Can’t Judge a Doctor by his Muzak

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who believe in chiropractic health with an almost cult-like fanaticism, and chiropractic skeptics who equate the practice with the traveling Medicine Show swindlers of old, likely to sell you salt-water in a dark bottle and tell you that it was a proven cure for rheumatism, migraines, and indigestion.

I was raised amongst chiro-skeptics, and so have never really considered trying the therapy. On top of that, I never really thought I needed it. Sure, my back is constantly stiff & sore—has been, in fact, since I was about 12 years old—but I’ve always known that if I were to stretch my inflexible body and strengthen my abdominal muscles, my back would heal. That I’m too lazy to either stretch or exercise was beside the point; the cure was in my hands, I simply needed to reach out and grasp it. I didn’t need some doctor to tell me that.

But then, last week, I became alarmed. My back popped, with no cause whatsoever, and went into fits of spasming pain. The frustrating thing here is, I HAVE been stretching and exercising recently, but it’s either too little too late, or I disturbed the delicate equilibrium of tension that I’ve been building up for the last 20 years. My miracle cure of strength and flexibility slipped right through my fingers.

My doctor was of no help whatsoever; he merely treated the symptom with medication. I want to get at the core of the problem, but he couldn’t be bothered with that. And so it was, that I took a co-worker’s advice and made an appointment with a chiropractor.

Having never been involved with the practice, I don’t really have an impression of it one way or the other (which I guess blows my “two-kinds-of-people” theory right out of the water). But in spite of my open mind, I have a lot of respectable people in my life who consider it nonsense. On top of that, I’d recently read Romi’s testimony of a nightmarish visit to a chiropractor, in which her doctor teabagged her. (I’m none to anxious to have some guy draping his testicles over me while popping my back into place.)

You could say I was a bit apprehensive. Nevertheless, I was prepared to go into this without prejudice (as well as prepared to crush any wayward scrotum that asserted itself). I would evaluate my experience—weighing the good moments against the bad—and I would form my own judgment as to whether this practice was legitimate.

The appointment began like any other. The receptionist was kind of pretty {a point in their favor} but she made me fill out several forms {a point against} and I sat waiting room for several minutes. The waiting room was clean and orderly {+1}, but it was a little too orderly; all the magazines were in a rack on the wall across the room from me {-1}. You have to read a magazine while sitting there, otherwise it’s a pretty awkward experience: just sitting there, looking around or staring out the window, listening in on nearby conversations (actually I was going to eavesdrop anyway, but I wanted some cover).

But I didn’t have a magazine at hand, and suffering from a back injury, I wasn’t inclined to get up and go get one—particularly when I could read the titles from where I was sitting, and none of them interested me. I only read magazines when in the waiting room, but nothing they had appealed to me. In order to read People magazine I would need to have a point of reference on our current celebrities, and I don’t really know any of them (sure, I only wanted it for cover, but I wanted respectable cover). The same problem ruled out Sports Illustrated. Fortune 500 and Forbes would require some interest in business. When forced to read periodicals in these situations, I usually read National Geographic. Entertainment Weekly will do in a pinch (so that I can know which movies are coming out, even if I don’t know the actors’ names), or Time or Newsweek.

The most promising option in the chiropractor’s selection was Highlights for Kids. But again, I’d have to pull myself lamely out of the chair and limp over to get it. What kind of clinic that deals frequently with patients in chronic pain would keep the reading material so inaccessible to us? The coffee tables were totally vacant—not so much as a brochure. I kept waiting for the receptionist to offer to fetch the Highlights for me, but she never asked {-1}.

To make matters worse, they were playing soft-rock on the muzak {-100}. Though I love all types of music, I have to admit a limited tolerance for sappy ballads. Sure, they have their place (elsewhere), but I had no idea how long I was to be subjected to this, and I was growing uncomfortable. Then, a man came down the hall SINGING ALONG, and walked behind the counter with the receptionist. I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer that this was not to be my doctor.

But, in spite of the lack of diversion in the waiting room, they made up for it when they took me back to wait in the doctor’s office. They actually turned on a DVD for me while I waited for the doc! {+1} However, the movie turned out to be all about the validity of Chiropractics… not exactly a classic {-1}. I suppose I appreciated their efforts to keep their patients educated and informed {+1}. But to be honest, this sort of propagandizing tends to have the opposite effect on me {-1}. Nothing puts me on my guard faster than explanations being forced upon me when I haven’t asked a question. Charlatans always try to gain your trust before they take you in.

