PET STORY

The next time I see Dr. Wang, I am late.
But I call first. Turns out I have the wrong day as well.

Such is my mind these days.

We go into his drab office and he begins the pre-needle interview.
He asks me if I have been doing my foot exercises.
I tell him I have. Ten minutes a day.

"Good, I can see that you've made progress."

He reminds me (however) that I must close my eyes and concentrate.
That I must shut the door and take a moment and say to myself,
"now I am to begin my foot exercises," and THEN... begin.
Using both feet at the same time to teach my lame foot to behave like my stronger foot.
I must take care. I must be solemn and pay respect.

(I picture the flower from the Little Prince. I am to think of my right foot as that needy conceited rose that the Little Prince loves)

I tell Dr. Wang I have a cat that insists on sleeping on top of my feet every night.
No matter how much I move, no matter how much abuse this cat receives from my kicking and turning over, the cat patiently waits for me to come to a resolve so that it may (again) nurse my angry feet.

My feet are the cat's needy flower.

This story creates a smile across Dr. Wang's face that so shifts and distorts his likeness (it startles me), a smile he can't shake, a smile that changes and grows so leisurely, we have to wait for it to finish before we can move onto the business of sticking needles into me.

(the power of a pet story)

After the session, as I lie on the bed (like a child being woken up by a parent) Dr. Wang stands before me and describes (with great animation) his successes helping people walk again.

I enjoy his story telling. It's inspirational and I feel safe and taken care of.

And I like Dr. Wang's plain direct approach.

Like,

I tell him that I feel tired and flu-ish.
He tells me that I'm dehydrated and need to check that my urine is clear.

Simple as that.

When I speak to western doctors or PT's they casually offer that that the symptoms I describe are signs of the disease.
(Don't say that! (I think) don’t offer up more evidence of doom!

Before I leave Dr. Wang’s, I use the bathroom and realize that this building isn't from the sixties, it's from the forties. (The fixtures are that confident, thick ceramic, sturdy kind, the kind that they don't use anymore.

As I leave, Mrs. Wang is working at a laptop next to the unplugged, vintage desktop from the '80's.

Later, I feel better. Exuberant.