Needles in the Haystack, or, Taking a Stab at Better Health

BLOODLETTING OR MIRACULOUS CURE?

When a friend who owes me money suggests he pay it back through a series of acupuncture sessions, I'm skeptical.

For one, I could use the money – I’ve had my eye on a shiny new iPod and that cash would pretty well seal the deal.

But beyond that, I'm not sure how I feel about the whole stick-a-bunch-of-needles-in-me-to-feel-better thing. Sure, people were practicing acupuncture as far back as the Stone Age – using, you guessed it, stone needles – but then the same can be said about bloodletting. You won’t see me lining up to have my vital fluids drained, I don’t care how sick I get.

All the same, I decide to give it a go, in part because I like my friend and I feel a certain responsibility to help him out, and in part because I believe everything (with the exception of bloodletting, perhaps) should be tried at least once, even if the trying may involve significant amounts of discomfort and/or pain.

So I call him back to book an appointment.

“What exactly do you need help with?” he asks, and it occurs to me that I'm not actually sick, and I haven't been for some time. No doubt there are years’ worth of toxins built up in my system from all the smoking and drinking I’ve done, but if they’re there, I'm not feeling them. At least I don't think I am.

“I’m tired,” I say. It's the best I can come up with.

And I am tired – or maybe “unenthused” is a better way to put it. I'm pretty sure it has more to do with academic fatigue and a sour case of the winter blues than anything medical, but hey, if he can fix that…

“We can fix that,” he says. His voice has all the confidence you’d hope to find in a medical professional – a good start. “I’ll see you Tuesday,” he says, and hangs up.

See you Tuesday.

RIDING THE QI

The theory behind acupuncture is relatively simple. Practitioners of Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM) believe that the human body contains and is controlled by a “life force” known as Qi (pronounced “chee”), and that physical or emotional illnesses arise when an individual’s Qi is out of balance or has been blocked.

Using a combination of acupuncture points – there are over 500 on the body to choose from – an acupuncturist will attempt to redirect the flow of Qi throughout the body, returning it to a state of balance and, presumably, health.

It isn’t too far fetched, when you consider that western medicine essentially preaches the same thing. They may not have the word Qi in their lexicon, but the cells a doctor tries to alter with those elaborate pharmaceutical cocktails are, at their basest, made up of energy.

Just look at antidepressants, which are among the most commonly prescribed medications out there. When something like Prozac is administered to a patient, its job is to balance out the chemicals in the brain that affect neural activity – in the case of Prozac, serotonin levels in the synapse are increased by blocking its uptake in brain cells.

Now what’s a synapse? “The region where nerve impulses are transmitted and received.” What are nerve impulses? Electrical currents. What’s electricity? You guessed it: energy.

But all that’s just academic. Like most people, when faced with an illness it’s the practical results I’m interested in, not the theory behind them. And despite the bad rap pharmaceutical companies get, at least some of their products seem to work. Who hasn’t felt the warm rush of relief as the two extra-strength Tylenol they took after lunch begin to work their magic? Or the soothing balm of Vick’s VapoRub in the midst of coughing fit? When I’m down, I want something that’s guaranteed to bring me back up again. Fast.

So the question is: Does acupuncture fit the bill?

THEN I WAKE UP

Tuesday.

My friend greets me at the door of his home-clinic with a cup of tea and the kind of smile designed to make first-time visitors feel at ease. As he leads me into a large room – bare except for a table in the centre, a CD player on the sill and a few house plants scattered around – he asks how I’ve been feeling lately. Have I been sleeping well? What kind of things I’ve been eating? When’s the last time I had sex? At first, his professionalism is disarming; I’m used to idle chatter, banter between friends, not these probing questions, this digging around in my personal affairs. And what does sex have to do with it, anyway?

And then it sinks in: my friend is not my friend, but my doctor. And, as of this moment, I’m his patient.

We decide that my recent lethargy is the logical place to start. I explain that I’ve had trouble concentrating, that I feel half-awake much of the time, that my favoured afternoon nap has gone from being a luxury to a necessity. After taking my pulse and inspecting my tongue – two things which in TCM are meant to “display” the body’s status – he has me take off my shirt and lie back on the bed.

“Try to focus on your breathing,” he says. “Take big breaths.”

So I do. I take in as much air as I can and try to think about anything, anything other than the flurry needles that are about to sink into my delicate pink flesh.

When the first one goes in I flinch, but to be honest it’s more a reaction to the thought of it than any kind of pain. In truth, I can’t feel much of anything, and by the time he’s worked his way down to my feet I start to wonder if he might be missing his target.

When he’s finished, there are about 20 needles in all scattered around my body – two in my forehead, two in my elbows, a swathe in my stomach and feet. My arm feels heavy, but other than that I’m fine – relaxed even, despite myself. The good doctor turns on some instrumental music and dims the lights, reminding me one last time to stay focused on my breathing. Then he leaves the room.

Then I wake up.

“How do you feel?” he asks. He’s standing at my feet with that same easy smile on his face. The lights have been turned up again but it takes me a moment to place myself.

“I’m sorry?” I say. “How long has it been?”

“Just over half an hour,” he says.

I was asleep. The whole time.

“That’s normal,” he explains. “Qi flows more freely when you’re in between waking and sleep, so it’s not uncommon for people to drift off in the middle of a treatment. Actually, it’s ideal.”

I sit up and put my shirt back on. I feel light, dreamy. My friend brings me a cup of tea and I sip it quietly, trying to recollect something, anything from the last half hour. But nothing’s there. All I have is this sense of overwhelming calm, a desire to go for a walk. We make plans for another treatment the following week and I step out into the grey afternoon. “I look forward to it,” I tell him.

And I mean it.

IT'S ALL ABOUT BALANCE

It’s difficult to say where reality ends and perception begins. Doctors have been using the placebo effect to their advantage for almost as long as pharmaceuticals themselves, maybe even longer. There are countless cases where a patient has “recovered” from a seemingly hopeless affliction only to find out down the road that those little capsules they were taking contained nothing more than sugar, and yet the recovery was real, and for that matter, so was the affliction.

I’ve had five acupuncture treatments since that first one. My energy levels are higher, my concentration is more acute, even my digestion seems to be running more smoothly. There’s a chance this has just as much to do with the power of suggestion as with the countless needles that have punctured my flesh, but I don’t think so. The results are too clear to be mistaken. I feel too good.

So does that make me a convert? Am I ready to shun western medicine altogether in the name of a more natural, holistic approach?

Yes and no. I’m still going to get headaches from time to time, and when I do I won’t hesitate to pop a few Tylenol to relieve the pain. It’s convenient, immediate. It’s worked for me in the past. But I’m beginning to realize that it’s only one side of the medical coin -- there are alternatives, and those alternatives can be just as effective.

Will I still go to see my regular family doctor? Absolutely. But I’ll also go to see my acupuncturist (even after he’s done paying me back). After all, he does have 5000 years of Chinese wisdom backing him up.

Oh yeah, and he’s my friend.