Ancient Chinese remedies...

Ivan, one of the guys in the house, is studying to be a physiotherapist. A couple of months ago, he got a part-time job working for a doctor who specializes in physiotherapy. In all honesty, I imagine he explained the details of the job to me, but truthfully I was either not listening (it happens) or I just forgot. Either way, I...didn’t remember the details of the job. Remember that...it’s important.

So when he asked me last week if I wanted to go see his boss to get a treatment for my back (which has still been bothering me), I figured...why not? It can’t hurt can it?

Okay, remember that too...it’s important.

So this morning I dragged myself out of bed to head down to the office. I really, REALLY didn’t feel like going. I got what we think was food poisoning last weekend, and I’m still not feeling that great. Yesterday the doctor pumped me full of meds and I felt much better. Today the meds wore off and I feel pretty lousy again. I guess that’s the beauty and pain of drug induced recoveries. At any rate, my stomach was feeling nauseous and the last thing I felt like was being poked and prodded by some doctor I didn’t know. But I knew Ivan had pulled some strings to get me in so...I went.

I waited in the waiting room with a group of little old grandma’s who were quite enjoying discussing their various aches and pains. I figured I could probably win that conversation, but I let it go. Finally it was my turn and I went into the office.

First of all...let me tell you about the doctor. He was the quintessential little old, Chinese doctor from every karate movie you’ve ever seen. Seriously, this guy could have made a fortune in the Chinese cinema. He gave me the little head bow and motioned for me to sit down. It turns out he didn’t speak much Spanish. Most of his instructions to Ivan where hand signals mixed with the few Spanish words he did seem to know.

Let’s see now...what else? How about his office? It was considerably smaller than my bathroom. I have a fairly large bathroom, mind you...for a bathroom. But not for a doctor’s office. There was a counter, the bed, two chairs, a table...and six people! The doctor, Ivan, me, a helper lady...and two of the little grandma’s from the waiting room (who were still getting worked on by the lady).

And of course there was incense burning everywhere. I don’t normally mind incense too much, but with a stomach that was already borderline ready to let go with yesterday’s supper? It was a bit much. Oh, and the two little old ladies were still jabbering away about who was suffering the most.

I still won.

I felt a little bit better when the doctor tested my blood pressure and used the fanciest little machine I’ve ever seen. It was pretty cool. When he was done he pointed at the brand, Panasonic, and said, “Chinese!” and gave us the thumbs up. That made me laugh.

Then he got me to lie down on the bed and he started the poking and the prodding. He determined where I was the sorest and got Ivan to start working those areas over with a little electric vibrator massage thingy. That was good. I liked that.

After a few minutes of that, friendly Chinese doctor guy explained that he was going to, “Blah blah blah be hot...blah blah blah Chinese.” So yea, essentially I got the words “be hot” and “Chinese” out of the conversation. What does one think of when “hot” and “Chinese” are used in the same sentence? Tiger Balm, of course. I figured I was going to get rubbed down with some kind of ancient Chinese heat rub. I was good to go with that.

Then without ANY warning, my pants got pulled halfway down my butt. For an old guy, there was some strength there. My face definitely got a bit of a burn going. You know...I probably would have cared so much if, say, the two little old ladies weren’t sitting a foot and a half away from my feet. I’m not totally sure, but I swear there was a pause in the chattering Spanish when my pants got yanked down.

So now I’m lying there trying desperately not to lose my breakfast (not that I’d had any but it seemed my stomach wanted to try anyhow)...it’s about a hundred degrees in the office...half my naked butt is hanging out three feet from a group of little Latin ladies...you’d think it couldn’t possibly get any worse than that, right?

Okay, those of you who know me know that this little story hasn’t even gotten going yet.

I felt movement in my lower back area, and then before I really knew what was happening the worst pain I’ve felt in awhile shot straight through my back and into my abdominals. I was like, “HOLY COW THEY’RE STABBING ME WITH BURNING NEEDLES!!” I caught a whiff of what I’m pretty sure was burnt flesh and then WHAM another burning needle was plunged into my back. This was so not the happy little massage with a soothing heat balm that I was expecting.

Eventually they worked their way down my butt with the burning needles. Of course they did. All I could think of was how badly Ivan was going to suffer when we got back to the house. Even though he couldn’t see my face, I’m pretty sure he was picking up some kind of mental signals and/or radio waves emanating from my head (maybe there were even those squiggly lines you see in cartoons when someone is really angry), because he kept patting me on my shoulder. Maybe he just instinctively knew that no one would be happy having burning needles jammed into their body.

Then not so friendly Chinese doctor guy told me to roll over onto my back. He started with the poking and the prodding again...which didn’t seem so bad after the red-hot needles...and asked me if my stomach hurt. Stupidly I admitted that it did (well, it did) and he turned back to his little tray of surprises.

Low and behold, it turned out they weren’t jamming me with burning needles. It just felt that way. In fact, what they were actually doing was LIGHTING ME ON FIRE! I kid you not. They were taking a little square of green paper, putting it on my BARE flesh, putting a little tepee of what looked like dry moss on the paper...and then using the incense stick to LIGHT ME ON FIRE! They even blew on it...which I’d felt before on my back, but which I'd thought was supposed to be soothing me...you know, cooling off the burning needle. But, no...in reality, they were trying to get the flames burning better!

He did it three more times on my stomach and then poked me in the ankle and asked me if that hurt too. I’d already flinched when he poked me (this guy seriously knew every sore spot on my body) so I couldn’t really lie and say that, “No, in fact that didn’t hurt...I was just flinching ‘cause that’s what I do after someone tries to light me on fire!”

Actually, come to think of it...that’s exactly what I should have said.

So I got two more little bonfires on my ankles too. And they hurt. A lot. I think part of the problem was that the doctor was using me as a guinea pig to teach Ivan how to do this. When the doctor did it, it only hurt a lot. When Ivan did it, I wanted to beat him silly with his own arms. I forgot to mention that after the little fire was going, somehow they quickly stamped it out with their thumb, driving the heat...and pain...down into your skin without actually leaving a burn mark. All they really did was scorch my stomach hair a little. I’m pretty sure there was a technique there that Ivan didn’t quite have the hang of. But you know...I’m so glad I could give him the opportunity to practice a little.

When I was finally told I could get up, I watched the helper lady do the same thing to one of the little old grandma’s hands and the lady didn’t even flinch. That was so not my experience. Honestly. It made me want to cry.

As I pulled my pants up, the doctor asked me if I was going to come back again. I said sure.

I lied.

Ivan walked me to the front door of the building and asked me if I was okay. By then I mostly was, and I knew Ivan had only been trying to help. So I told him it was all good. The funny thing? As I walked back to my truck, darn it if my back didn’t feel better. I don’t know though...when I was a kid and my brothers or I would cry about a hurt arm or leg or something, my Grandpa would punch us in the other arm or leg or wherever and then say, “See...you’re arm doesn’t hurt anymore ‘cause you’re not thinking about it.” I’m not sure if the same principle isn’t at play here. Is my back really better? Or am I just distracted by the burning sensation...

Oh...I forgot to mention something. When I got back to my truck I pulled up my shirt to see if there were any burn marks. There weren’t, but I found that the doctor had filled my bellybutton with salt and sealed it with two crisscrossed band-aids.

I kid you not.