Adventures in Human Pincushioning

I've been interested in getting acupuncture for years, but was always either too broke, lazy, or... ok, either too broke or lazy to actually follow through and make an appointment. Now that I happen to live a stone's throw away from the American College of Traditional Chinese Medicine and make 4.5 million dollars per month after taxes, I recently decided to take the plunge and offer myself up to the puncture gods.

You may be asking yourself why someone who has professed to be so afraid of needles, blood, and especially the combination of needles and blood would have any desire to experience acupuncture. And I would tell you that you're asking a very good question, because I am indeed afraid of All Things Clinical, especially small metal things with sharp tips. But I'm also very curious and like to try New Things, especially Things That Might Help Me Discover the Meaning of Life. I'm also kind of a sucker.

The following is a play-by-play account of my first ever acupuncture session. Enjoy.

I arrive at the American College of Traditional Chinese Medicine's public clinic around 6:15 pm. When I made the initial appointment over the phone, I was told to print and fill out several forms from their website and bring them with me. I've got the forms with me now. They took forever to fill out. This place literally knows everything that's ever happened to me, including what I had for lunch today. The receptionist asks me to sit down and wait for a few minutes.

I wait for 40 minutes.

Finally, a woman that looks like a doctor ushers me into a small room, not unlike a regular examination room, but with a massage table on one side. We sit down at a small table in the corner and go over all my previously answered questions. It takes forever. She explains that she's an intern in her last semester at the college, and that she will consult with her supervisor before treatment begins. It seems legit. I hope she's a good student. We talk about the college, which she loves. She tells me most of the students here are in their mid-30s and came into this wanting a new career. My imagination runs wild. I could be an acupuncturist!

She does a lot of note-taking as we talk about my health, habits, likes, dislikes. She has excellent penmanship. She also has a rather pronounced mustache. I wonder if she's never noticed it, or just doesn't care. No, she's definitely noticed it. There's no way you wouldn't see that. I try to focus on her name badge. Focus, Sarah. The more I try to focus, the more I can't. Maybe I have ADD.

Her supervisor comes in, says hello to me, and asks me to stick out my tongue. Teacher and student gaze at it intently for a moment. The student takes notes. Then the teacher takes my pulse. It's kind of odd. She sits on the opposite side of the small table, holds my wrists really tight, and closes her eyes. About a minute later, she nods to the student, thanks me, and leaves the room.

Now it's the student's turn to take my pulse. I figure they'll compare notes later and the teacher will tell her if she's right or wrong. She holds my wrists for what seems like an eternity. Then she writes down some notes in her chart, and I swear she writes the word "slippery".

I want more information. Why is my pulse slippery? Is that good? It doesn't sound good. She's not explaining anything to me. Maybe I'm not supposed to know.

Finally, the student has me undress from the waist up and lie face down on the massage table. She explains that the needles won't hurt once they're in, but that the initial prick might startle me a bit. I start to panic slightly. I casually ask her if anyone has ever freaked out on the table before. She laughs and says that actually yes, last week a woman had an anxiety attack in the middle of treatment and the session had to be aborted. Cold sweats, hyperventilation, the works. I laugh along with her as my stomach threatens to reject my lunch. 

All in all, ten needles go into my skin: two around my inner elbows, two along my shoulders, and six down my back. She's right, it doesn't really hurt, and the symmetry of needle placement offers me slight comfort. I resist the urge to lift my head and take a peek. When the needles are all in place, the student turns on a heating lamp, turns off the light, hands me a buzzer in case of emergency, and says she'll be back in about 30 minutes.

30 minutes? That's a long time, right? I mean, it's not like I can read or listen to music or anything. Oh Jesus. I can do this. I can. I will.

About five minutes into my alone time, the far lower right-hand needle brings on what can only be described as muscle fire. It's as if someone is pressing right into a knot in my back and not letting go, except that there's no physical pressure to the spot. It's very uncomfortable. I mean shit, this is really  uncomfortable. What's going on down there? I don't want to squirm because I'm afraid I'll feel the needles. The fire gets worse. I start to feel sick. Is this normal? Should I press the buzzer? I can't take much more of this.

And then, like an itch you can't scratch, the fire slowly recedes. And then it's as if it was never there. I'm a little shaken, but I'm no longer uncomfortable.

Now I'm just bored. Can't they mount a TV under the table or something? What if there's an earthquake and I have to get up really quickly? What if the heating lamp falls on me and pushes a needle in really far? Will I be maimed for life? How long has it been? Maybe she forgets I'm in here.   

Eventually, the student comes back in and removes my needles. I feign nonchalance. I get dressed while she prepares my herbs. Yes, I'm going home with herbs today. Herbs that I have to boil in a clay pot and drink regularly and stuff. The plastic baggies are filled with what look like roots and dried up animal parts. I ask her what everything is. She kind of laughs, like I'm kidding. I decide not to press the issue.

