Eye Of The Needle

By Leo de Natale

Last week I felt as if I were reliving the famous scene in the cult classic film, This Is Spinal Tap. In the movie an aging, has-been British rock band was appearing at a third tier venue in Cleveland, Ohio. The band members are in the building’s rundown basement and they’re yelling “Rock ‘n Roll”. There was yelling and screaming from the awaiting crowd. The camera followed them as they attempt to reach the stage. They’re lost and, even with the help of a custodian, they wind up where they started. They never perform and ignominiously leave the wretched building. As for me, I sought alternative treatment for a condition called trigeminal neuralgia that caused eye pain and daily headaches located only on the left side of my head. The condition started two months ago and the medication prescribed by a dowdy South African neurologist was apparently not helping. I decided to try acupuncture as an alternative and contacted a fellow my sister recommended – if only I could find his office.

Trying to locate his building was the Spinal Tap link.         The acupuncturist, Martin Googbeck, called and confirmed the appointment.         “The office is right on Rte 117,” he said.  “From where you’re located, it’s a 30-40 minute commute.  I’m in a strip mall.  You can’t miss it. See you Thursday.”         Hmm.  I have trouble with legitimacy when a profession is located at a strip mall and on a secondary highway.  But, desperate times often require desperate measures.  One has to open-minded under such conditions.  Off I went.         

I’m a punctual person and left 45 minutes prior to the appointment.  Using my car’s GPS whose android name is Samantha  (Why  this woman  always send drivers on the most circuitous route to reach a destination?), I ignored the long way because I was generally familiar with the highway and town.  I arrived 20 minutes early and passed by this weenie building that housed the obligatory hair and nail salon and pizza parlor.  There was no visible address and I drove 1,000 feet beyond that building.  The address numbers were declining and concluded I must turn around to find Mecca.         Returning to the strip mall, I finally noticed a small obscure sign that listed the business.  I couldn’t see any entrance to a professional suite and drove to the building’s rear entrance. 

I parked my car and noticed an open, unmarked door, and like Spinal Tap, entered.  There were a maze of offices with no signage but there was a staircase leading to the second floor.  I alighted the stairs and again wandered through the corridor.  To my amazement, I finally found Martin’s office!  I entered and a woman who turned out to be a masseuse told me I was in the right place and Martin would shortly arrive.  The office was non-descript save for the Chinese artwork hanging from every wall.  The lighting was subdued.  It’s always  that way in New Age and homeopathic offices.        

Martin was a tall, middle-aged man. He had a dark complexion and had a cheery smile. Balding and with crooked teeth and smile, Martin was wearing a Brooks Brothers shirt sans tie, the de rigueur look for today’s businessmen regardless of the occupation. He was personable and friendly. The night prior to the evaluation I had downloaded a questionnaire that listed medical history and current medications. Martin reviewed these. He pooh-poohed some of the non-prescription medications, especially Vitamin E. “You don’t want to be taking the Vitamin E – it affects your alimentary canal,” he stated. And he questioned the efficacy of the neurologist’s use of the drug I was taking for the pain and headache. The drug’s main use is an anti-epilepsy medicine, but apparently neurologists are using it “off label” for my condition. It affects the body’s sodium levels, a situation that required a weekly blood test. As mentioned, the medically intensive protocol prompted me to seek a potential alternative. After assessing my history and a perfunctory physical exam – pulse and breathing rate – Martin asked me to remove my stockings. I laid on an examination bed covered with sheets and a pyramid-shaped pillow placed under my knees. He pulled four sterile needles from a container and, to my surprise, placed two just below my right pinky finger and two below my small toe.

“I thought you’d be placing the needles around head and eye,” I said curiously. “No, the neural pathways for you particular problems originate lower in the central nervous system,” he replied. “Your condition is controlled from neural connections downstream.” With four little skin pricks, Martin told me to begin deep breathing.  He turned down the lighting and, on cue, soft New Age/Asian music began.  It was going to be an exercise in relaxation of the body and mind. “I’ll be back in about 20 minutes,” he said. “Relax.” For the first few minutes, I did concentrate on deep breathing.  I could feel the needles embedded in my skin.  The music was soothing although I found it a bit hoaky.  I listened and listened and, I’ll be damned, I fell asleep.  I knew because drool was at the edge of my dry mouth – must have been snoring, too, I thought.   Martin awoke me and was smiling.  He said most clients have similar reactions.  He quickly removed the needles. 

Of course there was no discernible difference in my pain level and that was to be expected, he said.  I was waiting for the next discussion which was I needed to return for another treatment.  The evaluation would continue and I would await the eye of the needle. Driving home I wondered if sticking needles into foreign parts of the body would have any remedial effect.  Many Americans have a doubter’s opinion of acupuncture and its allied field, chiropractic.  There’s a certain Voodoo about disciplines where using pharmaceuticals for curing is alien.  It was a beautiful June afternoon and driving home in my cherished convertible made the day seem worthwhile.  Rte. 117 is a pleasant secondary highway.  On both sides of the street there were many farms and garden stands.  The head pain was still with me, but I was content there would be a cure awaiting. I continued to consume the medications, four pills daily.  I certainly wasn’t experiencing the darting eyeball pain.  Indeed, that seemed to be abating. 

The daily headaches were more problematic.  They waxed and waned.  I was supplementing the drugs with enteric coated aspirin that reduced the potential gastric distress that non-steroidal, non-prescription drugs create. When you become old, it is true that a geriatric spends much of his or her time seeing doctors and undergoing a myriad of tests.  Later that week, I was instructed to have a blood test for blood sodium levels.  The neurologist’s drug had the potential for lowering the body’s sodium content.  The drug has to be discontinued if this occurs.  It was off to my primary care physician’s office for the blood test.     The phlebotomist was Indian. His name was Majeeve and was born in Bombay, or as he pronounced “Bomb-aay”.  I’ve noticed many Indians have a serene persona.  Many chuckle with a laugh sounding like “tee-hee-hee”. Majeeve went about his worked he placed a tourniquet around my bicep muscle, found a suitable vein and inserted a hypodermic needle and drew my blood into the usual and customary vial. As he  performed his task, we discussed India.  He was very proud of his country’s history, especially in agriculture. “India is the world’s biggest cotton producer, “ he said.  “And silk, too.  It is so hot and this attracts butterflies.  The more heat, the more silk the butterflies produce.  And then we sell it to China, tee-hee-hee.” He complimented on my multi-colored harlequin shirt and my spit-shined oxford shoes.  His shoes were also shined.  Birds of a feather…….

The blood tests were emailed to me the following day.  The sodium level was within normal limits, but still on the lower end.  I was slightly concerned, but I decided to reduce my anxiety and wait for the neurologist’s telephone call.  Meanwhile, on Martin’s recommendation I was scheduled for a follow up and a return to the needles.          Martin again smiled through the crooked  teeth.  “Let’s give another go,” he said. Out came the needles. 

The Oriental music resumes with its soft, dulcimer tones.  Again, I fell asleep.  The obligatory drool reappeared.  Martin reappeared. “This should do the trick,” he said.  “Call me if there’s no resolution.” I returned home.  Gradually, over the next few weeks, the trigeminal pain subsided.  I presuming the drugs were the remedy but I’ll never be able to tell if the acupuncture was somehow involved.  Such are the mysteries of the healing process.  We never really know.