A session with a chiropractor may provide temporary relief for back pain, but inasmuch as addressing root causes visiting a chiropractor is really nothing more than rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.
My lower back flares up occasionally, so I recently went to a chiropractor.
I’d read mixed reviews on the legitimacy of so-called “chiropractic medicine.” To me, it seems like one of those bogus New Age money grabs.
The “clinic” here in Las Vegas consisted of a storefront in a strip mall (Boca Park), with a young lady strategically positioned out in front who handled all the billing and medical forms, flanked by two big black suede sofas where the “patients” wait. I hate suede, so I’m growing more pessimistic by the minute. Suede makes me nervous. It’s one of my phobias. Like spiders.
From what I can tell this young lady doesn’t appear to have much in the way of medical training, other than some razor-sharp pressure tactics designed to sell packages of repeat visits to clients, meticulously explained each time the phone rang. There was a dividing wall, more like a giant screen really, hiding the “physical therapy” sessions that went on in the back room. While waiting for the specialist, the soft sound of faint conversation could be heard, interspersed with an occasional “ohhh” and “ahhh.”
Hmmm.
When my time finally came and my name was called, I was escorted around the giant screen where I saw nothing more than what looked like a few workout benches. The bench covering appeared to be suede. Oh, fuck. There were plenty of pictures and charts of skeletons hanging up on the wall, this I suppose, to make the “clinic” appear legitimate. Let’s just say that I wasn’t impressed with the layout, which seemed like the medical equivalent of a boiler room.
Next, it was time to meet my chiropractor, a tubby man with a beer belly, wearing a golf shirt. I’m not sure what I was expecting exactly, perhaps someone with various medical degrees frocked in a starched white lab coat with a stethoscope hanging around his neck. This chubby bastard sure didn’t like a doctor to me, more like a duffer out of the golf course who slows up the game by shooting a 104 — you know, the bozo who tees up in the party playing ahead of you slices his ball into the woods, and then spends 15 fucking minutes looking for a stained Titleist that he probably once fished out of the lake. Gee, I hate guys like that.
The chiropractor asked me what brought me in. Just as I was about to explain my recurring back problems, he asked me to lay down flat, face down. Then, I told him where I thought the relief was most needed, based — you know — on dealing with nagging back troubles off and on over the last ten years.
“Why don’t you just leave it up to me,” he snapped.
I resist the temptation to snarl back — “Hey pal, you don’t exactly look like the guy I have in mind that I want to place total faith in when it comes to the prospect of continuing to walk upright, okay? I’d like to leave this place on my own without the need of a wheelchair.”
But we rarely say what we think. I did pre-pay for my session, so I decided to let Tubby have his way with me and bestow my faith in the process.
This now brings me to another one of my phobias which is this: I don’t like being touched by strangers. No one knows their history of where their hands have been. I like “my space,” that invisible ring of security that protects me from germs and unwanted carnal advances.
The chiropractor started by applying lots of pressure to my spine. I heard a few cracks and pops as he moved up one vertebra at a time, which meant what he was doing was actually working, I suppose. Then, he asked me to lay on my side while tucked his arms around one thigh and then began pushing my pelvis forward with great force. I didn’t think much of the awkwardness of this situation, even with my genitals brushing ever so gingerly against the chiropractor’s beer belly. With my eyes closed, I admit that felt pretty good.
Next, I was positioned to lay flat on my back, what I call the “coffin position.” The chiropractor pulled my head like he was trying to rip it from my torso. This feeling wasn’t pleasant at all. Gee, I wished I could get more of that genital-to-beer-belly action.
Then, without warning, I heard a loud “SNAP,” which felt like my head had been severed from my body.
The chiropractor had performed one of those hard “TWISTS,” sort of like he’s got his hands tightly gripping the steering wheel and he makes a violent turn to avoid hitting an animal crossing the road. Indeed, I felt like roadkill.
I’m no doctor, but don’t think the human body is supposed to be contorted out of position like that. Did he just turn me into Stephen Hawking? It’s going to be a long-ass summer if I have to write all my features by pecking at a keyboard with one of those tongue depressors.
With that, my session ended. My therapy lasted all of about six minutes, with approximately 15 cracks and pops, plus one violent near-paralyzing surprise snap of the neck at the very end — coming out to about $2 per painful sound.
Let’s just say visiting the chiropractor did not come with a happy ending.