After watching the movie, which informed me that chiropractics can cure anything from rheumatism to migraines to indigestion, the doctor finally came in—singing along with the muzak.

♫ I love you, always forever
♫ Near and far, closer together

{-3,234,641,398} Fucking Quack.

“I’m sorry” he said, “did you say something?”

“Oh! Ummm… I said: ‘My aching back!’”

He gave me a look of sympathy {+1}, introduced himself, and sat down and discussed my problem. He actually seemed to care, to want to get at the root of the problem {+100}, and I found myself liking him in spite of myself {+100}. Maybe he couldn’t help his little melodic outbursts: some sort of pop-music-Tourette’s {cancel that -3,234,641,398}. God knows I need someone to give a shit about my back {+5,000}.

The score started swinging in his favor. But not for long.

He took me into the exam room and gave me a hospital gown to put on for some diagnostics {-10}. The robe was vertical pastel stripes {-250}.

“Do you have anything in a camo? Or even a tartan plaid?”

He just laughed and walked out of the room. I put on the hideous robe {-50}, and waited for him to return. But instead, the cute receptionist came in {-500} and had me bend in several different postures {-600} to determine what caused me pain.

“I’m sorry you’ve had to see me in this gown.” I told her. “I might have to kill you.”

She laughed, “Yeah, those are pretty ugly. Oh well, it’s better than being naked”

“I’m not so sure.”

Then, as if she was calling my bluff, she had me undo the back of my gown {+5,000} so that she could run some equipment down my spine to measure the muscle tension {+5,000 … -500}. The results were grim.

She walked out of the room to tell the doctor, then a second female assistant came in to run some x-rays. Since these were of the lower back, she had me hold a felt-covered metal loin-guard over my crotch {-10,000} to—as she put it—“protect the boys” {-20,000}.

She said we had to look out for future generations. I tried to argue, explaining that my “boys” have already given this world 3 wonderful little offspring, and were now enjoying retirement and didn’t mind being a little irradiated. But she merely handed me the plate {-250} and started asking questions about my kids. I tried to remain civil, but I found, when dressed in a skimpy, effeminate robe, and holding a bright yellow “cup” over my groin, it’s hard to stay engaged in small-talk.

It felt like the staff at the clinic were competing with each other. That my entire experience at this point was based on nothing more substantial than a series of dares.

“OK”, the Doc would say, “I got him to dress in those ghastly old gowns & she got him to do the Hokey Pokey while half naked, but I bet you can’t get him to pose with the Golden Codpiece!”

I started getting paranoid: were all those pictures she was taking really x-rays? I became certain the bitch had a Polaroid back there somewhere. They had fooled me, tricked me into trusting them and would now extort thousands from me to keep these photos off the world wide web {-5,000}. But before I could confront her, she wrapped up her shoot and told me to wait for the doctor. He poked his head in and gave me permission to get dressed {+1,000}. This was a brilliant tactical maneuver on his part. Fully clothed once again, I relaxed {+100}, started liking him again {+200}, and became curious about what my tests revealed.

Back in his office again, I watched another video over-explaining spinal correction to me {-100}. The video explained that my doctor does not use the “bone popping” method of chiropractics (this was good news! Without having to climb on me, the chances of distasteful contact with his figs was not likely {+1,000}), he instead uses percussion instruments which oscillate at a frequency that will actually communicate with the brain and gets its assistance in spinal correction {-1,500} I felt the skeptic inside of me rising once more. I considered asking the doctor when he came in if, while we were at it, we could have the tools ask my brain what the fuck that dream last week about the giant duck & the French horn meant.

But when the doctor came in, he didn’t give me any of that far fetched craziness. He was completely reasonable and described my test results and the proposed treatment in logical and straightforward terms {+500}. He explained that I carry 40 pounds more weight on the left side of my body than on the right—that my spine is off-center, curved sideways in a way that is putting pressure on nerves and causing pain. He assured me that he could straighten my spine and that this would remove said pressure and would most likely cure my current pain, as well as relieve the constant soreness & stiffness I’ve been experiencing these past couple decades. I began to envision a life for myself free from pain and soreness. I began to hope {+30,860}.

