Being a Back Patient

I visited a chiropractor today.

I suppose I've viewed the chiropractic industry comparably to the witch doctor industry -- long on gyrations and short on proven results. Of course this is entirely without research, and based on hearsay, stereotypes and the fact that my "C" student friend at ISU was accepted into a chiropractic college. But when another friend of mine gave me the number of her chiropractor and said that her bi-monthly sessions helped to stave off a family history of back arthritis, I figured that it was time to go on a blogventure.

When I pulled up to the office (and by office, I mean 100-year old house), for some reason I recalled a memory of the hand painted sign in another home that advertised tarot card reading. Walking inside, I was greeted hyperenthusiastically by the receptionist who shoveled me the obligatory doorstop-worthy pile of papers to review and sign. I was mildly confused by the need to sign the form indicating that I would pay $25 if I were late to the appointment I was at, but working in tax law long ago numbed such feelings from lingering.

The newsletter in the waiting room was written by an independent practitioner of medicine who'd been in this gig for 25 years. He gleefully yet relentlessly railed against conventional medicine, what with all its new-fangled procedures and do-nothing technology at outrageous expense. Breast cancer rates only dropped once women started taking hormone supplements! I eyed a tiny side room packed with shelves of various sized bottles. I wondered if 60 years ago Germany was dotted with little houses and waiting rooms like this, with shelves of shiny swastika-painted souvenirs ready to make their mark on the world.

Difference is, Nazi recruiting probably didn't add the element of skinny guys violently cracking their bones. Of course, people willing to pay $40 to have their legs yanked away from their sockets, their ankles scrunched in random directions, and their spine compressed by near-strangers were probably transferred to the "moron" list and non-recruited, mostly out of fear that they'd turn themselves over to the enemy at the first sign of torture tools.

So I got more than I bargained for. Besides a blog story, I came away with a new exercise, a new diagnosis -- "mild sciatica" -- oh, and instructions to come back in a week. Sieg Heil, Mein Gott!