My Back in a Saddle Again

Usually I'm uncomfortable taking pictures of me with my shirt off, but I've made an exception for you. 

You've heard me tell the story about how I almost died at our stake Youth Conference because a pack of negligent teenagers dropped me during a “faith fall” object lesson, right? Out of a tree? 1988? You can read about it here. (Also, I may or may not have just spoiled the ending for you.)

Well, that special event in my life has resulted in some creative methods for treating back pain over the years. Since 1988, I have undergone treatment from a series of chiropractors. Now, I am aware that there exists some skepticism surrounding this industry, but I have personally found success and relief through chiropractic care. There isn’t that much controversy to me. I hurt, I get treated, I feel better.

However, like any profession, not all chiropractors are created equal.

Case in point: Dr. Arthur Fonzerelli. (Names have been changed.) (Because I can’t remember his name.) Dr. Fonzerelli was probably in his late 50s, and when it came to his nose, he had a bit of an Ichabod Crane thing going on. He had thin hair on top, but it was still black.

Dr. Fonzi was the uncle of a girl I was dating in college, and his office happened to be in a neighboring town to our little university. It was 1993, and my back had recently been misbehaving. I was complaining about it to Danielle, the girl I was dating (name has not been changed, because I remember her name), and she suggested I go see her uncle, The Fonz. During this same time period I was also complaining that Sally Field was completely miscast as Robin William’s wife in Mrs. Doubtfire, but Danielle said there was nothing she could do about that. Nice attitude. I believe that is what later led to our breakup. 

Anyway, though initially reluctant, I finally paid a visit to the Doc, and surrendered a piece of my dignity that I can never retrieve. I visited his office exactly three times, and each appointment was more bizarre and unsettling than the one before.

First visit. He asked a lot of questions, gathered information, and took some x-rays. He did a pretty flaccid adjustment (I’m not sure that’s the correct industry term for it) that was fairly benign, and told me I could leave.  Not an efficacious treatment, but harmless enough. He was so soft spoken and uncle-y, I just kind of went with the flow and lowered my expectations of actually feeling better while simultaneously taking comfort in the fact that Danielle would be happy with me for being obedient and doing what she told me to do, and maybe I would be rewarded with some smooching. (But probably not.)

Second visit. At the beginning of the visit he said, “So, would you say there’s been about 20% improvement since your last visit?” I started laughing, because I thought he was making a funny.  I removed my shirt and turned to find him standing there with his clip board, pencil poised to write down my answer. He was serious. Not wanting him to feel bad, but feeling no different than before the first visit, I pretended to contemplate my percentage of wellness and kind of mumbled back, “Erm…. uh…. hmmhmm…two…(waving my hand back and forth)….maybe…I’d say two...percent …better?”  He wrote it down.

“I think we’re going to try something more aggressive,” he said. “Like…addressing my back pain?” I wanted to ask. He led me into an adjoining room and had me sit/hunch forward over a bench, while he strapped some electrodes onto my lower back.

“We’re going to try electrotherapy,” he casually said.

“Okay,” I responded with some trepidation.

“You’re going to feel some currents through your back. It’s going to be uncomfortable. I’m going to turn up the intensity with this dial, and you tell me when you can’t stand it anymore.”

“TIME OUT,” I said. “I don’t like to play games like this.”

“You’ll be just fine,” and he started to turn it up.

I tried to be my bravest for as long as I could. “Mercy!” I said.

“Okay,” he answered. “I’m going to leave it there for 10 minutes.”

“What the WHAT?!”

And he left the room. I had never felt this variation of pain before, and it was intense! I felt like something was alive and kicking in me, and I was going to give birth to it – through my CHEST! Currents were having a rave inside my body and I could only anticipate death and my corpse detonating, leaving parts of me covering the entire room. The good news is, if I am ever hit by lightening, it’ll be a walk in the park.  Shoot, I might even enjoy it.

And imagine my surprise, when I actually did feel better when he turned the machine off! Kind of like how your face feels better once somebody stops hitting it with a car. Or how silence sounds so nice when Nickleback is the alternative.  I went home, exhausted and confused.

Third and final visit. I walked into his office, and he asked me to strip down to what the Fashion World terms “tighty-whities.” Not totally unusual; easy access to my back and all. He asked me again, “Where would you say, percentage-wise, your improvement is at? 20%?”