Then he explained that all that was required to complete this task was for me to come into the office 3 times a week for the next 3 months. My mental calculator jumped into high gear and immediately started translating this into a dollar figure. The number was staggering.

Final score:
Pro-chiropractic = 38,865
Anti-chiropractic = 38,865
Cost of Chiropractic = $38,865

Conclusion:
Does anyone know where I can get a cheap pair of used crutches?

K9 to 5

Being, as I often find myself, the least armed person in the room is naturally a little disconcerting. I know I’m protected by procedures and laws, but it all really boils down to faith & trust in my co-workers. And I suppose I do trust them (else why would I be there, the only one in the room not sporting pepper spray, a taser, a baton AND a pistol) but sometimes I wish I could don a utility belt full of weapons, just to be on even footing.

I am a civilian employee in a police department. It’s not a bad gig (that I’m not allowed to carry so much as a pocket knife notwithstanding), but it’s clear that it’s not my natural environment… While I don’t necessarily care for being constantly out-gunned, I don’t actually really want to run in the rat-arms-race… I suppose I’d be happier somewhere where people didn’t attire themselves in a personal arsenal for training classes (in which I’m the trainer and my heavily armed students aren’t particularly fond of the subject).

All in all though, the officers I work with are a very respectable group. Once you take away the guns and the body armor (and the boots… and the sunglasses…), they’re just people. A motley group of personalities and temperaments, but I can’t say that I have issues with any of the officers I know. Truly, I have a much harder time with my associates in IT and accounting, and I’m endlessly thankful that these accomplices also aren’t allowed to carry weapons.

There are however, a group of officers who, I have to admit, scare the living hell out of me. I’m responsible for updating software in all patrol cars, and I dread the time it comes to work with these officers’ cars. I find it so unnerving that I’ve actually taken notes on their behaviors so that I can rise more deftly to these occasions.

Perhaps it was unwise of me to document my fears in writing. Moreover, it was foolish to leave this list lying on my desk where it would be found and subject to ridicule. Which is, of course, exactly what happened this weekend. I am a bit embarrassed by its discovery …but I find satisfaction that, no matter how much they tease, all my associates agree that they also would not tread into the territory of these cars. They can’t blame me for my apprehension, for who would willingly sit inside a car when the officer is literally snarling and trying to bite you? There is only one human that is welcome in these vehicles, the K9 handlers … the K9’s themselves would happily kill anyone else who dares enter their sanctum.

Happily pardoned of my fears and misgivings, I hereby publish my list for all to see:

************

K9 Officer Rover†: Ferocious upon approaching the car, but quiets down once I get in and start working.

K9 Officer Benji†: Will try to kill me through the bars for the first few minutes, but will finally settle in.

K9 Officer Fido†: Not so bad, so long as I don’t move.

…at all

…can’t even breathe.

K9 Officer Hooch†: Will seemingly only be satisfied with my bloody esophagus between his teeth. Will not settle in, no matter how long it takes… constantly growls, lunges at the bars, and sticks his muzzle through and tries to bite my elbows.

************

Is this funny? I can’t say that I really think so, but I tell you, it’s considered a riot at work… maybe it’s just law enforcement humor.

My fear of K9 officers was instilled in my pretty early on in my career. The week I started, one of the dogs tore a man’s calf muscle right of his leg. The pooch had to go through aggression training. It might seem odd then, that I adopted a retired K9 officer. But my beloved Tawney was not an attack dog, she was a drug-sniffer, and like me, she did not particularly fit in. She was a Golden Retriever amongst German Shepherds… She did not particularly like the military-style paradigm, and had a low tolerance for driving “Code 3″ to the scene. She tried to do her job, but in her eagerness to please and to be loved, she missed the entire spirit of “the bust.”

I love her dearly, and can’t imagine my life without my sweet dog. And so I’m very pleased that she was given early retirement for her lack of compatibility.

But I’m horribly envious.

†These are not the real names of the dogs, I’m obliged to confess… Police officers aren’t the sort of folk to name their dogs “Fido” or “Rover”… all police attack dogs I’ve known are given tough sounding names like “Bullet”‡ or “Caliber”‡. I just don’t want any would-be criminals amongst my blog readers hearing that “Rover” is pursuing him/her and thinking “Oh right.. Rover is the wimpy one! I don’t have to submit!”

I will not be held responsible when this “wimpy” dog rips a pectoral right off your chest.

‡Also not their real names.