Friday, May 9, 2008

Physical Therapy

So I got my highly anticipated MRI results and they showed that there is nothing wrong with me! Medical, documented proof! Which basically means that no one knows why my neck hurts, so I can blame the Barnacle for needing held every minute of his life and getting my upper body out of whack.

So off to the chiropractor for physical therapy I go. (Why do I start so many sentences with 'so'?) He begins with putting stickys on my neck so he can give me some advanced form of electro-shock therapy. Which is more fun than it sounds really. It's zingy! Then we do a thermal thinger - can't think of the name, but it's like a giant heating pad that he lowers onto you and resembles those swinging magnets they pick cars up with in the junkyard. He turns it on and leaves me, and I wonder if I will become a fried egg before he returns. It starts out slow enough, but soon heats up to a temperature that reduces me the consistancy of pudding. It's sleep-inducing to be toasted this way, so when he returns later to take me to the adjustment table, I am a drowsy & clueless lamb being led to the slaughter. Of course, all of the delightful pleasantries of warming me up are over and I am about to be crunched into granola. (I must be hungry, all these food references.) He does start by vigorously rubbing my shoulders and neck which is really lovely on my sore muscles. Then the cracking begins. I suppose it's a bad thing when your chiropractor cracks your neck like a machine gun and says, "Oh my gosh, it's like a tree trunk!" He then stands on top of me to crack my back in 712 places while informing me that he thinks he found the source of my neck pain further down in my spine. The trammeling continues until I am sufficiently adjusted and he sends me off with instructions to not turn my head quickly to the left while driving and make sure to put ice on it tonight because I'm going to be sore. Really? I couldn't tell. To quote Amy, 'Good times!'

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