The last few months have been brutal. I get up feeling fine, but by lunchtime or soon after a hurricane of pain slams into my brain, giving me the worst headache of my life, making even the simplest of tasks unbearable. What's really suffered is my ability to string together a sentence or two. That makes being a writer that much harder.
At first I thought they were a result of my steady dive into (shudder) menopause, but I seem to have those symptoms under control. Then I assumed I had a brain aneurysm because I read somewhere that really smart people get them, and so of course that's what it is. Recently though, I'm starting to think my brain pain is just karma rearing its ugly head. Whatever it is, I need it to stop. Immediately.
My dad offered a solution: Seeing a chiropractor. Which was funny since the massage therapist who mashed on my head, neck and shoulders had offered up the same advice. Her expertise led her to believe my headaches are the result of tension and jaw clenching and "life in general." What's the cure for "life in general?" Shall I "run away from home?" Sounds "good to me."
But since life isn't a series of open and closed quotation marks with pithy little sayings sandwiched between them, I considered the chiropractor thing. I mean, why not? What did I have to lose? Did I think a chiropractor would cure what ailed me? My head hurt too much to give it that much thought. I gave my dad the go-ahead to set it up.
I entered the office just as a very young, very fit girl was dropping off a giant box of donuts. The chiropractor was standing at the front counter studying the glazed gooey confections trying to decide which one to dive into first. He even offered one to me. I declined. Do you know what sudden surges in sugar levels do to an already aching head?
After filling out page after page of paperwork (it never gets old writing Not Applicable Due to Lack of Uterus under the section marked Date of Last Menses), the doctor called me back. We made small talk at first.
What do you do for a living? Oh, you're a writer? Are you going to write about me?
I don't normally write about everyone I come in contact with so probably not. Sorry.
He seemed to lose interest then and went all business. He studied my chart and asked me questions about my health and my "life in general."
I used wild hand gestures and flailing arms to describe and point out the areas where I felt like the pain is coming from. After a few minutes, he decided the best course to take would be to beat my face and neck with a motorized machine (for an undisclosed amount of time) that he assured me would hurt so much I would want to kill him.
Well then, let's get this party started!
He asked me to lie down, face up, and repeatedly open and close my mouth. I did as I was told, and that's when he brought the heat. I couldn't see what it was exactly because I was suddenly blinded by pain. But it seemed to be some kind of massaging boxing glove type machine that's whole purpose for existing was to beat the crap out of me. After 15 seconds, a wave of nausea rolled over me and I cried out, "Stop, stop. I think I'm going to vomit!"
It was the worst feeling ever. For a second I even reasoned that I could live with the headaches. Instead of stopping, he told me to breathe and started the machine again. And again I thought I was going to throw up. I yelled out a certain word beginning with the letter F, and he quickly turned off the machine. "That will cost you $5 in the swear jar."
I managed a small laugh.
"No. Seriously. That word is $5." And he pointed to a jar on the table marked Swear Jar. I noted right away it was filled to the top with $5 bills.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"Will you take a check?"
"I suppose."
"I'll make it out for 50 bucks."
"You're the boss."
I'm pretty sure I'm going to be funding his kids" college educations.