I stood there with the same incredulous expression as the visit before, but this time, much more vulnerable, as I looked like I was an underwear model. Well, I looked like I was modeling underwear. (I’ve never, on my best day, looked like an underwear model.) I mumbled the same response as the prior visit. “Wha-…. uhrm….yeeeaahhh…two…(waving my hand back and forth)….maybe…I’d say two percent?”

“We’re going to try something different today (oh, good!), so…follow me.”

My relief was short lived, as I started following him from our private patient room…out the door…into the hallway. I found myself standing in the public domain...with only my underwear on.  I could see the waiting room.  And they could see me.  Like one of those dreams. But despite the ethereal music of Enya that permeated the office, this was indeed no dream.

Yep, if you were sitting in the right (or wrong) spot in the waiting room, you had a comprehensive view of more Ken Craig than most people care to see. I’ve never seen more raised eyebrows in my life, as people shook their heads, covered children's eyes, and kept a careful distance between them and me.

We stopped in the middle of the hallway, at some adjusting apparatus there. Yes! In the middle of the hallway! Did somebody leave it there accidentally? Was this really the best place for this thing?

“Go ahead and lie down on this,” he said.

And, as if under some form of hypnosis, I did what he asked. No sooner was I horizontal, but clamps snapped over my wrists and ankles, strapping me to the table and rendering me unable to stand back up, get off the table, and flee from his office out into the streets; cold and exposed, but safe.

He pulled a lever and the table jolted into a vertical position. Now I was standing, in my skivvies, strapped to a table. This equipment could not have been legal. I’m not even sure it was 20^th century machinery. Then, the straw that broke me: Dr. Fonz put his hand on my lower back, and started rapidly pushing my torso forward. Push, release. Push, release. I suddenly looked like I was doing my best Elvis impression. In my underwear. In the hallway. In a torture device.

That was it for me.

I started talking very fast, in a half-panicked voice, like a kid trying to sell a lie to his parents. “Yep. Yep, I’d say I can definitely feel a twenty percent improvement. Twenty or maybe even 25!”

Push, release. Push, release.

“What did Danielle say to you? Did she tell you I didn’t like Mrs. Doubtfire? Did that personally offend you?”

Push, release. Push, release.

Finally, after what felt like 18 years, he stopped, unstrapped me, and we went back to his office. I put my clothes on while he filled out paper work. He then said, “I’m not sure what else will help you.” He seemed so defeated. I almost felt bad for him. I probably would have continued to see him just to make him feel better, except that his practices terrified me. Who knows what he would have tried next?! “If you jump out of this plane without a parachute, I really think the landing will give you a twenty percent improvement.  Here, hand me your pants before you jump….”

You’d think this single experience would have steered me clear of chiropractic doctors, but the truth is I’ve had exceptional care from the chiropractors I’ve met since then. The only real fallout from my adventure with Dr. Fonza-crazy is that to this day, I can’t listen to Enya without instinctively and subconsciously dancing like Elvis.  And I have no tolerance for Mrs Doubtfire, but that was a pre-existing condition.

Love at the Rock's

It’s Valentine’s Day, and love is in the air! Or in the toilet, I don’t know. Frankly, I can’t keep up with your love life. But over here at chateau d’ Craig, we’re settin’ up for a night of sparkin’! (Just Katie and I. The kids have been legally restrained from sparkin’ with any interested callers until they are of proper age. Which is 26.)

Most of my Valentine’s Day nostalgia takes place in elementary school, where we would gladly hand out Valentine’s cards to everyone in class. Boy, girl, weird smelling kid with a lip fungus – everyone was endowed with a written sentiment. On Valentine’s Day, charity abounded and we were all compassionate. Then junior high happened and we were ashamed of ourselves for ever thinking that we could all be friends, especially with anybody not wearing Guess jeans. In high school, February 14^th was pretty much just February 14^th, and unless you were in love, love was not discussed. However, I do have some very specific Valentine’s Day memories from my college era.

Today I’m dusting one off for you from the Before Katie and I Were Together and In Love and Life Was Better than I Deserved chapter.  It’s actually a very funny chapter…now.

Valentine’s Day, 1994. The scene: a wintery Provo, Utah. My love interest at the time, we’ll call her Tamara (because that’s her name), had only one Valentine’s Day wish: that our special holiday dinner would take place at Olive Garden. Not a high-maintenance, gal, that Tamara; evidenced by the fact she was willing to go out with me in the first place.

