Def: A practice
derived from ancient Egyptian customs. As often observed when erecting
pyramids. The pharaohs would direct slaves to prostrate themselves over large
logs and serve as buffers for the stones that were rolled to the top. While the squashing effect was unsettling to a
few observers, it continued to evolve and remains today in various forms. Hence the classic expression
“Cairo--practica” or, as its more commonly known, “chiropractic”.
Being raised as a medic from the pitiful age of 17, I had
always been somewhat skeptical of chiropractic medicine, even though I had
worked for a couple of Doctors of Osteopathy.
They were good practitioners, or so I thought, even though they embraced
the school of back-cracking. However, in spite of my skepticism a course of
painful events led me to check out the techniques on my own decrepit body.
In the early two-triple-aughts, I had developed the habit of
screaming while riding my Harley-Davidson; not from joy but from sciatic pain
or something similar. As my trips got
shorter and shorter and my complaints got longer and longer, folks around me
found themselves wanting to be somewhere else. I could take off from our home
and just a few blocks later find myself anxious to return home and get off the
bike so the toothache in my ass would go away.
Then, I found out my main Harley riding buddy, Al “Coyote”
Munguia (who was much, much older than me) was having similar problems but
getting chiropractic treatment and having some success with it. I also found out Al’s wife, Norma (who,
unlike Al is young and beautiful) was receiving similar treatments. Norma is an ICU nurse and most of us
understand that their backs have a very short shelf life.
 |
| A Diabolical Cairo-Practica Table |
So I made my first visit… to Coyote’s chiropractor. His staff worked me over real quick after I
recited my heart-rending condition. They put
me on this table (more like a rack) with a face-hole so my rather large nose would have a place to
rest. Then they put an ice pack on my
mid-back and attached an
electrocution device to my lower back. If they would have hooked it to my temples
they would have fried me like a mass murderer but on my back it felt pretty
good. After about 15 minutes of this
they led me to the executioner’s I mean, chiropractor’s office and he stood me on his upright rack. Then he hit a button which
made the rack and I assume a face down, prone position, my nose dangling
precariously toward the floor.
After he decided to let me live, he and the table did this
simultaneous ‘whack him from above and below’ maneuver a few times around my
lower back and voila’(!) I was cured…for a few minutes. I went out the next day and made a test ride
on the Harley and it took a lot longer for the sciatica induced screaming to
set in so I thought I might be on the right track or was it…right ‘rack?
That was it. This old
medic decided to keep going in for electrocutions and rack whacks
for a while.
Cairo Practica II
So...we were working on my back in an effort to allow me
to return to riding the Harley somewhat pain free. We made regular
visits to the Chiropractor to practice pretzel back maneuvers. That
helped my back but did nothing for my hot hip. My back, ass and I
met, and fired an acupuncturist who dared suggest that I quit
riding. Then, a couple of months later the three of us returned to
visits with my personal trainer, a gorgeous French woman who charmed me into
following her torturous instructions to stretch my pitiful body into something
that borders on normal.
I then let it be it known to all interested parties (no one was) I was happy to report that I might be making progress. The more I stretched, the more my gait changed from shuffling to normal and the more I seemed to be able to sit in the saddle of the Hog. It was too early to say “we have a cure” but I reverted to my usual overly optimistic self. It wasn’t bad for my golf game either. I seemed to be getting more of my lower body into the swing and that was bringing some of my distance back.
Cairo Practica III
In ensuing months, it became clearer that my travels in
the chiropractic, acupuncture and personal trainer worlds would not fully
do the job. Of the three, the trainer and exercises helped the most but
still, my beloved iron steed rested in the garage, waiting for that long-haul
trip so she could stretch her legs to their full potential.
We (my guidance counselor/wife of some 40 years, Julieann and I) tossed the old "sciatica" idea around and finally agreed I should consult with a physician. Our family doc, a terrific internist named "Li" moved my legs around a little and declared "arthritis" in my left hip, described the stages, "exercise, shots, replacement" and sent me off for an x-ray to be followed by a consult with an orthopedist.
I hauled the x-ray around in between appointments and Julieann (the world's best Radiology Tech) got to take a quick look at it. Her declaration, "Your hip looks like that of an eighty-year old woman.” (Why she couldn't have said "eighty-year old MAN" is beyond me...)
Duly chastened, I headed off to Doc #2, an Orthopod’ who immediately verified Julie and Dr. Li's diagnoses and threatened me with hip replacement unless I checked out the shot approach...
Hipshot!
Nah, I wasn't slappin' leather, I was following a
tech to a dressing room where I was firmly instructed to "Take off all
your clothes.” I looked for a hint of lechery in her eye and was
disappointed to see none but complied anyway. I wrestled on the 'robe'
and headed out for more of whatever. I quickly found myself lying prone
on a radiology table (hard as a rock and designed specifically to induce
visions of torture... far beyond that prescribed in the official Army Field
Manual).
The technician explained the process and we waited for the doc. A few minutes later, as my hip was telling me in no uncertain terms it didn't like being in that position... on that hard surface, the doc showed and we got started. He lined the machine up, gave me a numbing dose (slight discomfort), injected dye so he could see where his needle was going (no problem), and began probing with the needle for the cortisone injection ("Ow!!!"...but only for an instant). He finished quickly after that. I thanked him, told him he did a good job and then advised him he should have offered me a shot of whiskey before he started (When did they stop doing that?!).
On the way out, my non-lecherous tech made sure I could walk okay and explained that the effect of the procedure could last from "one day to eleven or twelve months".
I was feeling pretty good when I got home. I had no idea quite when the numbing effect of the lidocaine would go away and the cortisone would kick in but I felt pretty good at that point. So, I cranked up the Harley and did a 20 mile round trip to test the effect. It was pretty good! I must have been running on lidocaine, the temporary local agent, because that night my hip decided to remind me who was boss. The next day though it seemed that the cortisone kicked in because I was feeling damn good.
And so it went... I kept testing the bike to see if I could get my range back. By "range" I was gauging how far I could travel without serious discomfort. I was looking for something like 6,000 miles so I could do the "Rolling Thunder" run across country and back in honor of our vets.
Cortisone: Don't leave home without it. It's good for a gimp hip.
Epilogue: These
stories originally appeared on my Harley Davidson blog and have been edited
slightly just for the hell of it. The cortisone shot routine was pretty short
lived. A year or two later I headed in for “minimally invasive” hip
replacement. It was, and remains to this
day a mighty fine success – If you like reading about pain…click on this...“Minimally Invasive – The Sordid Details”
