This week I'm not cooking.
My back hurts and it hurts enough to have me telephone the chiropractor out of the blue at 1 in the afternoon on a Friday. I know that the man isn't there but I was hoping against the odds he'd pick up the phone and say, "Sure come on in and I'll fix you right up".
I start dialing his number and his recorded answering service picks up, "Hello you've reached Dr....and I'm either with a client or unavailable at this time. My hours are M-Thursday...please leave your name and number and I'll return your call at my earliest convenience"
The blinds are drawn tight, I'm laying in the darkness stretched halfway across the bed while on my stomach and my legs hang over the edge. Only a shirt on, my bare ass out and my face smashed into one arm that's curled into a makeshift pillow, tears streaking the sheets that are below my fisted hand and I hiccup a sad 'oh well' and click 'End' after leaving my message to him.
"This is Rebekah, if there's any chance that you are in the office today and have a moment to fit me in ...you would possibly save my life!"
leaving a message is basically fruitless if you ask me, but I'm going to do it because I think that something positive has to come out of the day.
There is something about me that drives my husband bonkers; I won't get medical assistance until I'm an ounce away from death or suicide. The moment I do telephone the chiropractor, the massage therapist, the physician or go to the E.R for something it means I've finally allowed myself to accept help and stop suffering needlessly (some sick part of me thinks I deserve it I suppose).
Massage therapy and chiropractic work are excruciatingly painful to me but they result in removing toxins, poor alignment and give me a little bit of relief even if it's short term.
I sure would like to enjoy a massage like other people do instead of laying there and feeling like someone is gouging/drilling me with burning hot screws/nails and hammers. Isn't it supposed to be relaxing?
The call ended and I lay sobbing quietly on the bed. The husband was still home for lunch and getting ready to return to work when the phone rang...it's the CHIROPRACTOR!
I love you I love you I love you
He said that my call was cut off and my message didn't even come through past me saying hello but he has caller I.D He had stopped in to get some paperwork finished before starting his weekend, was curious who was calling with the out of area phone number - WOOHOO lucky me!
How soon could I get there?
20 minutes I practically sing, he said that worked fine for him.
I popped off that bed as fast as I could, a streak of white skin flashing past the bed as I yanked my nightgown off. Into the shower I jump holding my toothbrush and tube of paste in my hands, while cold water is gushing out of the fixture I twirl daintily in a circle to wet myself all the while scrubbing away at my teeth.
Difficult to brush when you are also gritting your teeth against the cold but I had to do double duty in order to actually get there in 20 minutes, I don't know why I said 20 when it takes 20 to get there not counting the time to pull on shoes and lock the house up!?!
My husband says, "what are you doing!?" I said, "I gotta wash my stank-crack." It's bad enough that I continually go in to see this poor guy with hairy legs and scaly feet every visit, the least I could do is make sure I don't have a crusty butt-crack.
I've squeezed a blob of pleasantly scented body wash into one paw (tossed the toothbrush up onto the soap rack) and start lathering away making sure to get into all of my naughty spots. Twirl, rub, rinse and twirl. It doesn't take but 5 minutes to be fully washed and I'm out and yanking on track pants and a t-shirt.
Shut up about the track pants or I'll poke your eye out.
There's no way in Hell I can get a bra on because the reach around is making my entire back go into spasms. I never wear drawers so this makes for an instantly dressed situation.
Sunglasses & sandals on and a bottled water tossed into my bag, I practically skip (now when I say twirl, dance and skip - You know I'm talking about moves you'd see a newborn baby colt trying to make) to the door and am met at the curb by the husband with the car running and air conditioning blasting. (freaking 100 degree Texas day)
We race to the office where the Dr. is waiting for me, looking patient but I can tell he is wondering what happened to 'be there in 20 minutes' (its almost been 30!).
He guides me into the procedure room and the crazy contraption 'bump table' that he uses. This this see-saws you up and down, pulling you this way and that. I feel like a fat wad of taffy laying on there face down, huffing and puffing with exertion as it yanks me farther than I want to stretch.
While I'm bouncing around he runs his hands along my back, down my thighs and down to my feet and takes measure of how far 'off' I am. This is the first guy I've ever met that is so thorough and he actually makes a difference (even if I think the table is whack).
He returns to my side and starts manipulating me, POW....BANG and little explosions go off in my body as each vertebrae are realigned. He can't take care of the muscle spasms but at least I'm not crooked over like Old Mother Hubbard.
After flipping me onto my back and then doing this interesting move where he has me fold my arms over and hug myself, he leans in on me, rolls me slightly towards him and gives me a bear squeeze.
I told him that I felt like I was a bag of dry pasta being smashed.
He said that he's never heard that description before!
At the finality of this visit I wonder to myself...why didn't I go earlier? I don't have an answer to that. I tell him that I'll call early next week and reschedule but I know that I probably won't.
Who knows, maybe I will...who knows.
My consort taxied me back home where I fell back into the bed, closed my eyes and slept heavily for a couple of hours nearly pain free. lights off, windows shut, sound machine running on 'Summer Night'..I am oblivious to everything and resting which is so rare for me.
When I awoke ...I was HUNGRY and I decided that I was not going to cook and I demanded that I be taken out to dinner in style. . .
to be continued
