Let's say "shards of glass in the spinal column" and "a lower back that felt like tabasco on a bare tongue" and "a leg muscle that felt like the skin had been peeled off and parboiled on the hoof." That was yesterday and this morning.
Tonight I could kick ass.
Well, I think I could. No pain, (no pain!) and freedom of movement, all due to Dr. Jack Morris' chiropractic expertise. Dr. Jack is one of those rare individuals who doesn't do what he does to make a living. He is a chiropractor because he can help people recover from injuries. He doesn't like return visits. He released me from my pain in TEN minutes. TEN. I need to take it easy for a few days, but where I was bed-bound yesterday, today I had to mentally admonish myself to behave and not do too much, I felt so -- great!
And yet Dr. Jack is not the chiropractor that Dr. Guy Schenker is, but Dr. GS is all the way back East in Pennsylvania. Dr. GS is the most amazing healer I have ever known. He should be world famous, he should be a Nobel Prize winner ... but he isn't, and I have no idea why not.
I had knee problems from the time I was 16 until I was 26, when I went to him at my mother's urging; the toss up was buy a cane to keep from falling down or see this chiropractor. He fixed my knees. I only went to see him if I was having pain (which was a given, as Dad passed on to me his extra vertebra and a penchant for doing too much) in my back, but he stopped my summer allergies, my clumsiness in walking, and strangely enough, boosted my immune system somehow so that I did not catch colds. At All.
I love chiropractors and what they can do, if they are honest and capable practitioners. I love Dr. Jack for what he has done for me since I found out about him; I love Dr. GS for his genius and how he makes time for me when I go back East.
While I was writing this post, a shower began, and I was moved to go outside with my 3-year-old granddaughter and dance in the rain in the gutter, forgetting utterly the pain and injury I had yesterday. That's the real magic in chiropractic -- when you can forget that mere hours before you were a cripple.
Laughing and dancing, dudes.