With all the Quackery abounding at the moment – and what could be more eponymously quacktastic than jabbing teens, young adults and now single digit children with an injection that supposedly inoculates them against a sickness that threatens single digit children’s lives almost as much as the Bogeyman – I thought I’d relate another indictment of the white-robed Divines.
About a year ago – it feels much longer – I did something to my left shoulder. And it did something in return. As Mr. T used to say . . . pain. At night especially. This made sleep rare and left me with raccoon eyes and a chronically bad mood. Like a latter-day Nixon, I sauntered around the empty house, with no one to kick around but myself.
I assumed I had some kind of tear within the shoulder; a rotator cuff issue, for instance. But there was a clue suggesting otherwise that I should have paid more attention to: I could still lift weights. Pretty heavy weights, in fact. All through the past year, I’ve been hitting the weights harder than I have since I was half my age and I am now stronger than I was at half my age. I work out with 225 pounds on the bench; four sets of 10-12 reps. That is pretty respectable weight to push for a middle-aged has-been and – here’s the clue part – strongly indicative that my shoulder isn’t torn. If it were, even partially, I doubt it would support that kind of weight.
Well, I didn’t pick up on this clue. I just dealt with the night pain – not serious pain but just enough to keep me awake, like a nagging ex-wife. I figured I was just getting old – which of course, I am. But that is not the point of this story.
The point is, I probably would have gone to see a Quack – a member of the Order of the White Divines – out of defeat and desperation. . . were it not (thank god, in a way) for the weaponization of hypochondria and the insufferable Kabuki that descended after it enveloped the country. If you want to see a Quack these days, you must wear a Diaper over your face – which is a grotesquery I simply will not perform. Not even if if means . . . pain.
For the rest of my life, even. I would literally rather die than submit to this degradation as I consider it preferable to die with dignity than to live knowing I gave in to the idiocy and the creatures behind all of this.
At any rate, no Quack for me. But I found the cure.
With some help and some random luck.
My girlfriend – who is “crunchy,” meaning she is into natural healing – got me taking some powders (especially Turmeric but also some magnesium) and poultices; I am ashamed to admit I was mostly just going along with it at first because I’m not “crunchy” myself and besides, why not? It couldn’t hurt. I didn’t think it would do much good, at any rate. But it made her happy – and that did me some good.
My shoulder sometimes felt better – and then felt worse; making me feel like Charlie Brown trying to kick the football Lucy was holding (and then inevitably pulling away). Last Monday, it felt worse than ever. I jerked awake from a nap and immediately felt . . . pain.
Serious Mr. T levels of pain, this time. The kind of pain you cannot just deal with. Take-your-breath-away pain. I could not move my arm at all – and forget lifting anything. But here’s where it gets really interesting.
As I was sitting at my desk, with my left hand resting on the top of the desk – which I’d done to try to take some weight/load off the thing to dial back the pain a little bit – I leaned my body back a bit and felt my shoulder – and arm – move in relation to the rest of me. It popped forward about two inches.
Or so it felt. I have never felt anything like that.
And then it felt . . . good.
The pain was almost entirely gone; some soreness remained. But I was operational again. Unless this was some kind of Ernest Angley Moment – heah-uhl! – it was not a tear repairing itself.
It was my shoulder relocating itself.
And then the light went on in my head. I had probably dislocated my shoulder – somehow – more than a year ago and hadn’t figured it out until just now. By accident, with some luck. The Turmeric and poultices probably helped loosen the joint up, reduced the inflammation and helped me relocate it. But the point here is I was able to heah-uhl myself. It is not 100 percent, yet – but it is much better. The pain at night is half or less what it was, I am getting some sleep again and I no longer feel like an irritable Nixon prowling the halls of the White House mumbling about enemies.
Now, had it not been for the weaponization of hypochondria, I probably would have gone to see a Divine six months ago. And what do you suppose the odds are that surgery would have been prescribed?
It was prescribed the last time I went to see a Divine – which was about 17 years ago – when I thought I tore my knee irreparably while moving us (myself and my now-ex-wife) to where I am (with my girlfriend) now. I was hobbled – literally. Barely able to walk and forget running – a passion of mine.
Since there was no Kabuki requirement in those days, I went to see the Divine – who told me I had a torn meniscus – which was true – but failed to tell me something else. He told me I absolutely needed arthroscopic surgery, which entails removal of the torn/loose piece(s) of cartilage in between the bones that can cause the . . . pain. What he did not tell me – and which I luckily discovered by chance, just a few days before the scheduled knifing (and billing) is that knee cartilage tears can heah-uhl on their own, depending on where the tear happens to be.
If the tear is in an area where there is blood flow, it will probably heal on its own – if left alone. If it is in an area where there isn’t sufficient blood flow, it probably won’t – and in that case, surgery is the only cure. But it is not the cure in all cases – and that was the key piece of information the Divine didn’t share with me.
He also didn’t share what it means to have cartilage removed, which is that it doesn’t grow back. Which means more likely that arthritis will develop in that joint and probably sooner. He just told me I needed surgery, absolutely.
I never got it – and heah-uld on my own. Seventeen years later, I run 4-5 miles every other day and have zero pain in that or the other knee.
Now my shoulder appears to be heah-uhling, too. Without the knifing, the billing – or the attending arthritis, accelerated by the knifing. All it took was figuring out what was wrong – and I didn’t have to go to medical school to find out.
This isn’t to say those who do go to medical school are all Quacks. That would be an unfair because untrue collective guilting. But an MD degree on the wall is no more a guarantee you’re not dealing with a Quack than an ASE certification on the wall is a guarantee you’re not dealing with an under-the-hood Quack.
And the plain ugly fact is that medicine in this country has become mercenary, a concatenation of unfortunate synergies, including the doctors being in huge hock and needing to earn – in the sense of lower-level mafiosi – and of being vassals of Consolidated Hospital Systems that apply pressure to them in the same way that cops are pressured to write traffic tickets. Pills – and surgeries – are pushed because there’s more money in that. “Masks” and vaccines – because there’s politics in that. And punishment – for them – for not toeing the politically correct line.
You should never trust what they tell you on faith. They are not infallible and they are sometimes wrong and occasionally, corrupt.
Ask them questions – and if they don’t have good answers or get angry because you questioned what they said, it’s a very good sign you are dealing with a Quack.
The more you ask, the more you’ll know and the less you’re likely to be Quacked – by Divines of all persuasions!
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