[img]396|left|Alex Campbell||no_popup[/img] Question: When you think about going to the chiropractor, what comes to mind? The word “adjustment”? Having your back cracked? Getting your neck snapped, with the chance of being killed as a result? Well, that’s what came to my mind before I started going to Aaron the chiropractor, on the recommendation of my friend and massage therapist Tracy. Seems that my back was “tight,” and maybe Aaron could help.
I thought about it for a couple of days, then pushed my fears aside and made an appointment. I’d heard nothing but good things about chiropractors, and I was curious. Over the phone, Aaron told me to leave an hour for our first appointment so we could discuss treatment; subsequent appointments would last about 15 minutes.
I went in for the first time and filled out about a ream of paperwork. It was my favorite kind, with all sorts of boxes to check. It reminded me of the notes my friends and I would send to boys in 7th grade. Instead of “Do you like Stephanie? Check the box (yes/ no/ as a friend)”, I filled out questions like, “Are you suffering from back pain, knee pain, headaches, glaucoma, lack of funky footwear?”
Let the Pains Begin
I checked “back pain,” “knee pain,” and “hip pain,” and went in for my consultation. We talked for awhile about my history, and then he did an assessment. I lay facedown on a table that had five segments. I put my face on a section that was split in two, and rested my hands on pads on either side of the table.
Aaron felt my back, all along my spine. He rotated my legs to check my hip. Then he did a fascinating thing with the table and my back. The middle section of the table could be raised a few inches. He raised that section, then pressed on my lower back with both hands. As he did, the table fell to its normal position. He raised the table and pressed on my back twice more. Then he had me lie on my side in a sort of fetal position, with my hands positioned on my hip. My elbow was pressed against his leg, and he did some sort of cracking somewhere. Fascinating. Then he had me lie on my back and cross my arms over my chest, while raising my head. I have no idea what he did then, something about him being behind me and cracking something. I was so into the positions, I didn’t really pay attention.
The last thing he did was “massage” my knee with a tool that resembled a glorified butter knife without the serrated edge. He told me he’d use the tool on my back in the future, but it would cause some bruising, so he wouldn’t use it on my first visit. He didn’t say anything about my knee bruising. While he was using the tool, it felt like my knee was a very stiff cake and he was spreading frosting on it. He had to make sure to get the frosting on all areas, so he “spread” it on thick, leaving no spot untouched. It was not a nice feeling. Nevertheless, I kept an open mind and made a few appointments for the next two weeks, listening as Aaron told me he would reassess me to see if what he did was working.
That night, I noticed that my knee was indeed bruised, and slightly swollen. All in a day’s work, I figured. I went back. 15 minutes. Bruised backside. And back again. The appointment I had the third time was so strange, about halfway through, I knew I’d turn it into this column.
For one thing, the session lasted for 45 minutes instead of 15. He reassessed me, cracking my back, pinching my spine, rotating my legs, and kneading my back with not just one butter knife, but two. This time he went from frosting a cake to spackling a wall. Which was my back. I lay face down. Face up. On my side. Sitting up. Curled in the yoga position “Child’s Pose.” Straddling the table. Leaning forward. Leaning to the side. Aaron stood on the left side of the table, on the right side of the table, and at the head of the table.
He used his hands, (fingers dipped in cocoa butter that made me want to sip hot chocolate and listen to Christmas music), the butter knife, a bigger butter knife shaped like a scythe, and a seatbelt. I’m not kidding. At one point, he went into a closet and came out with a contraption that looked like something he had put together from his granddaddy’s Buick. It had a strap made out of seatbelt material, and had a rectangular piece of foam, perhaps from a discarded kneepad. He put the strap around his waist and somehow put my knee on the pad. I was laughing so hard, I wasn’t really paying attention. Apparently, he was trying to “open up” my hip. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.
At the end of the session, I felt like I had been in the ring with Mike Tyson. He had cracked my neck, but at least he didn’t try to bite my ear. He was honest with me, and said that by now he would have liked to have seen more progress. Because of my hip degeneration, he might not be able to help me. So help me, he sure tried. We’re going to give it a couple more sessions.
My back was so sore that night I went to bed with an ice pack and slept for eleven hours. I feel as though I’ve been flogged. I’m bruised, but determined. I like getting cracked. I wonder if I can go in and select the treatment. “I’d like the Crack the Back Special, hold the tools. And I’d like my hot chocolate with marshmallows.”
Ms. Campbell may be contacted at campbellalexandra@hotmail.com
