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Tuesday, Oct 7, 2008
Should I go for the needle and herb barbecue?
Nov 29, 2000 | Lately, I've witnessed my friends fall, one by one, into the clutches of acupuncturists, solemnly subjecting themselves to strange needles, dietary requirements and stinky herbs. Just a few weeks ago at our favorite restaurant, I watched in horror as my friend Eileen, once a sensible sort of person, sent back a chilled glass of water and ordered one at room temperature. "I have to -- my acupuncturist insists on it," she said, forcing the poor waiter to forage in the basement for a bottle of unchilled Evian. And then I lost Linda, with whom I'd always felt free to share my innermost feelings about Hostess cupcakes. She was last seen popping an herbal tonic called Free and Easy Wanderer, swearing off sugar for good this time, and undergoing acupuncture twice weekly.
Would I ever become a human pincushion? I didn't think so. I would only submit to medical procedures requiring a needle if death threatened. OK, give me a tetanus shot, but only if the nail I stepped on really had rust on it. Even then, I couldn't wait for the day when Western medicine caught up with Dr. McCoy on "Star Trek" and his high-compression air pump that delivered shots without pain.
Then I met Adrienne at a weekend seminar for infertile couples considering adoption. When she slumped into the room that first day, I thought, this girl needs one of those wire prop-up stands, like the one Barbie used to come with. Pale and tired, Adrienne could barely speak without crying. We had both been trying to conceive for several years and now we were both in our early 40s. We'd done so many ovulation test kits we should have bought stock in the company that made them. We'd also tried in vitro a few times each, but nothing seemed to work.
Four months later I met Adrienne for coffee. Like a dying plant that had finally gotten water, Adrienne was a new person. Her skin glowed, and her eyes gleamed with hope. She actually smiled. "Acupuncture," she whispered, when I asked her what had happened.
Oh no, not again. I tried to block out her words as she went on to extol the virtues of this treatment. Then came the clincher: One month after our coffee date, I called Adrienne and found out she was pregnant, after what was to be her final in vitro. And I, who'd been contemplating calling the Psychic Connection, found myself asking her, "Who's your acupuncturist?"
My day of reckoning finally came. As I climbed the 30 steep steps leading to the acupuncturist's office above a Radio Shack in San Francisco, I realized their real function -- if I hadn't felt the need for acupuncture before, I would when I reached the top. Inside the crowded front office I was greeted by an 8-foot-tall plastic man who was painted gold and wore a red scarf around his genitals. He had about 600 holes in him, but he was still smiling -- a good sign. The receptionist introduced me to Sparky, the clinic's gigantic tan bulldog, who watched me with one eye as I filled out the 10-page medical history form.
This was not the standard form I had breezed through without a second glance whenever I'd had to find a new doctor. It took me through each body part, each organ and each body system inch by inch. "Do you have ringing ears? Do your hands feel cold? Do your feet sweat? Do you have dizziness?" Most ominous of all was the question "Do you bruise easily?" What were they going to do to me that might cause bruising?
I realized how much I ignored my body most of the time, like the continual dull ache in my right knee. Now, as I thought about it, I realized that the dull ache might be cancer. As I listed all my illnesses of the past 40 years (measles, mumps, chickenpox, mono, hepatitis, a close brush with cervical cancer), coupled with my current ailments (dry skin, low energy, that aching knee and infertility), I wondered whether denial wasn't the better path. Admitting them all now seemed to make me a candidate for around-the-clock treatment.
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