I have managed to accomplish exactly zilch in the quilting department since coming home from last weekend’s retreat extravaganza. I have, however, managed to bake two batches of incredibly awesome muffins/cupcakes without anyone keeling over from shock or going into convulsions of disgust. It’s the little things that brighten my day.
Today was another acupuncture day and this time I made myself watch while Miss J set my feet and then the palms of my hands on fire. Have I ever mentioned I work with my hands? Yep, that was a ‘working buttonholes in the seat’ experience if there ever was one. I thoroughly enjoy my visits, not just because I know I’ll get some relief and that I’ll inevitably wind up giggly like a idiot, but also because I want to see what wacky Hawaiian print shirt she’ll have on that day (which reminds me, I want to try Hawaiian applique some day). From the soles of her Doc Martens to the tippy top of her never-seen-a-comb hair, I think she’s fairly awesome.
I’m not sure what it is about going for these visits that is akin to going to a regular medical establishment-type physician, but it gets me to running at the mouth.
‘People don’t believe half the stuff you do to me in here.’ Nice one, Steph, make it sound like porn. Idiot.
‘Do other people ever say they feel guilty for saying they feel like crap every time they come in..or is it just me?’ Sigh and chuckle is her standard reply.
Do you think she drinks before or after my visit.
I have visions of what I look like while the session is going on…
but I know that in reality I look like this…
As far as I’m concerned, these appointments can’t roll around fast enough. I always feel like something the cat barfed up pulling into the parking lot and like a perky pair of boobs after plastic surgery while leaving. Carry that mental image with you through the weekend. You’re welcome.
So, pardon me while I get up on my soapbox and do a little preaching.
I’ve been doing the pin-the-needle-in-me routine for six weeks but I’ve already had enough of the naysayers and pooh-poohers telling me that the relief is all in my head. I suppose they have to say this because it’s not typical medical-establishment jump through hoops until we figure out what works stuff and, heaven knows, if it doesn’t come with side-effects it must not be real medicine. It takes every ounce of tact I have (and trust me, it isn’t much) to stand there and smile and nod all while thinking ‘You are such a dillball’. Go ahead, ask me what a dillball is. They continue on, telling me the relief I feel only comes because I have faith that it will work. I’ve yet to get a reply to my retort of ‘I pray, too. Is that all hocus-pocus?’
Frankly, I did a little eye-rolling myself when Miss J sighed over my deficient qi, but if sticking a pin in my cranium or lighting my extremities afire gets me some relief, sign me up. I’m quite sure there’s some sort of life lesson God is trying to teach me about patience and perseverance and suffering so I’ll be content to muddle through it and try (and generally fail) to live with fibro gracefully. I don’t knock their choice to support the pharmaceutical establishment and gulp down pills with nasty side-effects.
Don’t knock mine.