(Chinese Medical) Miracle on 86th St.
One day, shortly after graduating from Chinese Medical school I arrived at “work” tired and irritable as a result of domestic-dispute-induced insomnia from the night before. I tried slouching into my seat with my hot coffee, my temporarily only source of joy, when my “boss” told me to get excited about one of the day’s patients:
18-year old female: Autism. Epilepsy. Loss of Motor Function in Left Arm. Mute.
“How sad,” I thought, and how difficult of a case. Unfortunately, I couldn’t feel genuinely excited. I was self-absorbed with my own fatigue, and had only barely begun sipping my coffee. By the time said coffee was finished we were mid-way through a busy morning, and the excitement to come was only a vague memory of a “good morning” blurb.
Why are “work” and “boss” in quotes? Well, in America I think we associate both words with some form of monetary compensation, which is not part of this equation, which is a relatively bold undertaking for an American. Call me biased, but Chinese Medicine is the most difficult medicine to master and practice. Now about to enter my seventh year since finishing school I still dedicate all my spare reading time to Chinese Medical texts. I take CEU seminars as often as possible and for years dedicated one day every week, not to “working” for a “boss,” but apprenticing under a teacher — as close as the city has to a “master,” who specializes in neurological and cerebrovascular conditions.
18-year old female: Autism. Epilepsy. Loss of Motor Function in Left Arm. Mute.
Of course the girl was sweet as pie. Adorable, with a smile that lit up the room, and made you feel recognized as one of the good guys when you were lucky enough to receive it. Her mother seemed equally kind, also healthy and as normal and lucid as any of us. She sat by her daughter’s side with a calm compassion, not over-protective, nor made nervous by me, the strange new help entering the room.
The condition began as a fetus, literally. She had seizures in her mom’s womb, then was born epileptic. Her cerebral malfunctions were around the speech center of the brain, as well as the cranial nerves that control swallowing and the vocal cords. She drooled constantly, as she could never close her mouth, nor had she ever in life managed to make any audible sound. Instead, her comprehension was complete and even quick-witted; I don’t think she missed one punch line during the day. She would respond by nodding yes or no, also hand gestures (though not sign language). She’d been to countless practitioners of all modalities, all to no avail.
Kids can be challenging with the needles. She took them better than many– even better than some adults — but there was some understandable squirming, coaxing and even negotiating at times. My mentor would explain by pointing to a spot on himself to indicate where he was about to insert, and her first reaction was to point to someone else in the room to serve as the guinea pig. First was her mom, then she’d insist my mentor stick himself, but the vast majority of trial points went into me, of course: The assistant. By the end of the day I’d gotten a miniature treatment, sans the laying down relaxation part, instead having to periodically leave the room with needles dangling out of my face to check on patients in other rooms. It was fun. She was fun, and ultimately we got every point in that we wanted. Some would fall out and require reinsertion. Others were followed by acupressure applied with the doctor’s flavor of the month, Good Life MG (CBD) Butter. We’d been joking all day that he was on a kick, requesting the MG balm for every patient, to the point that the other assistant and I just started keeping it bulging in our scrubs pockets instead of constantly returning to the office to get it. Finally our patient was “as relaxed as I’ve ever seen her,” according to Mom and we left the room to allow the treatment to do its thing.
My mentor’s mentor was Dr. Shi Xue Min in Tianjin Hospital in China, an acupuncture technique termed “Xing Nao Kai Qiao,” which translates as, “Activating the Brain and Opening the Orifices.” It involves electrical stimulation of specifically chosen nerve pathways via acupuncture points, which even for the toughest of patients can be pretty sensitive; more literally, shocking. However, there is extensive research on the technique’s efficacy in treating stroke rehabilitation and other neurological disorders, not the least of which in its depiction in the award-winning documentary, 9000 Needles (2009). Today was my mentor’s fourth session with the girl, and according to both he and her mom, she had never previously been able to straighten her left arm and corresponding fingers until this week. Progress was gradual but apparent, and they were grateful and excited.
“Straighten your arm,” the doc and her mom would encourage, and she could now do it awkwardly; though she was unable to without grinning a smile so big it could illuminate the world.
“Amazing,” her mom would utter while shaking her head.
I wasn’t there for the “before,” which didn’t mean I didn’t believe. I just can’t help but wield what I hope is a healthy amount of skepticism around all things. Sure, I’d seen my teacher do some amazing shit, lest I wouldn’t have pursued the opportunity to work for free. Sure, I knew he knew a lot, as one doesn’t leave years of study under Dr. Shi Xue Min in Tianjin Hospital without knowledge. Still, none such confidence could have prepared me for what was to come.
