Monday, March 22, 2004
Acupuncture is the shit.
I know that sentence is probably a desecration of a sacred, ancient art, but that’s as eloquent as I can be after a treatment. They stuck a dozen needles in my back tonight, and I nearly fell off the table in relaxation when I was done.
I’m starting to feel incredibly grateful again, now that the most acute phase of this accident has recovered. Sure, I don’t go more than an hour without thinking about the ramifications of being rammed by that car. And that’s a good hour. Every time I feel pain in my back, or my neck muscles feel like iron cords, or my headache flares, I think about it. But there are a few odd moments in the day when I suddenly stretch my neck and think, “Wait, why does my neck hurt?” I actually forget for a few moments. That’s the kind of forgetting I don’t mind.
And now, having survived the worst of it, I’m grateful for the routine. Most people have bodywork done once or twice a year, if that. I know someone who has never had a massage! When he told me that, I wanted to turn him around and start kneading his back muscles immediately (injured I may be, but my hands still know how to work). But we were at a restaurant, and it may have looked a little odd. So I didn’t. But I know that, for me, a massage was a luxury I gave myself four or five times a year. And afterwards, I felt wonderfully deep in my body, and I’d fall asleep as soon as I reached my bed. I’d be swarmed with realizations and relaxation. Now, I’m having some kind of bodywork every day.
Ah.
During the cranio-sacral work last week (with a powerful woman named Ursula Popp), images from all parts of my life rose up from my muscles. In a slow, methodical fashion, her gentle hands seemed to dredge up every time I have felt vulnerable, unprotected, and hurt. I still don’t know how she did it. All she did was put her hands under my hips, or along the sides of my neck, or dangling her fingertips on the top of my head. But something happened. I felt wonderfully stoned afterwards, enough that driving felt like a dream. And I slept well. Deeply.
Sarah, my massage therapist, leaves me in a similar state every Wednesday afternoon. She has small hands, with bony fingers, and when I first saw them, I thought: “How is that going to do anything for me?” But they’re wonderfully directed hands. Every week, she releases more pent-up energy from my muscles. I don’t know how. But I feel the warmth of her hands vibrating into my skull. My brain feels different afterwards. After every appointment, I leave feeling like there is nothing wrong with me. Anywhere.
Physical therapy is a bit more prosaic, but still lovely. Lisa, my physical therapist, taught me how to do exercises for my back properly, without making it all worse. She coached me through my despondent days. And she made mix cds for me, when I could first do some kind of aerobic exercises again. (early Michael Jackson! “I’m Walking on Sunshine”) For the first ten weeks after the accident, my neck muscles were too damaged to touch. I wasn’t allowed to start massage, or any of these other treatments. Lisa’s warm hands were the first touch since that day. Her neck rubs made me want to cry for their kindness. I had been longing to be touched for so long. And slowly, the muscles have started to unravel, with all this kind attention.
But I think that acupuncture is my favorite of them. I have an entire team at Bastyr who make me laugh, then plunge small needles in my skin. I really don’t know what they are doing. I don’t really understand how chi moves in my body. I have no way of talking about this practice in the language that Western medicine has taught me. I love that. Before this accident, I relied on my mental acuity: my memory; my vocabulary; my ability to process faster than anyone around. But that was all thrown around by that white Ford, along with my body. I’ve had to let go of so much. And so I’ll happily let go of the need to understand this with language.
I know that I feel protected in that room. The windows look out over 45th and Stone, and usually there’s a rush of golden light coming in through the slats of the blinds. There I am on the table, the hospital gown only covering a portion of me, so my ass is hanging out in the air. Now, there’s nothing like recovering from a car accident to make you lose your inhibitions. Still, it’s a vulnerable position. Plus, I have my face down in the cradle at the end of the table, so I can’t see anything. I’m trusting them to just stick things in me. And as soon as there are four or five needles in me, I’ve lost the ability to be coherent. I can only respond to each needle going in with a soft grunt when it hits the right spot. And then I lie there, everyone out of the room, needles protruding from my skin, blinded, unable to move. And fine. The soft warmth spreads throughout me. I have let go. And that’s when the healing begins.
What an amazing thing, that these injuries make me do this work every day. There isn’t a day that goes by without me feeling like I’ve dropped all artifice. I’m just there. I don’t feel at all oblivious to myself. I feel right here.
And then there’s the lovely sleep that follows, sweet and filled with patient dreams. I’m heading there now. It’s nearly 9 pm on an acupuncture night. What am I still doing up?