I called to make reservations, but was informed by the college student de jour working the hostess desk that Olive Garden did not accept reservations. This should have alarmed me. But for some reason, the only inconvenient consequence I could fathom was that we would be sitting in the lobby of Olive Garden a smidge longer than we had originally thought; no big whoop.

There are questions of mortality that just can’t be answered until the next life. What are the details or how matter was organized to create the earth? Why do some of our personal convictions conflict with scientific evidence? Why do bad things happen to good people? And why, in the face of all practicality, did I think I could simply show up at an extremely popular eatery on the evening of a nationally celebrated romantic holiday in a town that houses a university where dating is obligatory by decree…and think that I would need to merely wait an extra five minutes for a table, and all would be well with the world?

We pulled up to Olive Garden, and it was complete anarchy. Hungry, frustrated crowds without reservations spilled out of the restaurant and into the parking lot, turning on each other. Women openly wept, men used language like “fetchin’” and “flippin’” as they paced around their cars…outrageous! It was clear we were only moments away from someone exhibiting behavior usually reserved for Church basketball games.

I popped the car in reverse, looked over my shoulder, and did my best stuntman driving as we narrowly escaped the parking lot – couples and even restaurant employees jumping on my car, yelling at us, “Are you going to eat somewhere else?! Take us with youuuu!”

I explained to Tamara that we would simply jump on the I-15 and head north until we came across the next Olive Garden, somewhere between Provo and Salt Lake. She seemed on board, but 40 minutes later – with horrible traffic, icy weather, and our starving stomachs now digesting our livers – we decided we would just settle on the next restaurant we spotted.

And that’s when it hit me.

Porter’s Place.

Porter’s Place (as described on their website) is a little, out-of-the-way restaurant located in Lehi on historic Main Street, in a 1915 brick building. And as the name suggests, it’s dedicated to honoring Mormon Pioneer Orrin Porter Rockwell. Porter served as Joseph Smith’s and Brigham Young’s bodyguard and was one of the first converts to the LDS Church. He was a close, personal friend of Joseph Smith, known for being a bit rough around the edges.

Now, if this doesn’t scream Valentine’s Day…I really don’t know what does. Really.

I can’t remember how I’d heard about the place, but I had a hunch that you did not need a reservation, and it would not be crowded. And sure enough, we sat right down. Imagine my delight to see that all the dishes were named after historical LDS people and places. I enjoyed a delectable Parley P. Pratt (French dip pastrami with Swiss cheese) and Tamara had the Orson Hyde (a BLT). I was tempted by The Destroying Angel (a one-pound burger), but decided not to go to the dark side.

Having completely impressed Tamara by taking her to a romantic dinner at what was essentially a saloon, we decided to head back to my apartment for dessert and a video. (I know. HOW did she ever let me slip through her fingers? Don’t be jealous.)

We were hummin’ along the I-15 back to Provo when my car decided to no longer be a part of our plans, and…just…stopped. I pulled over and tried to start it again, but it was pouting and would not cooperate. I zipped up my jacket and jumped out of the car to wave down some help. Nuthin’. Car after car after car sped right on by, its occupants probably stuffed with Olive Garden and romantical thoughts, without a care in the world. Evidently brotherly love takes a holiday around Valentine’s Day.

I jumped back in the car to warm up.

“Here’s the thing,” I said to Tamara. “I don’t think anyone will stop for a strange man on the freeway in the middle of the night, in the middle of winter, this close to the state prison.”

“Agreed,” she smiled, not expecting my next sentence.

“And that’s why I think if you get out, somebody will pull over right away. People will be quicker to help a young lady in distress.”

She approved. At least, verbally.

Romantically, I opened her door for her and helped her out. (And they say chivalry is dead!) Then I watched her, and any chance of a good-night kiss, start walking away. Immediately, a car pulled over. My plan worked, but I still somewhat expected her to just get inside the guy’s car and ride off with him, leaving me in the rain with my decrepit vehicle and a half-eaten Parley P. Pratt. I wouldn’t have blamed her. But instead, he backed up, gave us a jump start, and away we went, before my alternator decided to go on strike again.

Back at my apartment, we dried off, warmed up, had dessert, and borrowed my roommate’s functioning car so I could take Tamara home.

