Post by Admin on Oct 31st, 2004 at 7:33pm
At 3 AM on Thursday morning, a sharp pain, like a knife, broke over my left eye. My ear, nose and back of the head throbbed with an ache I’d never felt before.
The French have an expression when one is sick with an undefinable malady. “Marie was blocked”, they’ll say, as if there were a clog in her plumbing. “Dr. X pulled on her head, and pushed on her shoulders and Voila! she’s a new person.” Only if they replaced her head with someone else’s, I think.
In Seattle, I used to visit a Dr. Hong, who “cured” my sciatica. He would poke me with hundreds of acupuncture needles. “Your Chi is blocked,” he’d cry, as he’d insert another pin. “That’s good”, he’d sigh, if I twitched at the touch. “Chi moving.”
“I think I am having a stroke”, I told Blair. He ran to get me a blood pressure pill.
As soon as it got light out, we went to the clinic next door. I told the person at the front desk that I was having a terrible pain in my head. “General Medicine, floor 1,” she pointed toward the elevator.
A number dispensing machine stood at the entry, like at the deli counter: 461. I paid my 20 Euros. I took my place beside a cougher (maybe I should get a flu shot while I am here). After some time, a young, pretty doctor called my name. She took down all my data, and proceeded to see if my eyes were tracking normally. “You need to see Doctor B,” she said. If he’s not here, it’s the hospital for a scan.
“If I am mentally disabled, don’t bother staying with me,” I tell Blair. “Remarry. Enjoy life.”
Doctor B was in the ORL department, maladies of the ear, nose and throat. The Clinic Arthur Verne is an old building. The offices where they test ears look like refrigerators: a step up above the normal floor, sealing door handles – soundproof.
I had, in fact, a “blockage” – a nerve pinching between my second and third vertebrae. The doctor described the pain: “Violent, violent!” I agreed, smiling to know this was not a disabling condition. I asked what could be done. “Nothing,” he told me.
The man we rent our apartment from is a chiropractor. “He’ll be downstairs to straighten you out after 5” his sister reported. My headache had dulled by then, but my neck was stiff. He confirmed Dr. B’s diagnosis, pulling on my head and pushing down on my chest. Suddenly, he snapped by head to the side, with a crack that could be heard outdoors. “OK” he announced.
Unblocked. He advised I’d be a little sore the next day, but afterward it would get better. I woke up this morning, thinking of planting pansies and getting a heat lamp for our patio. I made kedgeree with yesterday’s leftover sole.
“And if I die, I want to be buried [whole] at Sea,” I tell Blair. “I have enjoyed so many fish dinners, they can have one on me.”
http://www.paintfox.com/
Laurie (painting and text) and Blair PESSEMIER
"Grouper" acrylic on wood 7 x 20 inches
lauregrouperw192904.jpg (64 KB | )
The French have an expression when one is sick with an undefinable malady. “Marie was blocked”, they’ll say, as if there were a clog in her plumbing. “Dr. X pulled on her head, and pushed on her shoulders and Voila! she’s a new person.” Only if they replaced her head with someone else’s, I think.
In Seattle, I used to visit a Dr. Hong, who “cured” my sciatica. He would poke me with hundreds of acupuncture needles. “Your Chi is blocked,” he’d cry, as he’d insert another pin. “That’s good”, he’d sigh, if I twitched at the touch. “Chi moving.”
“I think I am having a stroke”, I told Blair. He ran to get me a blood pressure pill.
As soon as it got light out, we went to the clinic next door. I told the person at the front desk that I was having a terrible pain in my head. “General Medicine, floor 1,” she pointed toward the elevator.
A number dispensing machine stood at the entry, like at the deli counter: 461. I paid my 20 Euros. I took my place beside a cougher (maybe I should get a flu shot while I am here). After some time, a young, pretty doctor called my name. She took down all my data, and proceeded to see if my eyes were tracking normally. “You need to see Doctor B,” she said. If he’s not here, it’s the hospital for a scan.
“If I am mentally disabled, don’t bother staying with me,” I tell Blair. “Remarry. Enjoy life.”
Doctor B was in the ORL department, maladies of the ear, nose and throat. The Clinic Arthur Verne is an old building. The offices where they test ears look like refrigerators: a step up above the normal floor, sealing door handles – soundproof.
I had, in fact, a “blockage” – a nerve pinching between my second and third vertebrae. The doctor described the pain: “Violent, violent!” I agreed, smiling to know this was not a disabling condition. I asked what could be done. “Nothing,” he told me.
The man we rent our apartment from is a chiropractor. “He’ll be downstairs to straighten you out after 5” his sister reported. My headache had dulled by then, but my neck was stiff. He confirmed Dr. B’s diagnosis, pulling on my head and pushing down on my chest. Suddenly, he snapped by head to the side, with a crack that could be heard outdoors. “OK” he announced.
Unblocked. He advised I’d be a little sore the next day, but afterward it would get better. I woke up this morning, thinking of planting pansies and getting a heat lamp for our patio. I made kedgeree with yesterday’s leftover sole.
“And if I die, I want to be buried [whole] at Sea,” I tell Blair. “I have enjoyed so many fish dinners, they can have one on me.”
http://www.paintfox.com/
Laurie (painting and text) and Blair PESSEMIER
"Grouper" acrylic on wood 7 x 20 inches
lauregrouperw192904.jpg (64 KB | )