Today, my horoscope urged me to make special appearances and to wear brighter colors. So I plan to throw on my orange Malibu sweatshirt and crawl over to Guido’s on all fours, roll over and beg them to pour a Scotch into me. I say crawl because my lower back has convinced me it was designed for a four-legged pussycat rather than an upright curmudgeon. I’ve tried several belief systems to ease the pain and so far nothing works, so I might as well swing with the zodiac.
Anyone not engaged in aging need read no further.
My girlfriend sent me to a chiropractor in Woodland Hills who sent me downstairs for X-rays and then to a doctor in Encino, who directed me to an MRI in Sherman Oaks.
“Your back is a train wreck,” he concluded.
Cause: mileage. Spinal fusion was hinted at as a remedial possibility.
“Doesn’t fusion make you shorter?”
“Take the Celebrex and keep me posted.”
I might as well have taken an M&M.
I like to consider myself psychologically hip, so I picked up Dr. John Sarno’s book, “The Mindbody Prescription,” which is hot stuff in New York and which suggests my back pain is due to repressed rage. I made a list of all possible persons and situations since birth for whom or for which I harbor unexpressed rage, including my darling parents. I meditated on each category. I waited. And waited. I even processed Raymond Gonzalez who beat me up in the second grade.
Nada.
Meanwhile, all my New Age friends have an acupuncturist by whom they swear. But it’s never the same guy. And I am rich in friendships. Follow the logic. Is it possible there exists one enlightened acupuncturist per enlightened person? What to do but make another list, and this time close my eyes and point.
Let’s call her Doctor Wong.
I explained my symptoms in detail, pointing and gesticulating as my condition allowed. Doctor Wong closed her eyes, cradled my wrist and appeared to intuit my pulse. She rubbed my arm.
“Dry skin no good,” she said. “Fire inside. Eat more watermelon, put out the fire.”
“I see,” I responded. “About my back … “
“Your liver,” she corrected.
“My back,” I insisted.
She took my hand in hers.
“You gonna be good as new. Like brand new baby.”
Here she smiled.
“I will be your new auntie.”
Doctor Wong caressed me with warm inscrutable eyes that held the key to ancient secrets and touched me where it mattered: “You gonna live 30 more years, get Academy Award and clear up dry skin.”
So I bought her motivational tape, which she indicated was part of the deal, and also at her insistence purchased the bagful of Chinese herb boogie-woogie, which resembled a swarm of porcini mushrooms but had an aroma impossible to describe in a family newspaper. Even so, I fully intended to brew and swallow the stuff twice daily as she recommended. Till I casually mentioned it to my cardiologist who nearly had a heart attack over the phone.
Doctor Wong and I separated for a couple of reasons. One, as she flipped me over during our tenth treatment (23 needles tummy side up and 23 tummy side down, a total of 460 between my ankles and my ear lobes at about two bucks a poke) she had the foresight to ask me exactly what part of my body was giving me trouble. And two, my back was killing me.
The physical therapist in Malibu allowed as how massage wouldn’t hurt. Neither would it hurt to rub a cheese sandwich on my coccyx, I replied. I don’t need status quo. I’m getting a little crisp on the subject. I need a miracle. The alternative people suggested massive doses of MSM for two months. The doctor in Century City says it’s too late for MSM, so he sent me to the swimming pool in Beverly Hills to slip into tethered water wings and flail twice a week with a delightful group of octogenarians.
Worse.
“Take the Bekstra and keep me posted.”
The attractive young trainer at my gym with the fetching spinal column assures me Pilates is contraindicated and I believe her.
The Nazi chiropractor in West Hollywood is fond of the Bio Pulser, a contraption that looks like a handheld Volkswagen and feels like a jackhammer. My lower back remains unconvinced, but the rest of me is ready to reveal atomic secrets.
See you at happy hour.