First she closed her mouth! It was epic. Her mom claimed that she’d never seen her do it voluntarily. For the first time in her life she intentionally withdrew her tongue and stopped drooling, and we all celebrated with high fives, then a group picture of us all mouth-closed, lookin’ mean, which was especially cool for me as it felt like we were a rap group posing for our album cover. The doc wasn’t yet fully satisfied. Either that or the result encouraged him. Sets 2 and 3 were points around the cerebellum, in addition to stomach channel points that traverse key cranial nerve pathways. he would approach to treat her and she would point to everyone else. Finally, with everyone in the room covered in needles he would needle her then quickly stimulate the points as much as she’d permit. We’d go and check in on other patients whose cases were not such slouches themselves: One elderly woman in stroke rehabilitation. Another with Parkinson’s who comes to the clinic each week covered in urine due to ongoing infection. On days like these I often walk around the office shaking my head and laughing at the lack of medical/scientific credibility given to acupuncturists by the m(asses).
We got back to the room and my teacher had one more trick up his sleeve. Neurological acupuncture, or any neurological practice for that matter, is not only about physical stimulation, but also rewiring the brain via inventive forms of physical therapy. After re-stimulating her face points he put on his second hat of physical therapist. He got right up in her face, pursed his lips together, then opened them into the sound: “Ma” wanting to “re-mind” her how to speak.
“Maaaa… Maaa,” he’d repeat again and again, attempting to guide her motor coordination. She was able to imitate his motions but couldn’t seem to access sound.
I sat there almost mindlessly, I guess at this point just holding space… and needles to pass to my teacher upon request.
Two of the things you learn pretty quickly in clinical practice are patience and a good poker face. Don’t get too up when patients report positively, nor down when they do negatively. Eventually the poker face becomes your organic truth, as peoples’ physiologies run such a huge gamut in response that nothing’s shocking. Some human bodies arrive in our office with decades of burdensome pathology, which we can’t expect to change overnight. Or can we?
As I sat there, exhausted, admittedly distracted by stressful thoughts, looking at my fingernails, wondering what I was going to have for dinner, it happened. “Maaa… Maaaa” the doc reiterated again, and by this point the poor girl may have been even more exhausted than me. She gave it another go and repeated it right back to him: “Maaa… Maaa… Maaaaa!” She spoke!
The mom looked up like she’d seen a ghost. She looked at me and I back at her to guide my response, then both of us back at her daughter who never broke contact with my teacher. “Maaa… Maaaa,” they went back and forth for a few more bars, until that beautiful angelic smile returned only briefly before the waterfalls of tears began.
Her mom jumped from her seat, also in tears, and they embraced like Rick Grimes did his family in the first episode of The Walking Dead. They cried and hugged and soaked each other with tears for what felt like an hour but was probably three minutes; and if I hadn’t been sitting right there picking my nose in front of it all I can’t say I would have believed it.
When we finally restored order in the court they resumed their exercises. They went back to “Ma,” plus a few other sounds (“Eee” was the hardest for her), and understandably she got addicted to honing her new skill. She continued to practice even after we left to go check on another patient and I continued to cry. Eventually I got a hold of myself but only temporarily, as the tears would return throughout the day, and I still haven’t successfully gotten through retelling the story with dry eyes. When Mom and daughter finally left (to return for more tomorrow) they couldn’t stop thanking us, though I’m not really sure what I did beyond serving as a fine guinea pig. They couldn’t stop hugging one another and the girl couldn’t stop making sounds that were the most beautiful one could ever hope to hear.
Sometimes medicine feels difficult, even impossibly burdensome with long days, difficult patients, and dealing with Satan — I mean insurance companies — to get paid and have a career. Other times it can seem mundane or monotonous: Same old patients with the same old neck pain, and Jesus Christ, is today National Sciatica Day?! What’s the record for most needles inserted into asses in one day? I might hold it. But every once in a while, magic happens (more frequently in certain offices). The stars align, you get a front row seat to the most beautiful thing in the world, and for just a few hours life is perfect. I’m grateful first and foremost to the patient for her courage and will, also to my mentor for allowing me to be a part of this experience. Finally, I am consistently grateful to Chinese Medicine, both for challenging my mind, then also blowing it with its limitless potential.
