A Journey to Chiro

You guys, I'm a hot mess.

I'm the type of person who hates... HATES... caving and going to a doctor. Which, let it be known, I am fully aware is not a right afforded to everyone -- I am beyond grateful to have access to good, quality medical care in the best medical community in the world, and to have really great benefits that make seeking treatment possible. These are the things I think about whenever I want to scream at the top of my lungs when I'm stuck in yet another waiting room or being poked at by another person in a white coat (you could at least buy me dinner first, Doctor McGrabby).

By now everyone is sick to death of hearing me yammer on about my ankle/tendon/foot problems, myself included. Thankfully, after six months of treatment, five weeks of PT and finally finding the right podiatrist, I've been fitted with custom orthotics and am fully cleared to run/exercise freely again.Which would be fantastic, aside from the fact that while foraging under my bed for the mate to my perfect, sparkly Steve Madden heel, I managed to tweak something in my upper back to the point that I yipped.

YIPPED, people.

A week and a half later, I still can't move my head toward my left shoulder or backward without getting a searing shot of electricity down my right arm. Football-type friends of mine have informed me that this is what is known as a "stinger." While it sounds cool (like I'm related to Optimus Prime or something), it hurts like a bitch, as does the lingering ache that seems to have taken up residence through the entire upper right quadrant of my body. I'm pretty sure my stomach walls are weeping for mercy after ten days of anti-inflammatories, but that's what the doctor ordered.

Which is why later this afternoon, on the advice of my massage therapist, I will be embarking on my first foray into the world of alternative chiropractics.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that I saw a chiropractor for a lumbar injury sustained at age 18. He was a member of my family medical practice who also happened to be a DC. He checked my chart, asked some questions and cracked my spine to improve blood flow to promote healing in the vertebra that was hurt. I went three times and that was that. This, however, promises to be in a completely different stratosphere from that encounter.

To put it in perspective, the first question on my New Patient Intake form is, "Please tell us about any stress you know of that was associated with your birth (your entry into the world, not your child's)."

It took every ounce of self-control I possess not to start that answer with, "It was a dark and stormy night..."

Admittedly, I'm a bit nervous, but not in a bad way. I'm nervous in the same sense that I was when I went to my first cognitive behavioral therapy session for my social anxiety in college ("What if she says, 'sorry, pal, you're screwed?'"), my first yoga class ("Is there going to be chanting? What if I fall asleep and drool all over the floor, causing the teacher to slip and fall in a puddle of my saliva, ruining her knees and costing her her livelihood?"), or my first massage ("What if my body is weird? Will there be Enya?"). I went into all of those "alternative" practices with a heavy dose of cautious skepticism which, at the end of the day, proved totally unwarranted. I use the techniques I learned through CBT each and every day. I love yoga and partially blame this new little "problem" on the fact that I stopped practicing while I rehabbed my foot. I firmly believe that a deep tissue massage was the single best use of my money in the past six months.

I'm relying on my positive experiences with all of the above to get me through this new, somewhat intimidating, encounter. Sure, it might be weird and it might push me way outside the boundaries of both my physical and emotional comfort zone, but I am trying to approach it with an open mind. The practice I'm going to has a TON of five-star reviews and when I called my health insurer to double-check my coverage, they knew exactly where I was talking about. All bode well for an interesting new experience and, with any luck, some relief from this continuous ache. Besides, at this point, if some random stranger on the T said that he or she could cure these stingers, I'd probably offer up my car, my computer and the deed to my first, unpurchased house.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a birth story to concoct....

Lemoning

Despite my enthusiasm for my brand new toy, I chose to use the down time on my vacation to do really important things, like this:
 
And this:

Seriously, though, I always hate when people complain about needing a vacation from their vacation. It makes me want to give them a lecture on how fortunate they are to have a job from which to take a vacation, let alone be in a financial position to do so.

But this time, I sort of understand how they feel.

For the past two months, I just haven't felt right. Thoughts swirl around in my brain on an endless loop, combing over a laundry list of things I'd like to do. Things I want to do. Things I have to do. Laundry itself is climbing damn near the top of the latter, but I just can't find the time to do it. I'm waking up in the middle of the night to the alarming sound of blood rushing through my ears. The creepy chest pain that was popping up earlier this year is back, which is apparently normal for whatever fancy-pants name they applied to "benign chest wall pain" in my chart. I'm sluggish, snappy, and annoyed by everything and almost everyone. It certainly doesn't appear to have gone unnoticed, either, as most people are making it a point to ask if everything is ok, which I actually do appreciate. Then there are the jackasses who throw out the ever-inspiring, "you don't look so great, are you getting sick?" on the three days I've actually put an effort into my beauty routine. To which I nonchalantly reply, "Go screw."

The fact that this latest bout of "whatever" dovetails perfectly with my ankle injury has not escaped my attention. Elle Woods was really on to something with the whole, "Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy! And happy people just don't shoot their husbands!" thing. When I was training for the half, I was one endorphin way from channeling Kenneth on 30 Rock. People were going out of their way to comment on my good mood which is, for me, unheard of. And then, with the crack of an ankle, I began a slow journey to crankyville. I Lemoned.


I can't even begin to describe how much I needed last week off, just to get out of the city, my apartment, my work and, to some degree, my own head. I had big plans to lay on a beach, read a few books, drink a few beers and finally make like Stella and get after my groove. I was truly exhausted, both mentally and physically.

And despite my best efforts to rejuvenate my spirits through a week of rest and, well, spirits, I would be lying if I said that I was feeling much better than I did before I left.
Some of that, of course, is just post-vacation blues talking. I get that. But I still can’t shake the feeling that I am somehow spiraling out of control, even though I can’t pinpoint exactly why. It reminds me of how I felt in college, when I ended up so anxious that I couldn’t leave my dorm room without having a legitimate panic attack. That’s unnerving.
With that in mind, I have decided to start really pushing myself to actively participate in my own life, rather than just sit around and let my anxiety run amok. It’s a technique that I learned while going through cognitive behavioral therapy, and I’ve found that re-focusing my nervous energy and channeling it towards positive goals seems to really help my stress level. Running and exercise did that for awhile, but since that isn’t an option at the moment, it’s time to set new goals. 

And on that note, I’m off to scale a veritable mountain of laundry.