Ah the joys of having a bad back. Ever since my hike at Machu Picchu, my hip has been out. For over a month, I have enjoyed shooting pains every time I stand up from a seated position. It usually takes several tentative steps before I am able to walk at a normal pace. I have been self -treating this infliction with a hot water bottle that I purchased in Bolivia. The idea is that the heat relaxes the muscles. Yes, it is one of those water bottles that your grandma fills with boiling water and places at the foot of her bed on cold nights. It looks like an enlarged whoopee-cushion both in color and shape. When I go to fill it in the hostel kitchens, I usually make friends who want to know what on earth I am doing. I have been called a “crotchety old lady” on more than one occasion.
Finally, I find myself in desperation. Many people from all over the world fly to Argentina for healthcare (mostly to the capital of Buenos Ares). The doctors are good and procedures are about a fourth of the cost of that in The States. It’s time to find a chiropractor. I search the yellow pages in Mendoza for chiropractors. I find one. Julie calls to set up an appointment for that evening. The appointment is made and I am drowning in a sea of emotions. I am excited and hopeful that I might find a bit of relief. But more than comfort, I am scared out of my mind. A spinal fusion at 15 has made me a veteran of doctor’s offices. From orthopedic surgeons to physical therapists, I have been fortunate enough to meet some outstanding healers. I have also had the misfortune of putting my trust into the hands of qualified individuals who have absolutely no idea what they are doing. In the best of times I leave a doctor’s office with a new outlook on life, reassured that my situation is not all that bad and will only improve. In the worst of times, I am diagnosed with a new set of issues (vertebra degeneration, arthritis, etc). There have even been occasions where I have left feeling worse than before the visit. One extreme case; after an adjustment I experienced a numb face for a week. As a result, I am hesitant to visit a foreign doctor.
Julie accompanies me to the office, she is my translator extraordinaire. The taxi drops us off at a building with a sign that says “Galeno Rehabilitacion.” We walk into the reception room that consists of a wooden desk with a folding chair positioned behind it and two long padded benches lining the walls for waiting patients. There is no computer at the reception desk, no posters depicting the various bones that make up the spine, no wellness brochures and no display of nutritional supplements. Okay, I can manage this. A man enters the room wearing jeans and a while collared button up short sleeve shirt. He sits down behind the reception desk. Julie explains that we called this morning and are here to see a chiropractor to help me with my hip. The man behind the desk smiles and tells her that he remembers talking with her earlier on the phone. He then asks what my symptoms are. My Spanish is at a point where I can understand most of this, but answering the questions is another story. Julie tells him that my hip has been hearting every time I stand up. In response to my symptoms, he asks where we are from.
“From The United States” Julie replies.
“ Oh wonderful, I went to Disney World a few years ago. I couldn’t believe how long the lines were….and Orlando, what a city.” For a solid five minutes in rapid Spanish he speaks about his trip to Disney world. After we have agreed that Florida is a beautiful place he asks “where is the pain in your hip.” At this moment, I can not figure out if this is the receptionist or the doctor. What the hell is going on? My confidence is plummeting.
I am escorted back into a separate room. The equipment is not state-of-the-art by any means; in fact the appearance of the room would suggest that I have traveled back to the 1970. I remove my shoes as I have at every chiropractor I have ever visited. Through Julie, I am asked to put my shoes back on. This is strange, but okay. The usual back examination techniques, walk in a line (barefoot) so we can see how your body moves, sit in a chair, stand normally, etc. None of these are utilized. I am not given a range-of-motion test, not asked to bend forward to fully expose the extent of my scoliosis, nothing. The unsettling grip around my stomach tightens. The unknown is always more terrifying than the know. This man has not started work on me, but my apprehension is overwhelming. I am asked to lei on my stomach on a piece of equipment that I have never seen before in a chiropractor’s office, gym or torture chamber (not that I am all that familiar with torture chambers, but the movies provide some cues). There is other equipment in the room around me. The only piece that I recognize resembles the Nordic Track that was sold on infomercials far before the invention of such exercise equipment as the elliptical machine. Actually, I am fairly sure my parents have a similar piece of machinery tucked away in the basement, a relic from my early childhood. Lying face down, I realize that this man is indeed my doctor. No one else is going to swoop in and declare the pre-examination complete.
Going with it, I lie on my stomach. I am asked to bend my knees so that my shins are perpendicular to my body. Lifting my head, I look into the mirror that spans the wall in front of my face. I can see that my right foot falls a full inch below my left foot. Well fabulous. The man who I have just now recognized as my doctor, stands above me and explains to Julie that he is going to try something called the Thompson Technique. I have never heard of such a thing, but before I know it, his hand is wedged under my right butt cheek applying ample pressure. Suddenly, the table below me gives way with a grinding clunking metal sound. My hip falls as well, forced by the pressure of the doctor’s hand. I have experienced similar treatment in the states, but never with this much noise involved or atop such an archaic chiropractic table. This is repeated several more times.
I am asked to sit in a chair. I know what is coming and I am inclined to vomit. Sweaty hands are placed on either side of my face. He is going to crack my neck. As he holds my head in his hands, I flash back to previous episodes of unbearable pain and loss of feeling in my extremities. Do I stop him? Or do I trust? The moment of consideration is gone with one swift twist and crack, repeated quickly by three more in succession. Please God, Buddha, Allah, Sheba, please do let this man mess me up. He pulls away and asks me to stand.
Okay, so there is a bit of pain in my mid back, a bit in my low back, but overall I feel okay. Even better, the shooting pain in my hip is gone when I stand. Good enough. Thanking the doctor we leave.
As I sit in the cab, I can’t help but feel grateful. Grateful to be able to stand again without shooting pain. Grateful that my face is not numb. Grateful that I found one of 7 chiropractors in the entirety of Mendoza. Grateful to have one more day. For me, there may not be so many more days that my body will sustain such travel torture. I must enjoy this while I can.
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