For the First Time
Chiropractors, chronic pain, and returning to normalcy after a concussion in Part Six of a series by Amy Leigh Wicks.
There are pulleys suspended from a metal frame to the right of where I wait, and those pulleys are attached to harnesses worn by patients who are being pulled in different directions. Is this a warning? I hear metal hooks clicking against metal rings as another patient is hooked into a pulley-chair contraption. A technician is kneeling in front of the man whose eyes are wide, and she lowers weighted sandbags hooked to the other end of the pulley until his neck is stretched upward in what looks like a primitive torture pose. He doesn’t scream. A moment later he lets out a sigh that might even be relief. I shiver. The technician flicks a curtain of blonde hair over her shoulder, sets a timer, pops her gum, and disappears into another door and another room I can’t see into from here.
Pain opens door after door of firsts for me. First time seeing a vestibular physiotherapist, occupational therapist, neurologist, neuropsychologist, and soon, my first time seeing a chiropractor. First time invisible to the world around me for days, weeks, months on end. I sign in to offices with potted plants and dark gray carpets and sketch chairs, flowers, and windows while I wait, with an invisible hand. I heat frozen dinners in paper sleeves and swallow with an invisible throat. Pain sees only coffee, birds, squirrels and grass in my future. Pain sets before me oil painting and takes away poetry for the first time in a decade. Pain threatens to border the rest of my days, and convinces me that I am too tired to mind if I never get better.
Dr. T will see you now. The voice comes from a red mouth smiling over the top of a computer screen. Really smiling, with a Santa hat. This is not pink packets, powdered creamer Styrofoam cup in a church foyer smile, but brown sugar and fresh cream, too strong hot coffee on a farmer’s table smile. I want to offer gratitude, but I don’t smile back; I just stand and shuffle to the room where I am told to wait. I remove my jacket and scarf and look around. There is a plastic skull on the ground beside a desk, a massage table, which I guess is actually a chiropractor’s table, a full bookshelf with mostly worn paperbacks and a few textbooks, and fluorescent overhead lighting that keeps me from removing my sunglasses.
Dr. T enters quickly, quietly, and shakes my hand with both of his before perching on his stool across from me. I remove my sunglasses, embarrassed. He’s run marathons. Maybe he can even hold himself in an L shape with gymnastics rings. He looks like Clark Kent, and feels more optimistic than I’m comfortable with. I’ve got your info here, your medical history, and references. I’ve read it, but there’s a lot here and I want to ask you some follow-up questions. I nod. Dr. M recommended you to me following your neuropsychological assessment to see if the neck injury you sustained when you hit your head might have caused disruption to your hypothalamic pituitary axis. I don’t know what the words he is saying means, but I remember reading the report and seeing that sentence typed out. Yes. He flips a few pages and asks more questions. He marks the thick stack of papers in front of me while I respond. I hit my head sixteen months ago. Those are the specialists I’ve worked with. These are the protocols that give me temporary relief. That’s when I relapsed, or crashed, or crawled back to bed for a month, and here’s when I thought I was better for a few weeks until I had another crash. Hm. He looks down at the page and pauses before looking straight at me with concern. You’ve been in hell now for almost two years, haven’t you? I lower my head and nod. That’s too long. Can you stand for me? I turn toward the wall to wipe my eyes quickly and rise from the chair. I want to stand up straight and tall. My head hurts. I stare straight ahead while he looks at my posture, my feet, my shoulders. Where are you from? New York. Good. That’s good. You look like a fighter. Can you lay on the table for me? His fingers along my spine make me cry out in pain, so I bite my lip hard, but he tells me to relax. Hm. Hmmm. Hmm.
God, but I’m tired of all this. You can have a seat. I’ve got drool and tears making my hair stick to my face. Dr. T hands me a box of tissues and reaches down for the skull at his feet. You’ve got to be so sick of sitting in offices, huh? He moves the skull between his hands like a small basketball. I offer him a weak smile in return. Well, I don’t want to jump the gun, he says, but I’m thinking, if what I think is going on is going on, I might be able to help you. Bukowski says there’s a bluebird in my heart, and if Bukowski’s right, I think the bluebird just beat its wings once, more of a spasm than anything else, but still. I thought that bird was long dead.
