Dumpling

 320.

"Its a three-part therapeutic treatment," she briefs me. "All I need you to do for the first part is to relax - and by that I mean deep and full release of muscles, joints, ligaments, tendons and the vast network of wires we call the Central Nervous System. Not many people can do it, but I have great faith that you can."

I am honored that she holds my capabilities in such high regard, and I close my eyes to start the process. Almost immediately I am informed that I cannot 'muscle my way through' the technique, and should incorporate a slow breathing cycle as well as conscious 'total body' participation, one that allows my consciousness to act as a benevolent supervisor. To illustrate, she digs her thumbs deep into the fleshy part of my back asking for submission and acceptance as she does. "Let go," she insists.

This opening round of play takes, by my estimate, almost an hour. She has traced the outline of my spine and its neuromuscular tributaries leading down my arm and leg. After a period of  uncertainty I become more and more interested in the process, trying my best to accommodate the requirements and offering little counter resistance. "This would feel pretty good it it didn't hurt so much," I offer as a heuristic update.

"Keep still and use your breathing as a balm, sending waves of restorative, healing light and love to the areas currently without. Right now your arm and leg are like a desert cactus, almost completely dried and wilted."

The second part of the treatment consists of semi-traditional acupuncture, the theory being that neural stimulation at key trigger points introduces new energies to the stagnant conduits, often enough to jump-start dead batteries, or their corroded cables, back to life. The secret, she tells me during the tedious tracing and subsequent poking and prodding is in knowing which nerves carry messages to what body parts. To demonstrate she twists a needle in my back and watches my left ring finger twitch in response. "If we can reach the level of response I am hoping for, this is a procedure that should be done once a week, along with the experimental steroids you have been taking."

She senses from my silence that something is amiss. "You HAVE been taking the medication?"

"Ahhh, yeah, when I can."

"When you can? What does THAT mean?"

"Well, we have been a little busy with other matters, and…"

"Are you aware of how important this is, how your future as a complete human being, not one needing an assistant for simple everyday tasks, depends on the consistency of this rehabilitation therapy?"

Busted, I confess throwing myself at her mercy. "I do. Sorry."

"Have you failed to notice how many physical acts, ones you once took for granted, are now failing you? Your range of motion, flexibility, endurance, explosive power and ability to recover are all compromised by the demands of your work and the ravages of time upon your bag of bones," she lectures, "the quality of the remainder of your days, while not completely up to you, is something that you can steer in the direction you choose. You can choose dumpling or warrior. And for the warrior there is nothing between."

"I want you to lay still and think peaceful thoughts for about twenty minutes. Please stay relaxed and try to notice any electrical sensations that may arise between your spine, arms and legs."  

"The third part of the treatment is  what what most people find the most pleasurable, but before we start, I'm going to need a quid pro quo of sorts," she adds, moving towards the door.

"Do I need my attorney present?"

"No, I just need you to promise me that you will, from this point foreword, be as faithful to the taking of your medication as you are to the performance of your job."

"I can do that. Where do I sign?"

She closes the door leaving me with my thoughts and a battery on trickle-charge.

"A dumpling huh?"