Last fall, when Andrew, Lucia, and I were in Mountain View for seven weeks, we had no complaints about our corporate apartment—except for the kitchen table and chairs. It was a high table, with high, barstool-like chairs, which made both feeding Lucia and working at my computer a challenge. Lucia solved her problem by refusing to eat at the table, launching our period of chasing her around the apartment with forkfuls of food. I had no solution to my problem, however, since the apartment had no desk. Very quickly I developed back pain. And that pain has persisted, with no relief, to this day.
Tonight, fed up, I finally saw a chiropractor. He ran his fingers up my spine and immediately identified the exact spot that was hurting—and confirmed that a vertebrae was out of place. Though it’s Molly, not I, who is the hypochondriac of the family, I felt a certain satisfaction in having my complaints to Andrew—“It feels like a vertebrae is jammed!”—confirmed. With some intense heat and violent (-seeming) cracking, my vertebrae is now once again aligned. And the doctor said it could indeed have been from that awful chair. I go back for a follow-up next week, and maybe more, who knows, but I am thrilled that I can now bend and arch my back and reach for things on high shelves without pain. Remarkable!