Mysterious herbs.

Later that night, I'm lying on the couch like a comatose person. Not unlike how I might feel after dining on several Valiums dipped in chocolate. Acupuncture has truly wiped me out. I still feel a little weird, but in a good way. I'm literally too tired to be stressed about anything. Even the herbs, which, once boiled, smell like rotten garbage and have made my kitchen inhabitable. They taste bad too. Real bad. Not that I care.

I'm going back for round two tonight, and I'm bringing a book.

Highs and Lows

Growing up, I had a tight-knit group of girlfriends. A few joined up or faded away as the years went on, but for the most part, we all stuck together until we scattered off in various directions for college. I'm not sure if that's a small town thing or just the way it was with us.

One of these girls was, by all accounts, particularly beautiful. I knew this because I'd hear my parents or my friends' parents murmuring about her looks when they thought we weren't listening. I'm not sure if she was aware that her presence incited these types of reactions, but she probably was, at least on some level. What saved her from our jealousy was her intelligence, because she was smart to the point that boys often thought she was a little weird, a little off, and we were all secretly relieved about that.

As we got older and moved into high school, I suppose there were warning signs that something was more than a little off. Sophomore year she dropped a bunch of weight and got really skinny, to the point that an eating disorder was assumed by the rest of us, though that problem seemed to correct itself eventually. Later on, her drug use appeared to be going beyond typical high school experimentation and she began hanging out more and more with people outside our little circle. At that age, girls can be cruel when they feel snubbed, and I'm sure there was terrible gossip whispered about her by the rest of us.

Somewhere during our junior year, her mental state started to fall apart completely. She believed she could communicate to people without using words, and often would sit silently for hours in social situations locking eyes with people and staring them down (I actually have evidence of this on a Hi-8 tape somewhere from a party...it's hard to watch). Other stories she believed were that she was pregnant with twins, and that her mom was "not her real mom". Sometimes she would launch into complicated, nonsensical stories. The rest of us would steal looks at each other and nod, pretending to understand her so that we wouldn't hurt her feelings. Then one day, she came to school and had shaved off all her hair. I could go on and on, but you get the idea. It was scary. None of us knew what to do about it, but we were all terrified. Eventually she disappeared altogether and the school counselor explained to a handful of us that her family had put her in a hospital.

She was diagnosed with bipolarity, AKA manic depression, and put on heavy medication. Lithium, I think. A few months later, she returned to school for our senior year, which was probably a mistake. She was no longer the person she used to be, not at all. Her meds made her hands shake violently. She had gained a lot of weight, maybe 50 lbs. Her eyes had gone from bright blue to sort of a dull gray, and her skin was sallow. She spoke slowly, or didn't speak at all. She carried herself not unlike an old woman suffering from osteoporosis. It was like being around a complete stranger with the name of someone I used to know. I knew that kids at school made fun of her for being crazy. It became difficult to carry on a conversation with her, knowing what she must be dealing with, and, being the young, immature friends that we were, many of us distanced ourselves from her and her ongoing issues. In hindsight, I didn't do this because I didn't care about her or that I wanted to end my friendship with her, it's because I was actually afraid of catching what had happened to her.

She was voted "Most Changed" our senior year and had her picture taken in our high school yearbook sitting next to a guy who got the title from dressing like a hippie. I always thought the school should have done something about that. She didn't mean to change so drastically. She couldn't help it. Ultimately she dropped out again and finished up the year being home schooled. I don't even know if she technically graduated.

I've completely lost touch with her now, though I hear through the grapevine that she's still around, has a couple of kids, and occasionally relapses. I couldn't really tell you why I haven't tried to reach out to her, now that I'm older and slightly less stupid. Maybe it's because so much time has passed that I'd feel like a phony. I do think about her all the time, though, and I wonder if she holds a grudge against me for abandoning her, though I suspect she has bigger things to worry about.

I recently stumbled across a 14-part series on manic depression/bipolarity, hosted and narrated by the actor Steven Fry, via Matthew Good's blog. If you have some time, it's well worth watching. I've included Part 1 below, which will link to the rest.

Get a Grip

Confession time: I'm one of those squeamish people who can't handle most medical details firsthand without a) feeling faint, b) fainting, or c) finding reasons not to go to the doctor.

When I think it started:

I was in high school when one day I noticed a small, purple vein on the inside of my calf. It was like a tiny little wishbone. I immediately diagnosed myself with having varicose veins, and, after convincing myself that my life was ending, had my reluctant mother drive me to the family practitioner for treatment.

"That's not a varicose vein, that's just a vein," my doctor said after about 0.004 seconds of careful inspection (she happened to be a 300-lb woman who wore ruffly dresses and a rather ill-fitting pageboy wig, which in no way took away from her medical expertise but always made office visits feel like I was backstage at a Hairspray musical).

