I’m a human bobblehead.
On Monday I woke up out of sorts with the unfamiliar sensation of wanting to crawl out of my body. I felt shaky, trembly, and upon further investigation I realized the vibration was localized.
I had head tremors.
They were subtle enough that you wouldn’t notice unless I told you about them. They were strong enough to send a searing, all-consuming, gut-wrenching shock wave through my system. It took me hours to understand that this lightening bolt of anxiety was actually fear.
After 4 days, the shaking hadn’t subsided so I took my massage therapist's advice and booked an appointment with an orthopedic. He was recommended by a friend, who didn’t tell me much more than se cae bien (He’s cool). I didn’t care. I just wanted someone to tell me this oddball situation I was currently living in was muscular and nothing more.
t took an hour to get to the clinic, which is in a southern section of Mexico City known as Santa Fe. The hilly, high-rise neighborhood is almost constantly backlogged with traffic and 0% walkable, with exception to one central park dotted with running paths, restaurants, and man-made ponds. Once in a while an unbearable stench wafts through the area. That’s because the elite paradise was built on a toxic garbage dump. Hardly the epitome of health, so I find it surprising that so many medical clinics reside here. Though medical does not equate health, does it? (My father was in the hospital recently and while we were on the phone, his nurse came in to ask what he wanted for dinner. He said vegetables. She said they didn’t have any.)
I cried the whole way there. I can’t remember a time I’ve been this terrified. With puffy cheeks and bloodshot eyes I made my way up to the 7th floor. There was a young couple with a bright, happy baby in the elevator, as well as two middle-aged women chattering about their upcoming Botox injection. When the lift chimed Piso 7, I slowly exited and a surreality consumed me – is my life about to change forever?
The clinic was buzzing. At the reception counter were 3 beautiful women laughing with a very handsome doctor in fitted black scrubs. Like a scene from ER or NipTuck. Hm. Not quite what I had in mind. I filled out my intake form and sat in the waiting room as patients started to pile in. A rather eye-pleasing dad with his slender teenage daughter, on the phone, valley girl accent, broken arm. A 20-something man (boy?) with a t-shirt clinging to his defined muscles. A pretty woman, also in scrubs but of the maroon variety, with long eyelashes and a soft face.
As I tried to control the sobs bubbling up from my chest, a string of doctors, each one hotter than the next, came out from their office quarters to retrieve their patients. What is happening right now? Why am I witnessing a medical catwalk? I grabbed my phone, rapidly texting the friend who recommended this place. “Are all the doctors hot? I wanted an old fat guy. WTF is this?”
“Bet-hany?”
I look up. As expected, he’s 100% handsome. Leaning out of the door that leads to a hallway that leads to his office. Wearing what looks to be a very expensive beige t-shirt, perfectly-tailored navy pants, and navy sneakers that are pricey enough to be a brand but not actually having to advertise the brand.
MAJOR EXPLETIVE.
My quivering cabeza and I walk toward him, through the door and down the hall.
I sit in a chair. He sits across from me with a genuine look of concern. Tears flood my vision as I give him the details I deem necessary. My voice breaks when I finally ask “Do I have Parkinson’s?”
“No, you don’t have Parkinson’s.”
We do a quick test. I move my arms, my shoulders, my head in specific ways. He presses into various points of my neck and upper back. He sits me down to deliver the diagnosis.
“You have a muscle contusion in your trapezius muscle.”
Apparently it’s damaging a nerve, causing quivers. My job now is to relax my neck muscles and heal that nerve.
The relief was equally as overwhelming as the fear I had been swimming in for days.
Another friend sent me clips from the book “You can Heal your Life” by Louise Hay. Neck issues are related to stubbornness and unwillingness to see the other side of a question. I literally did not know how that applied (other than the fact that I am, indeed, stubborn at times) until writing this. I did not want to go to a doctor. I refuse to partake in western medical practices. For 4 days I suffered, wondering if I had a neurological issue.
All I had to do was make a damn appointment with an orthopedic to find out that I didn’t.
There’s something else my body is telling me and which I still haven’t deciphered. But with what I’ve learned so far, I’ve decided to be more open to other ways of doing things. No, I will not be going to a GP. But when my head be bobbin’, I will swing by the ortophedic’s office and hear what he’s got to say.
Am I still wobbling? Yes. Am I still scared? No. Am I seeing the doctor again? YES. Should I flirt with him? No. Right? Absolutely not. Should I? Tell me no.
With love,
Bethany
