A middle-aged white woman with dirty blond hair burst through the doors of the Kansas City Free Health Clinic. She approached the front desk, apologizing for her tardiness, and in one swift move wiped her runny nose and pulled her sagging sweat pants upright on her hips. The woman was handed a clipboard and asked to fill out the personal information on the attached sheet. She responded gratefully and sat down in a large blue chair.
“Hey, do you have a pencil?” she asked. I lowered the magazine I was pretending to read, hoping she hadn’t noticed me watching her every move, and I mentioned the cup at the desk was full of pens.
Among the immigrant labor worker, single mother, veteran, recovering drug addict, and diabetes patient, I was the single smiling art school grad. I sat and waited as one of the disheveled and the poor who were also seeking a small taste of that Canadian luxury- free health care. Using the poverty line like a limbo stick, an artist will bend for years until he (or she) emerges a winner. A winner whose career is unfettered by the budgetary constraints of a part-time job, where the limits of their ambitions no longer act as an idyllic unattainable goal. Sometimes its not a limbo stick, but rather a balancing pole for a tight-rope-act. As the artist puts one foot in front of the other, the rope seems to stretch beyond the horizon at an indefinable length. Hoping to not succumb to the soreness of the challenge or become too inflexible to reach their aspirations, an artist must endure or otherwise fail never to see what the agony was for.
The middle-aged had woman returned with her pen, and my name was called for an appointment with my regular chiropractor.
Dr. Kruass was a short sturdy man who seemed to have an interchangeable selection of interns. That week it was a football player of a man named Bill smiling in the corner of the room.
“How is your shoulder this week?” Dr. Kruass asked as he scribbled some notes. We had agreed on a set of numbers to determine the constant throbbing emitted from right hip, lower back, and right shoulder. Such as, 1 being not-so-bad-at-all, and 10 labeled as called-into-work-with-a-hot-pad-on-my-back-can-someone-rip-out-my-crooked-spine-please!. This past week never reached past a 5.
“That’s good to hear.” His back was still facing me as he continued to scribble. In our first meeting, last summer, Dr. Kruass took a quick glance at my back and determine the cause of my sudden and excruciating shoulder pain.
“Your left hip is a slightly higher than your right. Yep, you have scoliosis. And your lower back has signs of constant slouching. I’m not certain, but it looks you could have subluxation of the spine. This sometimes causes a valve on your esophagus to overreact and produce too much acid. Does that sound familiar?.”
Two winters ago I visited an ER with the sudden concern that I was having a heart attack. The simple rhythm of my thumping, blood-regulating muscle was notably inconsistent and my chest was taut with pain. After a blood test it was revealed I had Esophagitis, or simply put Acid-Reflux-Disease. But how would an overly sensitive esophagus attribute to an odd heartbeat? Placing his cold stethoscope on to my chest the ER doctor listened.
“You have Arrhythmia. Your heart skips a beat. It’s not fatal. You’ll be fine.”
So no heart attack, just an intense episode of painful indigestion brought on by a diet of hamburgers, barbeque sauce, and screwdrivers. Just like my visit to the ER, I was also certain that Dr. Kruass’s diagnosis was incorrect for two reasons: 1: after a three year long relationship with a woman whose constant belching and abrupt back spasms were blamed for her emotional bouts of insanity, I was haunted with the idea that somehow her condition was contagious long after our separation and 2: I was invincible. I don’t mean I could punch through walls or fly at mach speed, but rather I had no debilitating ailments that affected my prosperity of health. Dentists were in awe of the symmetry in my smile and physicians would recommend no alterations of habit. I was indifferent to the concept of moderation, that my tastes for microwavable burritos and honey-mustard covered breaded chicken sandwiches would have no repercussions. Instead I was faced with possible throat cancer and a life with a metal beam sewn into my back. There must have been another explanation.
“No, your shoulder is not detached. You wouldn’t be able to use it if it was.” Dr. Kruass continued his explanation, “Listen, I can bring in a little model and show how your spine is all twisted. You must live a sedentary lifestyle, lots of time at your computer, video games, and no exercise. That’s not good for your back. And feel free to put your shirt back on.”
So back to the present with Dr. Kruass and his intern. The table I was laying face down on was cranked up so that when the Doctor lunged with his palms it would push more pressure into to my spine. SNAP. He then sat me up to perform another maneuver that would look something like a neck snap. POP.
“You’re all done. Just hand this green slip to the receptionist so she can pen you in for next month.” I thanked the Doctor and his smiling intern as I rubbed my tender spine.
