I’m sorry you’ve had trouble with whatever is ailing you, but hopefully, that will soon be behind you, which really is the best place for ailments as they seem to be such a pain-in-the-behind, anyway. If I got all of my aches and pains behind me, I would have no front left at all to be noticed. I’d spend all my time in the back yard, and would never go out front even to get the mail. I avoid that restrictive lifestyle by taking a heavy dose of denial every day. When that doesn’t work, I usually eat or drink something that I can blame it on later. Here in America, the options are limitless.
Some folks seem to enjoy being sick, and their various maladies are all they want to talk about. If that is your situation, I retract the well wishes from being forced upon you, for I don’t wish you to be unhappy. But if you have resolved to seek an improvement, and cannot muster up the nerve and skills for self-treatment, take your infirmity, and show it to somebody. Pick out a respectable doc medico sawbones, or some other kind of sympathetic specialty listener who owns a cash register, or billing department. Some will look at your warts and moles; some will read your palm, or point out as to whether one leg is longer than the other, but all will read your ability to pay, and diagnose accordingly.
If you can’t afford a doctor, try listening to good music, or read something funny. It may not heal a thing other than your attitude, but you’ll feel better in the meantime to some degree that is measurable. But perhaps you’ve already mentioned your problems to a doctor of your choosing. If you have, I will join you in wanting to trust your good physicians, as I’m sure you’ve chosen them with careful considerations in mind, if you’ve bothered to choose one at all.
Some folks don’t get to choose. If you are so categorized, you may have to then render yourself prostrate (which rhymes with another problem) in front of whatever medicine man your tribal plan allows for. If your problem is your shoulder, I do hope your healer is not a proctologist, unless your shoulder is imbedded that deeply. If that is the case, you might want to cut back on the time spent worrying about politics, as that habit tends to inflame the condition.
Different folks go about various methods including seeking referrals when choosing a medicine man. If you stand outside the offices of two competing quactitioners and are not sure which is better, a coin toss works just fine. But no matter how you select the doctor, approach them all with some caution: they generally declare their business to be a “practice” of some kind, and it is probably so due to a law on the books somewhere that prohibits these “practitioners” from making any public claims to certainty.
Politicians face no such restriction, and can say whatever they please. My doctors generally never actually cure anything, and I consider their fee to be a kind of cover charge for the entertainment. The politicians don’t cure anything either, and I pay them too, just the same–but do so under duress. They do offer up a kind of song and dance, but I’ve seen the show before, and am seldom entertained by it.
I always test my doctors: I throw out some corn, and if they make noises like a duck, I get a 2nd opinion, and sometimes a third. Watch your pocketbook when around them! They are a needy bunch, them doctors, and I’ve never made enough money to take one to raise outright. To compensate for all those things doctors are just “practicing”, I set forth to attempt a cure of my own on your behalf. It is a heavy and burdensome duty, but I will face it bravely. Because of current custom and statute, I cannot charge you for what I’m about to do, but if your conscience presses unduly, make a charitable contribution in the direction of some recognized need. I make mine at the liquor store.
I go now out into the driveway carrying a magic baton with a dead bird and a rattle attached to it while wearing animal skins, feathers, beads, a camouflage ball cap, a red rubber clown nose, bracelets with pouches of seeds boiled in an herbal potion cooked in a cauldron fired by burning old tennis shoes, and a necklace of bleached chicken bones. Other than anklets made of kudzu vines and jingle bells, I wear little else below the waist other than a carpenter’s apron and some old leather motorcycle chaps as are the regular practices and customs of our denomination.
Attired thusly, I set out to perform the ritual aboriginal American shaman dance intended to drive away all evil spirits (except for the ones I keep in bottles down in the den). I will chant the chant of the witchdoctor taken from the annals of folklore and mythology, a recipe for squash casserole, various reality television programs, a few classic Marx Brothers movies, and two old hymnals with enthusiasm in hopes of you feeling better soon.
The manner of my approach, which includes pulling my knees high up by my ears, pushes the envelop of modern deodorants and antiperspirants, so you will want to stand back. Besides that, it is just good to take such precautions if you watch me dance. The other day, the magical powers conjured some yellow jackets out of a hole in the ground. My festive promenade got pretty intense resembling a pre-war or pre-hunt ceremony more than it did anything restorative or therapeutic. An innocent bystander might have thought they were at a pep-rally.
From experience, I found that this dance regularly works as much as any wishful thinking, and sometimes better. The reason is, that on Sunday mornings, the Deity is inundated with a great many prayerful requests that have been saved up all week to be presented during proper ceremony. These numerous and wordy supplications are for food for the hungry (as long as the prayerful aren’t expected to suffer any from it); better paying jobs (excusing those who need to be fired first thing Monday morning), timely turns in the stock market, new cars, shorter sermons, peace at the expense of whoever is the enemy of the prayer-giver, various and sundry miracle cures for this and that, as well as for the well being and salvation of millions of heathens (or that they should all crawl under rocks and die), and with all of this gushing forth at the same time, making focus difficult and tedious, even for the all-hearing and all-knowing.
There are other prayers offered during the rest of the week, but they usually concentrate near major highways, and are often drowned out by the noise of big trucks. All drivers (during the rush hours) are constantly asking for guidance to be given to all the other drivers so they each will be ushered to the nearest exit ramp in hopes of finding something plentiful and toxic to eat, and pray they eat heartily.
But early on a weekday afternoon between the rush hours, I have more of a captive audience, and I think the Supremacy finds my choreography to be entertaining. Please get well soon, as I am sure to grow tired. Besides, these sessions tend to get all the dogs in the neighborhood riled up, and they are likely to howl without a moment of recess all afternoon; all night, and into the wee hours dampening only with the coming of the morning vespers of rush hour. Hopefully, you should feel somewhat better momentarily, but be patient: sometimes when I perform this dance, it just rains.