And you know what? Maybe it was because earlier in the day I had filled Tamara’s room with red, pink, and white balloons. Maybe it was because she recognized it wasn’t my fault that the Olive Garden didn’t take reservations. Maybe it was because we spent the night laughing despite the escalating ridiculousness of the evening’s events. But whatever the reasons, the night was highly entertaining, even if the date did not end predictably.

My Most Embarrassing Moment on Record

One night, whilst in college, I went out on a first date with a girl named…hmmm… It started with an E. (I cared for her, deeply, as you can see.) Elaine? Elizabeth? Anyway, we were walking through a park, fairly close together, but with our hands in our jacket pockets, as it was a fall evening, and the weather was pleasantly cool. When out of the blue, Ellen (?) says, “Tell me your deepest, darkest secret.”

I did not care for this.

Firstly, I had known Ester (?) for about two days. Who was she to demand to know my deepest, darkest secrets? Was I to automatically trust this attractive, though virtually unknown woman at face value? A woman who had not shared her deepest, darkest secret with me? A woman who found it perfectly acceptable to walk through a park and consider it a date? A woman whose name started with an E! (Edie? Electra? Ebony?)

But secondly, and most importantly…I didn’t have any deep, dark secrets. Unless you count my extensive Huey Lewis & the News CD collection. (And I don’t.)

I’ll never know what Edwina (?) was probing for that day. But I have attended a number of social gatherings since then where people play such “get-to-know-you” games where you are required to recount, in great detail, information you would not normally or casually put on display. “Deep, dark” information, as it were. Only now it is masqueraded as “What’s your most embarrassing moment?”

Well, I happen to have one.

It was early summer, 1993. If memory serves, Rod Stewart couldn’t remember if he’d told us lately that he loved us, Tom Hanks was having difficulty sleeping somewhere in Washington state, and I was dating a lovely young woman from Salem, Utah. Danielle.

With BYU not located too far from Salem, we would occasionally go visit Danielle’s family for some dining and dancing. (Mostly dining.)

On this particular weekend, her family’s ward, the Salem 374^th Ward, was having a barbecue in a nearby canyon. I am a big fan of both barbecues and canyons, so I was excited to go.

It was still early enough in the summer that it was quite cool up the canyon, so there was a roaring fire to take off the chill. I had helped Danielle’s little brother get a plate of food, and he went off to sit by his sister on a log by the fire. I got my own plate and, not seeing a place to sit, remained standing as I ate on the other side of the fire, straight across from Danielle and her little brother.

There was really a large turnout of people, and there were conversations taking place all over the camping area; though most people didn’t drift too far from the fire. I had chatted with a few pleasant folks, making nice and quashing ramped rumors about our impending engagement.

I was finishing the last of my barbecued chicken and preparing to throw my plate in the fire, when I felt an odd sensation around my…uhm, derriere. It was a hand. At first it was cupping my bum, but then it began to rub it. And rub it. And rub it. It was as if my bum were a lamp, and they were expecting Robin Williams to appear. Alarmed, my eyes searched across the fire for Danielle. Not that it would have been okay if Danielle were doing this to me, but she was really the only familiar person there.  

Slowly, as if I were being held at gunpoint, I turned and looked to my left. There, facing away from me…was a total stranger. She was probably mid-forties, long hair, mother of five. And her right hand was now stuffed into the back pocket of my jeans. She had clearly mistaken me for somebody else. For example, her tall, firm-bummed husband. Unsure of what to say, but confident this was going to end no other way than badly, I didn’t say anything.

I stood there staring at her, waiting for her to turn and make eye contact with a man who she did not know. A man who was not comfortable with the whereabouts of her hand. A man who did not give this stuff away for free!

Finally, she turned and realized she had been fondling the wrong bum. Oh, the horror in her eyes! The shock! In an effort to defuse the situation and bring some levity to the entire scene before she could speak, I threw my arm around her shoulder and said, “Hey, baby, you coming with me?”

“YOU’RE NOT MY HUSBAND!”

Well, she had found her voice. The entire ward stopped and turned. Wards from neighboring canyon barbecue parties stopped and turned. Yes, in addition to roving hands, this woman had some lungs. But now, while her stating of the obvious should have incriminated her, I suddenly look like the visiting sick-o from outside the ward, who has been going around shoving people’s hands into my back pockets.

Well, we all had a good laugh, she decided to go back to her husband, and I never went back to visit Danielle’s family – or their ward. 

