Rib Joints, Raising Boys, and Reminiscences

On a recent trip to my chiropractor (if you need one, he's excellent), I complained that my neck was especially stiff. I could barely twist it either way without experiencing pain around my shoulder blades. I'm used to stiffness in my shoulders (that's why I get adjusted every week), but this level of discomfort was unusual for me.

"Stand over here and let me take a look," he said, with take a look meaning assess my situation by placing his hands on my shoulders and upper back. "Ah. Hold still for a sec." 

Crunch!

I can't exactly describe what he did, other than to say he wrenched apart my right shoulder and torso in a way that instantly relieved the pain.

"What," I asked, "did you just do?"

"I adjusted your rib joint. When it's out of whack, the nerve gets really pissed off."

"Yeah, it was angry all right. Whatever you did...all the pain is gone."

He smiled. He also let me know that he himself is prone to this particular injury and immediately sees a chiropractor when it happens, because "it's not something you can fix yourself."

A lot of things in life are like that—more than we care to admit.

Leaving his office, the words "rib joint" (even though mine had just gotten unstuck) stuck with me. I remembered the local rib joint, Bobby Q's, where I used to take my boys when they were young and the restaurant was still in Westport. We would go on Tuesday nights, when kids' food was half-price and the magician, Tony, was in residence, moving table to table offering up his same old tricks, and making balloon animals that we'd bring home and save until they eventually deflated. My older son would try to stump him with requests like octopus or armadillo, while my little one was content with the standard fare of cats, dogs, and the occasional monkey.

On one visit Tony was looking a little pale, and he had a contraption around his waist—some sort of miniature air compressor—that he was using to inflate the balloons. He explained that he'd had a case of pneumonia and didn't have his full wind back, but was determined to be able to make his balloon animals for the kids. At the time, my boys and I cracked jokes about what a sad sight he was with his balloon-inflating apparatus, while also commending him for his dedication. Not long after, Bobby Q's closed (to reopen later in a neighboring town)—the first of many icons of my sons' childhood to vanish. There was Gamestop, replaced by a liquor store where we have vowed never to shop. Radio Shack, where knowledgeable salespeople would readily help us solve small technical problems with the right cable or cord. Ace Hardware, whose owner greeted everyone as "boss" and gave each of my boys a tiny keychain flashlight every time we came in. One of the hardest losses was the pub, 323, at the bottom of our hill, our go-to spot for comfort food and conversation. But perhaps the hardest blow for my older son was the Army Navy store, where he used to buy pocketknives and old military gear (supply vests, even a gas mask), and we could spend an hour browsing through their eclectic offerings. Passing these now empty or replaced storefronts always brings a lament, and while the new Bobby Q's serves the same delicious falling-off-the-bone ribs, it will never have the feel of the old one. Despite the good food, eating there is painful, sort of like having a body part out of joint.

Since my visit to the chiropractor, my neck's range of motion has improved dramatically, and aside from some lingering tenderness on my right side (the location of the offending rib joint), I've felt better than ever in my back and shoulders. Some adjustments are needed and welcome. Others we never quite get used to. Even though we know everything changes and nothing lasts forever., the change comes as a shock, a mini-earthquake rattling the otherwise smooth, predictable surface of our daily existence. For a while, we are shaken up. And then we settle into a new pattern, a new routine. As much as the place that is gone, we miss the feeling of the time we spent there, romanticized perhaps in the haze of reminiscence, but recalled fondly as part of our shared experience, our collective family story. The loss becomes bittersweet, because it intensifies the power of our happy memories to bring us joy. And of course, there is always a new story to be lived, remembered, and told.