Needles

I hated needles as a kid. I understand that when I received one of my early immunizations that it took several nurses to hold me still, and even then they had to pin me between a desk and my mother to make the jab. Years of allergy shots helped, but to this day I’m not wild about getting pricked.

So it seems strangely paradoxical that I should seek out acupuncture as a means of healing. Years ago, when suffering from a mild inguinal hernia my naturopath suggested acupuncture, and after several sessions, the hernia stopped bothering me. A badly pinched sciatic nerve (a Lego building injury) and more recently strained muscles around a popped rib all made well again by a few needles.

For years I’ve been running on an injured knee. Almost five years ago, while visiting the B-Bar Ranch in Montana, I was jumping a mountain creek, and while in mid air, looked to see the rock I was about to land on was covered in a thin film of ice. I came down lightly on the ball of my left foot, but the momentum was too great, and my left leg shot out behind me and I came down full body-weight on my knee. I was able to walk back to the ranch, but for weeks afterwards I limped. Tai Chi helped, but I’m pretty sure I cracked something. When I visited my doctor he flexed the knee a few times and told me that yup, I had hurt it, and that was about it. I wear a brace when I run, and realize that if I want to do this for another 30 years, I’m going to have to take care of myself.

I used the knee as an excuse to visit a new Chinese Doctor last night.

But the real reason for visiting was to mend my broken heart. Hell, needles worked on a hernia. Why not the heart?

I met with Chantelle Zhuang at the Copper Mountain Clinic on Chatham Street in Victoria. We did the full assessment. All the questions about my own medical and emotional history. Yup, separation. That’s right, lots of intense change. Intense few months, Kat’s new man moving in, little Silas calling him Dadda’ Andy (which I think is pretty sweet, but it’s a little tender too), my house being sold, and of course, the end of something beautiful and difficult in my life in the last few days.

Family history? Grandfather died of a heart attack in his forties. The other had a non-fatal attack in his fifties and died of cancer. Mom has her challenges. History of depression in the family. Dad is healthy, works to keep his weight down. Alcohol in the bloodstream. Yes, Mom drank when I was in the womb. I tell Chantelle about my anger. How it manifests through my body. I tell her about my fevers. About the hives. How my guts turn to mush when I’m in acute stress.

She flips through her notes. Liver.

Liver.

The alcohol in the womb is linked to the fire, she says. The liver controls emotions.

She asks me what I am feeling. I hesitate. We both say it at the same time: fear.

The first four needles – two in my feet, two in my hands – make me catch by breath and I tell her “I’ve never felt so vulnerable in my life.” The first tears trickle down my face.

She tucks the blanket in around my chest, and puts her hand on my heart.

“You are safe,” she said.

I don’t remember the last time I felt truly safe. There were moments while in my lovers arms, fleeting moments, but for the most part, I live my life outside the safety zone. My choice.

I can’t remember anybody ever telling me that I was safe.

Sink in.

“When you feel that, cover here,” Chantelle says, her hand on my heart.

She puts in more needles. I can feel the heat rushing through my body now. The energy moving along the meridians. Music. Birds. The sound of traffic on the street. Sunlight.

She slips from the room.

I slip in and out of meditation.

The tears pool in the corners of my eyes and when I blink flood down my cheeks and stain the pillows.

I say goodbye, again, even though I am more certain than ever it is not forever.