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

My co-worker, Tobie,* has lived in Las Vegas for a number of years, but originally heralds from Planet Drama, where she is considered royalty. (*Names have been changed. Kind of. She spells it without the “e.”) Each morning when I walk into the office, I am curious as to what the Crisis De Jour will be. The dramatic episodes range from “Last night I talked to my mom for the first time in three years!” to “I lost 1.5 pounds!” And more recently, she broke up with her boyfriend of eight months. Or more accurately, he broke up with her. And what, prêt ell, could be more dramatic than that?! (Well, if you’re Tobie, then just about anything.)

So I’m listening to her heartbreaking story, line upon line and precept by precept, when I suddenly begin having flashbacks to my own breakups. I start getting knots in my stomach, I get a little moist under the arms, and I find myself looking for the opportunity to assure Tobie that her and I can still be friends, even though we aren’t the ones breaking up. It’s just instinct.

For me, breakups were the absolute worst. I avoided them like they were cancer. Oh, how they pained me to the core of my dating soul. It’s still hard to talk about some of them…

Tess Dresher. Fourth Grade. I can still recall the day she walked up to me during recess and asked me to “go with her.” “Sure,” I answered. And those were the last words every exchanged between Tess and myself. We occasionally sat by each other, and I gave her a very special Peanuts Valentine’s Day card, but we never did speak, or even make eye contact. So I guess technically we are still “going together.” Boy is she going to be mad when she finds out I got married and had five children. She’ll want to break up for sure. I’m not looking forward to that conversation.

Julia Zimmerman. High School. It was the summer of 1987, and I was sixteen years old – with a license to drive and to date! I knew Julia really liked me when her mom had grounded her and she promptly ignored said house arrest to go to the movies with me. Yes, we were young and crazy in love! I was pretty sure that after the summer of 1987 I could die happy. By fall of 1987 I was so miserable I was praying for death. We went to different high schools and Julia was first to acknowledge that our long distance relationship wasn’t really going to make it. I nodded my head in agreement, but inside I felt like somebody was cramming my heart through a paper shredder.

Danielle Perrett. College. Danielle and I dated for an entire year, from October 1992 to October 1993. But by June of ’93 I knew we were not meant to be and that a breakup was inevitable. Since you know my aversion to breakups I can tell you that rather than actually breakup, I considered leaving the country. I was about to call my travel agent when Danielle informed me that she was leaving the country for three months for a study abroad program. I may have sounded a tad too supportive, but away she went, and there I stayed, to date and engage in much frivolity throughout the entire summer. By the time Danielle returned at the beginning of September, I had crafted, in my mind, how the breakup would go. And seven weeks later, at the end of October, I finally found the intestinal fortitude to go through with it. And it was the kind of train wreck that, if you were watching it in a movie, you would fast forward through it, so painful would it be to watch.

It was Halloween night. We had gone to a party and we were sitting in my car in the parking lot of her apartment complex. I was dressed as Aladdin, she was Jasmine. Things had been in the pooper for quite some time, and it felt like a stranger walking by could glance in our direction and know exactly what was happening.

It was silent for a few minutes, and then I spoke up.

“I think we should see other people.”

“I told you to see other people last week.”

“I mean you should see other people.”

“I told you I don’t want to see other people. You should.”

“I have.”

“You ALREADY have?!”

“Hey, I don’t want there to be bad feelings between us.”

“Are you giving me the Friend Speech? Don’t you DARE give me the Friend Speech!”

“Uh…NO…never, never. I think it’s just me. See, I have a problem with –”

“OH, NO – the ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ bit?”

“Noooo! That’s not what I mean at all...”

An eternal silence. Like…three days have passed while we’ve sat in the car. And finally she speaks.

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“I…don’t understand the question.”

“I can’t do this!” she yells, and starts bawling as she bails out of the car. “I can’t talk about this right now!” and she leaves the car door open, running into the night. I get out and follow her to make sure she makes it to her apartment, then drive to my own. I walk into my place to find a ringing telephone. I answer.

“…Hello?”

“I just want to make sure I heard you LOUD AND CLEAR!”

“Uhhhhh….yessssss.”

“Define our relationship.”

“What?”

“Define our relationship!”

“Uhm…over...?”

Some muffled sobbing, and then click went the phone.

Excruciatingly painful, right? But not as painful as Tobie’s overly dramatic reaction to the hair she found in her salad at lunch today. “I almost ate this and diiiiiiieeeeedddddd!”