By Dorothy Tecklenburg
When I entered the acupuncture clinic at the
Jintai
Traditional Chinese Medicine Hospital in Beijing, the doorway was
partially blocked by a woman sitting with her chin in a sling. I
stepped over her legs, then squeezed past another woman with
needles sticking out of her chin and cheeks. She looked bored. This
was a good sign; at least she wasn't in any pain.
Pain, that's the key word. I was already in pain; my knee was
swollen the size of a medium cantaloupe. I had twisted it doing a
spinning kick combination in kungfu class. In the morning, when I
could not bend my knee enough to walk downstairs, acupuncture
sounded like a good idea.
Acupuncture is based on the 4,000-year-old theory that there are
channels of energy running through our bodies. If a channel is
blocked, pain or disease ensues. Unblock the channel and the body
can heal itself. It sounded less painful than knee surgery.
Fifty-ish, slightly graying, distinguished, Dr. Zhao's air of
professionalism and his white coat would mark him as a medical man
in any culture. He didn't speak English, but he didn't need it to
poke, prod and nod. He did something I didn't expect in a
traditional Chinese clinic: He sent me upstairs for Western-style
X-rays. But first, he sent me to the cashier.
This is China, pay as you go, cash in advance, no medical
insurance or credit cards. As I limped down the hall, past the
pungent smells emanating from the herbal pharmacy, I hoped I had
enough money.
The cashier said "40." Not believing this, I asked, "400?" She
shook her head and I said "4,000?" She wrote "40" and passed it to
me. It wasn't a joke; X-rays of my knee cost 40 yuan.
After the doctor read the films, he sent me back to the cashier
(back over that woman's legs!) to pay for five acupuncture
treatments for less than I would spend on a good haircut. The
cashier apologized for the high price, but explained that my doctor
is famous.
When I returned, the woman in the sling was gone, but this time
I slid past a man on a stool with needles sticking out of his
chest. I hopped up on a table and rolled up my pant leg. Earlier I
noticed they did not change the linens between patients, so I
relaxed when Dr.Zhao pulled the needles from sterile packaging. The
needles, around four inches long, looked like thin silver filaments
with a slightly thicker section at the top where the doctor handled
it.
At the moment of truth, I held my breath and prepared to feel
pain. He picked up a needle and eased it into the skin above my
kneecap, twirling it as it slid in. It didn't hurt. He twirled in
two more, triangulating them around the kneecap. Those three
needles went in with that slight pinch nurses always lie about when
they give you a painful injection. But when he twirled a fourth one
into the injury's ground zero point, my kneecap turned to molten
lava. The sensation of intense, melting heat only lasted for an
instant; after that I was aware of the needles but they didn’t
hurt.
He left me alone. Nothing at first, but then spurts of energy
seemed to break loose in my leg. It felt like mice were hatching
from little eggs then scampering up and down my thigh. And then
nothing for another 10 minutes; I almost fell asleep.
The doctor returned and pulled out the needles (painless!) and I
relaxed. Acupuncture doesn't hurt! I could go home! But wait, what
was he doing? He grasped my leg and without warning, drove his
thumbs directly into the most painful spot on the inside of my
knee. I gasped and said in Chinese "Very painful!" and he just
nodded. Why should I be surprised? They think sticking needles into
an injury is a good idea. Why not pummel it further?
He used his hands like hatchets, chopping all around. You know
that place where the doctor hits you with a little hammer to test
reflexes? He hit that again and again with his fist. You don't
think that hurts? Get someone to pound yours two dozen times.
I limped out; certain this had been no miracle cure. I could
still feel mice partying around my knee, which felt like it weighed
15 pounds. Was it my imagination, or was it feeling… better? How
could I test it? The stairs! I walked up, turned around, and walked
down. Whereas that morning I could not walk down stairs, now I
could. My knee bent freely.
I've been back three times, and each time, the needles did not
hurt but the massage was brutal. I have to admit it, each time my
knee got a little better. Let's see, will I get surgery and a
six-month recovery process, or put up with the mice for a few more
weeks? It's a no-brainer. I'm sold on traditional Chinese
medicine.
(Beijing Review, VOL.49 NO.49 DEC.7, 2006)