In a quick-fix world, my acupuncturist counsels patience. I ask how long this treatment is likely to take, and he shrugs and says, ‘You have to be patient, Clare. You watch the Chinese. You watch them doing Tai Chi in the mornings,’ he mimics a graceful Tai Chi move, ‘they are so slow, but they are so strong.’ He stands square as he says this, clenching his fists in a demonstration of the immovable, solid strength he is talking about.
My acupuncturist is a western-trained doctor who appears to use both eastern and western medicine and a good dose of healing mystery to treat his the ailing folk who end up in his consulting room. He is a good advertisement for the skills he practices – an old, slim, supple man who jogs regularly and who, when he is treating feet, hunkers down, he squats in a way I envy. He is a twinkling human Yoda, dispensing wisdom and calm.
Initially he told me it was likely to take between ten and twelve weeks, with twice weekly visits, for my knees to get better. I thought they were shot to pieces, never to be whole again – surely I am well past the age where things regenerate. Dr X, however, claims to have had great success with problem knees like mine, cartilage-free areas where bone grinds against bone every time I take a step.
I find this hard to believe, but I am desperate enough to give anything remotely plausible a try. And I keep reading articles saying that western medical papers are admitting that, although they don’t know how, acupuncture appears to help intractable problems like migraine. Plus, this is a darn sight cheaper than a knee replacement.
The first time I went I nearly didn’t last the distance. The waiting room is shabby with ancient magazines, a heater that blasts one corner and leaves the rest of the space unaffected, a lolly dispenser where you would expect a water cooler to be. The receptionist calls ‘all the ladies,’ and shows us into a high ceilinged room with Bible texts and family photos on the walls. Four of us take seats – the others chatting with a camaraderie that reveals that they have been here many times before. They also reveal that this will hurt – this is the camaraderie of those who suffer together.
There is none of our western emphasis on privacy here. The women strip off to bare whatever bit of them needs attention; I roll up my trousers. And then the Dr comes in and goes around each patient, asking how the problem is progressing, placing his old, still hands on the painful areas, bowing his head slightly as though in prayer. He lays hands on my swollen knees and pokes and prods a little and then inserts three needles. As he is preparing the fourth, I know I am about to faint, and he shepherds me to the surgical couch, whipping out needles as we shuffle over, laying me down tenderly, taking my pulse, elevating my legs.
There is no more needling that day, but he assures me that many people have that reaction at first. I’ve not fainted since, but the pain of the procedure is intense. You can barely feel the needles – so fine they are more like filaments– going in, but once they hit the inflammation point, it is like a dentist drilling into a nerve. Every time I go I hear women all around me moaning and whimpering and apologising for being a sook. I become part of the community of the afflicted – encouraging my fellow-sufferers, my fellow-hopers, comparing notes, laughing grimly about the pain.
One time, about four weeks into the treatment, my knees are more inflamed than usual and I can’t help crying out. I try and breathe, to rise above the pain, not to make a fuss, but find it impossible not to react. He is sympathetic but relentless.
Mostly, though, it gets a little less painful each time. Apart from that, and the fact that once again I am able to sit cross-legged with ease, for weeks I have no idea if the acupuncture is working. I simply have to wait, do my exercises vigilantly, turn up to the appointments and see.
I view this pain as a kind of gift. Each time I try to rise above it and breathe my way through, it teaches me forbearance.
More frustrating than the pain is the instruction that I am only to walk one or two k’s a day while the treatment lasts. That’s barely walking at all! Walking is my thing; it’s part of what keeps me calm and sorted.
So, I am trying to view this injunction as a gift as well. An opportunity to let go of the drivenness that sends me out pounding the pavements, and realise my worth does not depend on endless activity. I try to view it as a gift of rest – the chance to have a little more sleep each morning, and get to work just that half hour earlier that seems to make all the difference to the smooth running of the entire working day. I try to enjoy the extra time and the sweet laziness and to imagine my knees, grateful for the break as they respond to this bizarre, ancient treatment and heal.
Now that I’ve been going twice a week for almost three months, I’m beginning to hope. My knees still ache a bit, but they feel different: solid, strong. I realise how guarded I have been in my walking for years. Suddenly, it feels as through there is something inside there that was missing before. I feel stable.
My acupuncturist counsels patience, perseverance, endurance and the discipline of rest – not a bad way to live. Even if he doesn’t manage to fix my knees.