"Oh," I replied. "Then what's a varicose vein?"

She started to tell me, and I fainted. Varicose veins are no joke, people. Something about lots of blood flow and not enough vein space and... good night.

Similar results have occured on separate occasions with subject matter including, but not limited to, the following:

• carpal tunnel
• strained vertebrae
• eyeball muscles
• the cervix

So you can imagine my reaction earlier this week when my new doctor asked me to get blood drawn so he could check my cholesterol levels and rule out anemia (even though I basically live on beans and take daily iron supplements, doctors are always suspicious of us non-meat eaters). I mean, talking about vericose veins is one thing, but DRAWING ACTUAL BLOOD FROM THE INNER CREASE OF MY ARM is something else entirely.

"Um, the blood thing, I'm kind of afraid of that, like really," I say.

"So you've never given blood?" he asks incredulously. God I hate this guy.

"No, but I swear I want to, I've just got this problem, this fear," I explain. I know I'm not explaining very well. I sound stupid. But I'm getting light-headed just thinking about the concept of a blood lab. There's a blood lab somewhere in the same building I'm in. All those vials. All those cotton balls. The click-clicking of utensils on formica. No, no, no.

"Well, that's silly, but ok," he says, shaking his head and looking at me with a million vials worth of pity. "Here's a prescription for one Xanax. Take it half an hour before you go to the lab. You'll be fine."

"I don't have to worry about operating machinery or anything?" I ask. "I'll have to drive and stuff."

"Nope, totally fine. You'll just be calm," he assures me. It's the best thing I've ever heard, ever. To be totally fine, but just more calm? Is this what Xanax does for people? I almost can't wait to get my blood drawn, just to try this miracle pill. And then add crushed up Xanax to my morning smoothies every morning for the rest of eternity.

Proof That Life is Mostly Good

Lucille and Samuel, born 4/24/07. Fully responsible for my recent cute overdose hospitalization.

Sarah's Random Question Game, Revisited

A couple years ago, I wanted to know more about all of you, so I created this game. It was fun. Let's have more fun. Per the original rules, please copy and paste the following questions into your comment post, but erase my answers and replace them with yours.

1. What's your favorite color?
Sorry, but that's a stupid question. I don't think that knowing my favorite color is green helps you understand me at all. Although I suppose it would come in handy if my birthday was coming up and you were mulling over the idea of buying me an article of clothing in cobalt blue, which I would accept graciously but then use as a dishrag.

2. If money was not a concern and you could pursue a single hobby for the rest of your life, what would it be?
A
photographer. With A+ Photoshop skills. I know that's kind of a bland
answer, but few things in life give me the level of joy that I feel
when I take a photo and it turns out amazing enough to evoke an
emotional response in others.

3. What's one physical thing you wish you could change about yourself?
Only one? What kind of brain teaser is this? Ok ok, if I had to choose just one, I'd get my nose fixed. It was broken many, many years ago, not attended to, and the cartilage healed rather asymmetrically. It never bothered me until my mid-20's when my face kind of settled in and got thinner. While I was on TV every day, I would occasionally get comments about my nose looking big or crooked, which helped feed my self-consciousness. But I'd rather spend my paycheck on a trip to Paris, so I think I'm stuck with it.

4. Sweet or savory?
Oh my, savory, though that's only in the last few years. These days I can do without ice cream, but not without soy sauce. If you cut me open, I'd probably be 65% salt water. And that's an unpleasant visual. Let's move on.

5. What's the dumbest show on TV that you try to watch regularly?
"The Hills" on MTV. Now I'm humiliated. I hope you're happy.

6. Do you have a favorite Bob Dylan song?
Gosh, you're playing hardball here. Once every few months, I'll dedicate some audio time to Bob, and a song that I haven't been paying much attention to will kind of stand out to me and I'll think to myself, "wow, this is a really fucking good song." See, I'll actually be cussing in my own head because I feel so strongly about it. At this moment, my favorites are 1) Idiot Wind, and 2) Abandoned Love. I think it's the lovelorn Dylan I enjoy the most.

7. Red or white wine?
Is it warm outside? Then white. Is it after dark? Then red. After a bottle of either I will no longer care.

8. What profession would you absolutely not want to try?
Aren't you ripping this off from Inside the Actors Studio? Anyway, I've thought about this at length already, and I definitely wouldn't want to be a city sewer worker.

9. How do you like your eggs?
Fried, over medium. Once served, they
must immediately be placed on top of two slices of sourdough and punctured with a
fork so that the slightly-hardened-but-not-fully-hardened-yolk seeps
into the bread below. Then they must be eaten with great gusto.

10. What, in your expert opinion, is the best word ever?
Since I discoverd wordie.org, I have a million new ideas, but my new favorite favorite is syzygy. That's a badass word. You can't even play it in Scrabble!