The Chiropractor that Wasn't

Well, he might have been, but...we didn't stay long enough to find out.

Suz and I have been needing to go to the chiro for a very (very) long time.  In fact, I should have made a bee-line for the adjustment chair when I, as a sixteen year old, felt like I had the back of an 84 year old who just pulled every muscle below her ribs.  

We've been especially looking for doctors that specialize in "Upper Cervical" adjustments.  Best case scenario, there would be a NUCCA doctor around, but there's not.  Basically, if you go to a NUCCA doctor, they adjust your atlas bone at the top of your neck, and that aligns everything.  Seriously, it's awesome.  I don't really want to go somewhere to get a violent adjustment, because that scares me.  It is your spine, after all.

So, we look for doctors who specialize in Upper Cervical adjustments.  Charles Heflin is the one that we find.  Suz calls, he makes her an appointment (one of those "come in on Friday" to which Suz replies "Uh, okay...")  Suz, baby Samuel and I drive, we drive (on a snowy highway, mind you) and finally get off and drive past buildling after building that inspires a feeling...it would be an absolute lie if I tried to describe it as confidence.  We have to turn around because we miss the office.  Where is it?  Oh, it must be that rickety white house in the middle of the two funeral home parking lots.  Oh, good.

Our car getting parked makes the second one for the lot.  The only other automotive presence is a [super] old beater with a fuzzy steering wheel cover that looks like it hasn't moved an inch in thirty years.  Suz says: "I hope that's not his car..."  Alas, there is one set of footprints from the car to the door.  I observe: "Maybe he told you to bring your X-rays because he doesn't even have a way to take any..." 

After sitting in the car for a few seconds pondering how very bad all the clues are, we get out and add our sets of feet to the snow record.  There's a half-lit neon "Chiropractic Clinic" sign hanging in the window.  Upon entering the house, we enter the house a second time (what's up with second doors with nothing in between).  We are then faced with options, go up the stairs, go through a closed door, or go into the waiting room.

Or at least, we guess it's the waiting room.  It has chairs and magazines and an ALDO bag hanging from the coat rack.  It does not have a receptionist or a desk for a receptionist (so that's why he answered his own phone!).  The decor takes you back, oh, about thirty years (and technically, that should be impossible for me).  Dark paneling, striped carpet half way up the walls, a coat of arms with three swords sticking out of it, and an open-mouth bass looking as if it's about to swallow you whole make you feel instantly uncomfortable.  There's one lone speaker sitting distinctly apart from the wall playing elevator music, and a wicker basket plays its crown.  (The elevator music was what really convinced me).

No one has come to greet us.  Suz and I stand close together, taking in the scenery.  It's breathtaking in a bad way.  Of course all I have to say is: "Well, it'll be fun to blog about..."  I'm sure our thoughts wander to whoever didn't make this space very welcoming or comforting with his hands on our spines and...bam.  Suz whispers "I think we should go".  I nod in affirmation, and we high-tail it.  Of course once you're sneaking away from a doctor's office (if it was really that) you're all worried that he's gonna come out and greet you (finally!) and you'll have to do some awkward explanation.  Personally, I couldn't wait to drive away.  I could just picture him running out of the house, arms flailing, trying to force us to stay and meet our doom.  

Drive away we did, though, and I think it was the right course of action.  Our search for a chiropractor marches on; hopefully next time we can at least get an office with a receptionist.