We’ll get you in for X-rays before I know anything for sure, but do you want me to tell you what I think might be going on? He’s leaning toward me, energy radiating from his face like heat from a woodstove. I sigh and nod, unsure if I believe him, afraid of how desperate I am for him to be right. When I let out my breath, I maybe feel the flutter of wings again.
C is in the parking lot waiting for me. Four of her six girls are in the back twittering away like birds when I climb in the passenger seat. C shushes them and they whisper hello in scratchy attempts at whispers. Oh, your head is still broken, sorry. Haven leans forward and squeezes my shoulder with her goldfinch sized hand. Drue passes me a picture she made, streaks of fluorescent pink, lemon yellow, a stripe of light blue. It’s beautiful. You can keep it. It’s for you. Can we get hot chocolate? It’s freezing out, says Emi. And Rain yells, Yea! It’s freezing. I slip my headphones on and C says Shhh, and Rain yells, Oops! Sorry! And I’m trying not to laugh because I know it will make my head hurt and C asks do I want something hot, and I do, I do, I do. We pull through the drive-through and C quiets the chattering girls with a wave of her hand while she places all of our orders with great patience. The cashier is as small as a ballerina in a jewelry box at the window. She is wearing elf ears and a pointy green striped hat. Her septum has a thick curved bar through it with red jewels at each end; her skin is powdered white, save cotton-candy cheeks, eyelids glittering green, and iridescent pink lips. She glowers through a smile of braces-straight teeth as she swiftly passes all six waters to C, and then drink after drink snakes its way through a chain of hands until each of us holds something cold and something hot. Her voice is equal parts helium and burnt sugar as she asks if we would like a drink holder. We would. She bites her tongue and makes a noise like she can’t open a tight jar lid and disappears then reemerges with a cardboard drink holder pinched between two candy cane acrylic fingernails.
Oh, America. I’ve missed your sugary lattes with extra whipped cream and candy cane sprinkles served by angry young employees still full enough of dreams to come to a job they hate in full make-up and an elf costume nobody told them to wear. C is as moved by the cashier’s coldness as you might be by snow falling outside while having dinner in front of a fireplace. She thanks her and we pull out onto I-5 and C hands me a small paper bag from inside a larger paper bag on her lap. You need protein. Eat this, and then if you want you can nap til we get you home.
There is a large box addressed to me in the driveway. It’s crackling and humming and I wonder if I should open it or call 911. What could be making that noise from inside a package? I move closer, tentatively, and lean toward it. I kick it with my toe. It’s light and slides across the pavement. Last week S sent oils of Frankincense, Cypress, and Mandarin along with supplements like Copaiba and wild fish oil from Denver, and before that K sent me a blanket that opened like a dark forest interrupted by huge white and pink peonies. The blanket is bordered by rainbowed threads that are knotted and fan out like tiny graduation tassels, and with the blanket came a box of rose chai tea from Brooklyn. The gifts are a shock. I’m someone someone remembers? I’ve been invisible for almost two years. And someone is thinking about me while they travel over the mountains and through the valleys of their own days. This return address says Portland, Maine. I trace the letters. Curiosity gets the better of me and I squat down and use my key to slit the package open. Ohhh. S has sent a Studebaker cassette player, and she’s left a battery in and the radio is on. I can see her hands putting in the battery, replacing the cover, patting the player and boxing it all up, happy to have it all ready for me. Seeing her hands in my memory makes me smile. I click it off and finger the edge of an envelope inside, scan notes written on the spines of cassette tapes in the box. Poems. Updates From Your Friends. Get Better Soon. I smile and carry the nonexplosive treasure into the house. I want to listen. I set the black box on the kitchen table and take out the tapes to look at them. I open the one that says Updates and slide it into the slot. I click the tiny door closed and my finger hovers over the gold play button. I want to listen and be part of life again for as long as I do, but I need to lie down first and rest.
