Under the Needle

The tingle shot up to my hip from the edge of my left pinky toe. I jerked instinctively as I observed my mother continue pressing her fingers against my ankle, looking for a place to insert the next needle. Since I can remember, Traditional Chinese Medicine has always been in my home. Whenever I developed a cold, it was always: “Drink this” as my mother mixed an amalgamation of colored brown powders into hot water. Only if my fever persisted did she reach for the Tylenol.

When I moved to China, I clearly remember the many needles placed throughout my foot, leg, and even up to my neck when I had injured my foot. I wasn’t even sure the acupuncture had relieved my pain, but then again, nothing else did either. Thus, when I injured my ankle again as a high schooler, I did everything I could to get rid of the pain. Ice and rest brought me comfort,
but I wanted something that could fix me faster. I wanted to get back on the soccer field as soon as I could. Although it had been a long time since I had sought any kind of TCM remedies, I felt like I had nothing else to turn to. And thus, my mother wheeled out her cart of supplies. The glass cups jingled and the needle packages rustled as the cart slowly made its way across the hardwood floor into our guest bedroom. As I closed my eyes, I felt all sorts of sensations as my mother employed her entire arsenal of remedies. At first, the pungent odor of burning mugwort filled my nostrils. A searing heat passed my injured ankle repeatedly. Then, cold hands pressed upon my ankle, probing for the right location. Small pricks across my foot and leg followed as needles ranging from one to five inches pierced into my body. At that moment, I forgot about the pain in my ankle. I thought to myself: maybe this is how it’s supposed to work.

What do I believe?

My eyes were glued to the screen as I scrolled through the Wikipedia page titled Traditional Chinese Medicine. One word continued to catch my attention: “pseudoscience”. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt my stomach turn as I read that word over again in my head. Maybe it was because I had seen my mother devote the last few years of her life to studying TCM. Maybe it was because it was just as prevalent, if not more prevalent than Western medicine in my local hospital in China. Or maybe it was because I viewed it as an important aspect of my culture. Regardless, I felt a sense of conflict within me. I aspired to one day be a physician. I dreamed of being able to study Western medicine. However, TCM was something that still occupied a large part of my definition of medicine. When I got a cold, I didn’t just think about taking an Advil or a NyQuil. I also thought about which herbs my mother would give me. Who could I trust? What do I believe?

Needle in Hand

My mother called me into the sunroom. I found her lying supine on her massage bed, with small multi-colored stickers resembling polka dots lining her arms and stomach. She called me over and gestured toward her cart of needles. I already knew what to do. I began breaking open each package of needles, just as I had seen the interns and doctors at the clinic do so many times. Then, one at a time, I removed a small sticker and put a needle in its place. Every so often, I still asked my mom if I was inserting the needle at the correct depth and angle, but I had become well-accustomed to acupuncture.