Then sent back to Dr. Masters to talk about treatment. There is something disconcerting about looking at your own spine and kneecaps without skin. To my untrained eye I saw nothing but scoliosis. Also? My kneecaps are much smaller on the inside than the outside. Other than that, I was coming up empty. It was a good thing I had Dr. Masters there.
He muscle-tested me, told me that it was a virus in my knee causing the problem, and popped everything back in. The adjustment to my knee was surprisingly painless. A gentle poke there, a gentle tug here . . . all except for that one last tug that dragged all ample poundage of me down the length of the table. But he stopped before I could slide onto the floor. He may be slim, but he’s as strong as a Russian housewife and as controlled as a ballet dancer.
Adjusting my back was a different story. Two of my vertebras were torqued in opposite directions. Randy said that on that last twist and pop, the whites of my eyeballs turned red.
But I could walk.
I was so grateful.
And sore. Not from the adjustments, but from the still-present virus. My glutes and calf muscles felt like they were about 6 inches too short. I was given concentrated oregano oil to take for the virus, and sent home, with a follow-up appointment to be experienced this coming Monday.
It’s been only two days, but already the virus is on the run. And I no longer have to scoot around like a gigged frog that’s still alive. I can walk. I can walk!
It was the best and most productive chiropractic visit I’d ever had. And that’s counting the time I got a free message before my adjustment.
Do you have any of your own chiropractic stories, both good or bad, you would like to share? Even if its the time you dislocated your brother’s finger because he pointed at you…
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