I know that sentence is probably a desecration of a sacred, ancient art, but that’s as eloquent as I can be after a treatment. They stuck a dozen needles in my back tonight, and I nearly fell off the table in relaxation when I was done.
I’m starting to feel incredibly grateful again, now that the most acute phase of this accident has recovered. Sure, I don’t go more than an hour without thinking about the ramifications of being rammed by that car. And that’s a good hour. Every time I feel pain in my back, or my neck muscles feel like iron cords, or my headache flares, I think about it. But there are a few odd moments in the day when I suddenly stretch my neck and think, “Wait, why does my neck hurt?” I actually forget for a few moments. That’s the kind of forgetting I don’t mind.
And now, having survived the worst of it, I’m grateful for the routine. Most people have bodywork done once or twice a year, if that. I know someone who has never had a massage! When he told me that, I wanted to turn him around and start kneading his back muscles immediately (injured I may be, but my hands still know how to work). But we were at a restaurant, and it may have looked a little odd. So I didn’t. But I know that, for me, a massage was a luxury I gave myself four or five times a year. And afterwards, I felt wonderfully deep in my body, and I’d fall asleep as soon as I reached my bed. I’d be swarmed with realizations and relaxation. Now, I’m having some kind of bodywork every day.
Ah.
During the cranio-sacral work last week (with a powerful woman named Ursula Popp), images from all parts of my life rose up from my muscles. In a slow, methodical fashion, her gentle hands seemed to dredge up every time I have felt vulnerable, unprotected, and hurt. I still don’t know how she did it. All she did was put her hands under my hips, or along the sides of my neck, or dangling her fingertips on the top of my head. But something happened. I felt wonderfully stoned afterwards, enough that driving felt like a dream. And I slept well. Deeply.
Sarah, my massage therapist, leaves me in a similar state every Wednesday afternoon. She has small hands, with bony fingers, and when I first saw them, I thought: “How is that going to do anything for me?” But they’re wonderfully directed hands. Every week, she releases more pent-up energy from my muscles. I don’t know how. But I feel the warmth of her hands vibrating into my skull. My brain feels different afterwards. After every appointment, I leave feeling like there is nothing wrong with me. Anywhere.
Physical therapy is a bit more prosaic, but still lovely. Lisa, my physical therapist, taught me how to do exercises for my back properly, without making it all worse. She coached me through my despondent days. And she made mix cds for me, when I could first do some kind of aerobic exercises again. (early Michael Jackson! “I’m Walking on Sunshine”) For the first ten weeks after the accident, my neck muscles were too damaged to touch. I wasn’t allowed to start massage, or any of these other treatments. Lisa’s warm hands were the first touch since that day. Her neck rubs made me want to cry for their kindness. I had been longing to be touched for so long. And slowly, the muscles have started to unravel, with all this kind attention.
But I think that acupuncture is my favorite of them. I have an entire team at Bastyr who make me laugh, then plunge small needles in my skin. I really don’t know what they are doing. I don’t really understand how chi moves in my body. I have no way of talking about this practice in the language that Western medicine has taught me. I love that. Before this accident, I relied on my mental acuity: my memory; my vocabulary; my ability to process faster than anyone around. But that was all thrown around by that white Ford, along with my body. I’ve had to let go of so much. And so I’ll happily let go of the need to understand this with language.
I know that I feel protected in that room. The windows look out over 45th and Stone, and usually there’s a rush of golden light coming in through the slats of the blinds. There I am on the table, the hospital gown only covering a portion of me, so my ass is hanging out in the air. Now, there’s nothing like recovering from a car accident to make you lose your inhibitions. Still, it’s a vulnerable position. Plus, I have my face down in the cradle at the end of the table, so I can’t see anything. I’m trusting them to just stick things in me. And as soon as there are four or five needles in me, I’ve lost the ability to be coherent. I can only respond to each needle going in with a soft grunt when it hits the right spot. And then I lie there, everyone out of the room, needles protruding from my skin, blinded, unable to move. And fine. The soft warmth spreads throughout me. I have let go. And that’s when the healing begins.
What an amazing thing, that these injuries make me do this work every day. There isn’t a day that goes by without me feeling like I’ve dropped all artifice. I’m just there. I don’t feel at all oblivious to myself. I feel right here.
And then there’s the lovely sleep that follows, sweet and filled with patient dreams. I’m heading there now. It’s nearly 9 pm on an acupuncture night. What am I still doing up?
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