I’m an idiot.

Here’s a great ilustration of how much of an idiot I am. True story. Well at least the part that’s not imagined.

I recently talked here about my finger numbness, and also wrote that my chiropractor told me he “forgot to work on this”. I think I should qualify that this was probably just my chiropractor way of allowing me to save face because he couldn’t call me an idiot in front of other patients.

Let’s backtrack a bit:

Mid-March I mention to Dr. Denis that my fingers are numb. For a few weeks after that, he makes the little tool go clickety-click near my clavicles and on my wrists. It doesn’t seem to do anything, but I’m willing to give it time.

And then, on April 1st…

Do I really need to say this? Of course.

On April first during my treatment, Dr. Denis cracks my neck, my back and then takes his little tool and clicks it near my clavicle. Immediately, I went “Haaaaaaaaa! I feel much better!!!” while doing spirit fingers.

He made a puzzled face, and I laughed and said “April fool!” and we both chuckled.

But that’s when he stopped going clickety-click with the tool. I’m thinking he thought I had been joking about the whole numbness thing instead of just getting instantly better. I’m an idiot because that’s the vibe I got right then and there and didn’t say anything about it.

Instead I assumed that he knew me (he doesn’t) and my sense of humor (he doesn’t). And then I didn’t say anything for a long time, and lived with pain because I am an idiot. Mr. Fab has the tagline “Someday my sense of humor is going to get me killed”, but it might actually happen to me first. I can picture it:

“I think I’m having a heart attack… I should’ve jogged more. Okay I should’ve jogged period… Tell Lovely Wife I said something nice about her. Urg.” I drop to the floor, spilling my half-eaten bucket of poutine.  

It takes half an hour for people around me to realize this is not a bit – they’re crying because i am sooooo funny – and that they should call a doctor. As I twitch on the floor and float above myself at the same time, I can hear them: “ha ha ha! He even went as far as to drop food for comedic effect!”, “Oh that Mike, always with the physical comedy”, “he’s peeing his pants and so am I!!” and “I’m putting this on YouTube!”. Sigh.

I step into the white light. It’s not at all what I was told it was supposed to be. No one’s around to greet me, no loved ones, no bearded guy with a great big book, no pearly gates (They’re more like Star Trek doors without the sound) and the whole place smells like a giant abandoned Costco.

“Hello?” Nothing.

“Anyone? Anything?” I never was that much of a believer.

From behind a cloud, a big bearded man stands up. His face is red, his eyes are puffy. He’s been crying.

“Grandpa?”

“Shit, we thought you were joking. Hey it turns out it was not a joke. Yeah, come meet us here. Ok bye.”

I notice the bluetooth headset. This must be Hell.

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