You’ll change in here, your clothes can go in this cube. Just knock when you’ve got this on and we’ll get you weighed and X-rayed. It’s cold and what I’ve changed into feels like paper against the goosebumps that cover my entire body. Knock, knock, knock. Oh good, let’s get your weight first. Stand with one foot on this scale and the other on here, please. Wonderful. Now, can you squeeze this handle as hard as you can? Okay, great. And then with the other hand. I’ll need you to stand against that wall, and I’m going to mark you with these orange stickers before we take photographs and X-rays. Perfect. You can wait on that black X and Dr. D will be in shortly for X-rays. I respond to commands and remain still as a mannequin between poses. Okay, thanks. You can change back into your clothes and wait at reception.
I am sitting on the warm black rocks at South Bay in Kaikoura, and M is up to his chest in dark blue water, swimming toward the green hills on the other side. He turns and lifts an arm to wave toward me. I shake my head and yell, it’s too cold! He laughs and keeps swimming. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Come on! Don’t be a baby! I laugh and am about to get up but the rocks start moving like coffee beans in a grinder and I sink down into them like quicksand and someone says my name softly and I jerk awake. Dr. T is ready for you. You can go back when you’re ready.
Pain has ushered me into a world where I dream in public places and wake in transitional spaces; airports, waiting rooms, passenger seats. The sense that I am a ghost, renting room in my body (a tenant in a crowded city) venturing beyond its walls in sleep, or when I paint, has never been stronger. Neither has the awareness of my body’s ability to turn off power until its mysterious demands are met.
Remind me, have you been adjusted before? Never. Okay, go ahead and lay on your back and relax. Good. He is standing at the head of the table, holding my head in his hands. Deep breath in and exhale. The cracks in my neck are loud and stars burst in front of my eyes like fireworks. Oh God, what if I can’t walk now? What if he just broke my neck? I’m not in pain, but I could be in shock, right? He helps me to sit up, and then stand. That’s good. I can sit and stand at least. Our office is closed for the next few weeks over the holidays, but I’ll look forward to seeing you in the new year.
I wander out of the office and into the parking lot, dazed and slightly disappointed. Once the stars are gone, I feel pretty much the same as I did before he adjusted me, but shaken up and wobbly on my feet. I hope I didn’t just create a new problem. I’ve got time before M picks me up, so I wander into a tiny sandwich shop with floral cloth under plastic covered tables and order a Reuben from the man in a white apron behind the counter. He nods and tells me to sit wherever I’d like. His wife arrives with bags of groceries while he is making my sandwich and I relax in what feels like their living room, scanning the newspaper, smoothing the table top, while they murmur in the familiarity of decades, stirring soup in the slow cooker, grabbing a plate from a high shelf. He sets the hot sandwich in front of me with a bag of kettle chips then points to the metal napkin holder on the table. Enjoy. I let the newspaper fall closed and push it away. I am far away from New York, and yet, here is corned beef, Swiss, and sauerkraut, grilled with Russian dressing dripping over the edge of rye crust. Pain has made me a daughter to whoever feeds me. Whoever picks me up, lowers their voice, or closes the blinds for me.
I sleep away the rest of the afternoon, dreamless. I wake when the sky is shadow colored. M wants to know if I’ll go for a drive. I’m tired but it’s the winter solstice and Jupiter and Saturn are going to appear as a double planet for the first time in eight centuries. Conjunction. Like in School House Rock, but with planets instead of words. The newspaper today called it the Christmas Star. Merriam-Webster says it is a configuration in which two celestial bodies have their least apparent separation. I want my body and spirit to have a much less apparent separation than they currently do, but I don’t know how to pull my selves together.
