My dad was a neurosurgeon and a neurologist. I was a kid who had had fallen off more horses than a stunt rider and had had my head knocked around so much playing field hockey and lacrosse that my father told me: “If you ever have severe headaches later on in life, go to a neurologist immediately. You’re a prime candidate for subdural hematomas with all those blows to the head.”
Years after my last lacrosse game, I was working in Europe, and I started having brutal headaches; headaches that could have made my head explode if I hadn’t reverted to an old eye trick of keeping my eyes closed a bit longer than usual when I blinked. It soothed my eyes. I also thought it made me look vaguely indifferent, in a cool way.
I got the name of a local neurologist who ran a series of tests on my head. All clear. So he decided I was under stress, and had me go to a massage therapist.
I was to go twice a week. Sweet. Except that the poor massage therapist would work on my back and neck for about an hour and ask, “How’s that? All better now. Right?”
I’d get up, the room would swim at me, “Uh-oh, no, not really…but thank you anyway.”
“Give me five more minutes, you’re neck is a mess.” He would beg, wiping sweat from his temple, “I can fix this for you.”
“No, please.”
And I would leave and the therapist would research different trigger points that could be causing my headaches. I felt guilty that I couldn’t get any relief from the therapy and naturally this stressed me out even more.
One day at work, I was thinking about what an ungrateful back and neck I had. I was in the computer department talking about when I could expect one of my programs, when one of the programmers pointed and said, “I’ll have that for you by next Tuesday.”
“Great, great,” I said rubbing the back of my neck, “….Hey, what were you pointing at?”
He jutted his chin out and raised his hand again toward the wall, “You mean the calendar on the wall…?”
“What calendar?”
And so, I called the neurologist and the massage therapist, who was wildly relieved. Then I saw an optometrist and he confirmed my diagnosis: my eyesight had changed dramatically, but at least my brain was intact….well….
Years after my last lacrosse game, I was working in Europe, and I started having brutal headaches; headaches that could have made my head explode if I hadn’t reverted to an old eye trick of keeping my eyes closed a bit longer than usual when I blinked. It soothed my eyes. I also thought it made me look vaguely indifferent, in a cool way.
I got the name of a local neurologist who ran a series of tests on my head. All clear. So he decided I was under stress, and had me go to a massage therapist.
I was to go twice a week. Sweet. Except that the poor massage therapist would work on my back and neck for about an hour and ask, “How’s that? All better now. Right?”
I’d get up, the room would swim at me, “Uh-oh, no, not really…but thank you anyway.”
“Give me five more minutes, you’re neck is a mess.” He would beg, wiping sweat from his temple, “I can fix this for you.”
“No, please.”
And I would leave and the therapist would research different trigger points that could be causing my headaches. I felt guilty that I couldn’t get any relief from the therapy and naturally this stressed me out even more.
One day at work, I was thinking about what an ungrateful back and neck I had. I was in the computer department talking about when I could expect one of my programs, when one of the programmers pointed and said, “I’ll have that for you by next Tuesday.”
“Great, great,” I said rubbing the back of my neck, “….Hey, what were you pointing at?”
He jutted his chin out and raised his hand again toward the wall, “You mean the calendar on the wall…?”
“What calendar?”
And so, I called the neurologist and the massage therapist, who was wildly relieved. Then I saw an optometrist and he confirmed my diagnosis: my eyesight had changed dramatically, but at least my brain was intact….well….
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