By Dorothy Tecklenburg

 

When I entered the acupuncture clinic at the

Jintai Traditional Chinese Medicine Hospital in Beijing, the doorway was partially blocked by a woman sitting with her chin in a sling. I stepped over her legs, then squeezed past another woman with needles sticking out of her chin and cheeks. She looked bored. This was a good sign; at least she wasn't in any pain.

 

Pain, that's the key word. I was already in pain; my knee was swollen the size of a medium cantaloupe. I had twisted it doing a spinning kick combination in kungfu class. In the morning, when I could not bend my knee enough to walk downstairs, acupuncture sounded like a good idea.

 

Acupuncture is based on the 4,000-year-old theory that there are channels of energy running through our bodies. If a channel is blocked, pain or disease ensues. Unblock the channel and the body can heal itself. It sounded less painful than knee surgery.

 

Fifty-ish, slightly graying, distinguished, Dr. Zhao's air of professionalism and his white coat would mark him as a medical man in any culture. He didn't speak English, but he didn't need it to poke, prod and nod. He did something I didn't expect in a traditional Chinese clinic: He sent me upstairs for Western-style X-rays. But first, he sent me to the cashier.

 

This is China, pay as you go, cash in advance, no medical insurance or credit cards. As I limped down the hall, past the pungent smells emanating from the herbal pharmacy, I hoped I had enough money.

 

The cashier said "40." Not believing this, I asked, "400?" She shook her head and I said "4,000?" She wrote "40" and passed it to me. It wasn't a joke; X-rays of my knee cost 40 yuan.

 

After the doctor read the films, he sent me back to the cashier (back over that woman's legs!) to pay for five acupuncture treatments for less than I would spend on a good haircut. The cashier apologized for the high price, but explained that my doctor is famous.

 

When I returned, the woman in the sling was gone, but this time I slid past a man on a stool with needles sticking out of his chest. I hopped up on a table and rolled up my pant leg. Earlier I noticed they did not change the linens between patients, so I relaxed when Dr.Zhao pulled the needles from sterile packaging. The needles, around four inches long, looked like thin silver filaments with a slightly thicker section at the top where the doctor handled it.

 

At the moment of truth, I held my breath and prepared to feel pain. He picked up a needle and eased it into the skin above my kneecap, twirling it as it slid in. It didn't hurt. He twirled in two more, triangulating them around the kneecap. Those three needles went in with that slight pinch nurses always lie about when they give you a painful injection. But when he twirled a fourth one into the injury's ground zero point, my kneecap turned to molten lava. The sensation of intense, melting heat only lasted for an instant; after that I was aware of the needles but they didn’t hurt.

 

He left me alone. Nothing at first, but then spurts of energy seemed to break loose in my leg. It felt like mice were hatching from little eggs then scampering up and down my thigh. And then nothing for another 10 minutes; I almost fell asleep.

 

The doctor returned and pulled out the needles (painless!) and I relaxed. Acupuncture doesn't hurt! I could go home! But wait, what was he doing? He grasped my leg and without warning, drove his thumbs directly into the most painful spot on the inside of my knee. I gasped and said in Chinese "Very painful!" and he just nodded. Why should I be surprised? They think sticking needles into an injury is a good idea. Why not pummel it further?

 

He used his hands like hatchets, chopping all around. You know that place where the doctor hits you with a little hammer to test reflexes? He hit that again and again with his fist. You don't think that hurts? Get someone to pound yours two dozen times.

 

I limped out; certain this had been no miracle cure. I could still feel mice partying around my knee, which felt like it weighed 15 pounds. Was it my imagination, or was it feeling… better? How could I test it? The stairs! I walked up, turned around, and walked down. Whereas that morning I could not walk down stairs, now I could. My knee bent freely.

 

I've been back three times, and each time, the needles did not hurt but the massage was brutal. I have to admit it, each time my knee got a little better. Let's see, will I get surgery and a six-month recovery process, or put up with the mice for a few more weeks? It's a no-brainer. I'm sold on traditional Chinese medicine.

 

(Beijing Review, VOL.49 NO.49 DEC.7, 2006)