Every now and then, things happen which reaffirm that I am, indeed, an adult (most days I don’t necessarily feel very grown-up, and my Muppet socks tend to agree). One of those things is the need to visit my chiropractor.
That’s right. I have a regular chiropractor. Not just some acquaintance from college who likes to make back-cracking noise, and who everyone insists does a pretty good job for someone who studies French literature. (Come on…admit it…we all knew someone back in college who liked to think they were good at cracking backs, and insisted it was just as good as a real chiropractor).
A large part of my life has consisted of doing something horrible to my back – whether falling off buildings/out of treehouses/onto tree trunks on the river bank, picking up heavy things by myself, or flinging small children into the air (not in a “you’re a monster” kind of way, but in a “I’m the cool aunt” kind of way). Of course, I now pay the price for said horrible things. Four or five years ago, I woke up with the worst back pain I have ever experienced. To the point where Robert had to put my shoes on for me. I wound up leaving work early that day to visit a chiropractor in my town who could fit in a new patient before the end of the day. That was the fateful day when I met Dr. Piorkowski (who goes by Dr. P to most people, for the sake of not having his name horribly mutilated).
The man knows his stuff and, generally, I leave his office with no pain and a warning to cut out the stupid back-destroying things I have a tendency to do.
This week, of course, I have managed to do the unthinkable…I have managed to mess up my back so badly that it couldn’t be fixed with a single visit. I went to see him Monday and almost threw up later that evening, the pain was still so bad (this is the kind of lovely narrative you get when you read my blog. Aren’t you happy?). Part of my back seemed to slide back into place while I worked from home yesterday, but it didn’t last through the night. This morning, when I went for my follow-up, it still hasn’t worked itself out. So I have to go back again on Friday.
I have never…NEVER! had to go to the chiropractor three times in the same week.
Thankfully, my health insurance (another thing that reminds me I’m a fully-fledged adult, instead of the un-insured grad student I was six years ago) covers my chiropractor visits. (Now we just need insurance companies to realize how much money they would save if they also covered preventative therapies like massage.)
This visit, in between Dr. P pummeling my back and asking “what did you do?!” I learned that he is a big fan of horror books and films. Not horror like Saw and Hostel. Horror like Dean Koontz. (Apparently, What the Night Knows really creeped him out.) Currently, he’s on a zombie book kick. He gave me several recommendations for books to read, and I encouraged him to check out Stranger Things, which Robert and I binge-watched this past weekend. I also recommended the Joe Ledger series, by Jonathan Maberry.
This is the first time I’ve ever come out of a doctor appointment with a recommended reading list.
Too bad it’s largely for horror books.