I’m tired, but the truck is warm. We’re parked on top of a hill overlooking a grove of manzanita and oaks and there are no street lamps, so if this meeting of lights is anything, we’ll probably see from where we wait. M opens a pink Jarritos and hands it to me, and then a California burrito from Raliberto’s. I settle back and let the fizz burn my throat. The sky is darkening and there they are. Two bright lights almost kissing. Should we get out? I sigh and shake my head no. I can see okay from here; you can get out though. M climbs out and closes his door gently. I lean back and close my eyes but my door opens and the cold air from outside douses me. Come on. I’ll help you. He takes the bottle and helps me down. I stand shivering with my arms folded across my chest and look at Jupiter and Saturn, not knowing which is which or what this all means. After a minute, M opens the door and I climb back in, relieved to be warm, forgetting the spectacle, reaching for my burrito.
Late morning the next day I paint a broken reflection of winter on two half circle canvases with leftover blue paint from the birthday cake I made on my 33rd birthday a few weeks earlier. I spend hours on it, slack-jawed, sucked into the space between a tree and its reflection. In two days, it will be Christmas Eve, and then Christmas, and then another year will fall off the calendar. I’m not anxious for anything, or hopeful, or curious. I’m continually adjusting to being under house arrest in my body except for times like this when I float out the windows of my eyes and spend stolen minutes wandering without knowing where or how I am before being locked back into my body.
Late morning the next day I sit down to paint again. I haven’t got any leftover paint, so I open the metal tubes and press into each color with my palette knife until oil stops oozing away from pigment. When I’ve finished painting, it is dusk. I reenter my body, eat, and lie down to sleep.
Tonight sleep is lamp black and dreamless. I am jolted awake. By what? It’s quiet and dark in the room. I sit up quickly as if someone pulled the lever of a reclining chair springing me forward, and the clock reads 3:33 AM. I touch my face to be sure it’s mine, then hear my voice at full volume for the first time in well over a year. Oh God. Oh my God. I’m healed. Have I been electrocuted? I feel energy coursing through my body like a current pushing up from my belly, washing my brain and running down my skull with frothy energy. Maybe this is a dream. No. Something. Something is happening. Something happened. I lay myself back down and am sucked into brand-new sleep. It feels far-away familiar. Like how I used to sleep before my whole life became a dream I couldn’t wake from.
I wake before seven and slip on a hoodie, sweats, sneakers. The air is cold. The sky is gray. This muddy spring of energy gushes up through my insides, bubbles out with my breath. I look around. The filmy screen over my eyes is gone. So this is what a tree looks like, a pinecone, rust on the gate. Beautiful. The light doesn’t hurt, it helps me see. I open the gate and walk to the mailbox. Still good. I start to run and turn around when I reach the corner. My peripheral vision is hangover sore, but not as sensitive as what I’m used to. My heart is pounding but it doesn’t send ripping pain through my head. I walk up the hill, out of breath, laughing. I have pinpricks of pain on different parts of my face, but this new pain is delicious. It’s like tiny levers with needle anchors stuck in my cheeks, forehead, chin, and now some invisible little workers are flicking on power switches throughout my body at random. I fall onto the couch and wake up a short while later, alert, hungry. In the kitchen I set a cast iron pan on the front burner and brace for the sound of metal on metal. My ears are fine, the sound is talking to me, not yelling. I click on the blue flame, remove eggs and butter from the fridge, bread and marmalade, flick on the kettle, toast a slice of bread, grind my coffee as if I’ve never missed a day of making a meal for myself. After I eat, I wash up, watch squirrels chase each other around the body of the tall pine from the window at the sink. I go for another walk, just to see if I can. I can.
I return to the cabin and look around; I see home for the first time. High wooden ceilings, honeyed wood floors, huge windows filled with branches, fences, mountains behind mountains. In the corner of the room, that stack of paintings is mine. I don’t know if I’d recognize them somewhere else, even though I made them, but here, I know they must be mine. That knit throw from K with pink and white peonies that wraps me up on the couch, mine; the black cassette player with a stack of tapes waiting to be played, mine.
Read part five of this series, “Now, Patient” by Amy Leigh Wicks, HERE
Amy Leigh Wicks is the author of The Dangerous Country of Love and Marriage (Auckland University Press) and Orange Juice and Rooftops (Eloquent Books). She holds a PhD from Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand, and an MFA from The New School. She loves to swim, ride motorcycles, and finger paint.
