The headache center called with a last minute cancellation, so I got in yesterday instead of waiting until the end of July. I wrote about my face ache recently in Something For The Pain, in case you’re coming to the party late. Wednesday saw a rare break in the weather, and me hopping in my car headed downtown.
I believe in omens. The early appointment was Omen #1. The ridiculously perfect parking spot right on the street at East 75th and Park Ave was Omen #2. Walking past the parking garage sign advertising $34.83 for the first hour was Omen #2½. And complimenting the neurologist on her stunning red slingback wedges and her taking them off to show me the brand was Omen #3. I live in a tightly ordered world of my own making. Don’t we all.
Over the course of a nearly two-hour visit, the doctor and I outlined a course of potential treatments that would try several things in succession, with enough time in between to see what worked. She gave me samples, adjusted a current daily medication I’ve been on for several years, wrote out a schedule of dates and durations, and handed me eight prescriptions to hold until needed, if ever.
She also strongly recommended a chiropractor to help with the neck and shoulder misalignments I have left over from a head-on collision in 1990. I walked away from that accident with the insidious affliction known as whiplash after my chin hit the steering wheel and my head snapped back against the headrest. Even after the many months of physical therapy, exercises, x-rays and acupuncture, I always knew I wasn’t done with that crash. Or it with me.
With my million dollar parking space and a rare sunny day, I decided to stroll over to Central Park past the luxury co-op buildings with their spiffily attired doormen. In front of one building that overlooked the park, a Hummer was waiting by the curb while a woman, her two very young children, and their two nannies tried to figure out how the back of it opened so the doorman could load their gear. Their gear included two Louis Vuitton backpacks. Could they belong to the children? It was an interesting thought, pitting the exclusive private schools with their fabled waiting list against the backdrop of our bleak economy. To say nothing of a Hummer in Manhattan. The only sight more absurd would be Rush Limbaugh sitting on a planter reading The Feminine Mystique.
I was feeling positive, empowered, and sunned on, so encouraged by the good omens that I decided to push all my chips into the middle. I called the chiropractor on the Upper West Side the neurologist had recommended and the receptionist said to come right over. The M72 bus that goes through the park was waiting on the corner as I hung up. Not that I’m counting, but that would be Omen #4. I was unstoppable. Flex your shoulder blades with me, one, two….
Daughter’s Featured Fotos give us Sights You Haven’t Seen Before
plastic people
chair dragon
the lady who knits and knits and knits and. . .
hoof heels