Sometimes I feel very fortunate to have this blog.
These times often arrive while reading the Skeptical Enquirer. I can't read for three pages before wanting to scream at the world for some of the stupidity we inflict on ourselves.
I was reading a bit on chiropractors who have been claiming to be able to correct "altered brain function" through an eye test and some spinal manipulation.
The article begins with:
A new test that measures the size of the blind spot to detect altered brain function and correct it with chiropractic adjustments is a house of cards built on flawed logic and one unbelievable experiment.
The "blind spot" in question is the spot of the peeper where the optic nerve connects. We all have these blind spots.
The idea behind the chiropractic test is that differences in the size of the blind spot can be discerned, and that the differences in size indicate "abnormal" brain function.
The test was flawed in so many ways that it's a wonder the person who wrote the article (Harriet A. Hall) was able to fit it within the pages of this magazine, to say nothing of stuffing that sucker into a reasonably compact corner of this issue.
It reminds me of my first (and only) encounter with a chiropractor, and one of the main reasons I still cringe whenever people tell me "You should really go see a chiropractor about 'that.'"
It was the winter of 1996, and I, a young and testosterone-filled whippersnapper with the desire to prove to the world that, although small, I could take on "the big guys," got really, really hurt while rough-housing with some friends.
It's a long story, but the end of it is that a Very Large Male and his Very Large Brother both charged me in a Very Small Room. My back was to the door, and the full weight of these two nuts (both good friends of mine, so there was nothing truly antagonistic about this encounter) came down on me.
This ordinarily would have been all right. This time, however, when my back hit the door, it hit the part of the door from which a Very Large Doorknob was protruding. My spine connected dead-center with the thing, and Horrible Horrible Pain ensued. I mean, I hit the doorknob backwards with a running start and the weight of three people behind the charge - that's not cool.
For a minute, I didn't think I was going to be able to stand. Fortunately, in that resilient and youthful way that I had about me Way Back When, I managed to pick my shattered body off the ground and limp off in the direction of the bed where I spent the rest of the night Not Walking.
A few days later, I decided that I ought to do something about the New and Unusually Large Gap between the two vertebrae that were involved. There was about a mile between the two vertebrae, which amounts to approximately 63,359 inches more than what could be found between any other two vertebrae in my spine.
So, I did what any "normal" person would have done: I went to a chiropractor that was recommended to me.
I was excited because I expected to get some real help for the ol' spine. What I got was completely different.
After explaining what had happened, she got me to lie down on a table on my back. I thought that was odd since my back was the thing that needed to be worked on. To get to my back from this position would mean going in through the chest, and that seemed like the sort of thing that might add to my problems rather than resolve them.
Never fear, though - she had a plan.
She started to massage my feet.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"The problem," she responded, "is that your back is tense, and that's why your vertebrae are out of alignment - I need to cause the muscles to relax. There are pressure points in your feet that tie directly to the area of muscles around your spine. Massaging like this will loosen that area up."
I explained that the problem was most certainly not that my back was tense, but that my back, which although not tense was probably (and rightly) frightened, had recently been attacked by a vicious doorknob, and that massaging my feet seemed like a strange way to correct the problem with the vertebrae.
She then mumbled something, basically repeating her earlier statements.
Well, I thought to myself, at least I'm getting a foot massage.
A few minutes later (with vertebrae not even remotely fixed, I might add), she instructed me to remove my shirt.
At this point, I couldn't tell if I was in a brothel or an office of chiropracty. This was very reminiscent of a few blurry nights I spent in Nevada when I was younger. It starts with a foot massage, moves onto the clothing removal, and then...
Bloodless surgery!
That's right. This wasn't a brothel. They don't perform "bloodless surgery" in brothels.
She explained to me that, through some tests she had just performed, she found out that my "liver [was] weak" and that she would correct it "with some bloodless surgery."
Visions of chicken gizzards and con-men swept through my head.
She began to massage and manipulate the skin just below my ribs. This was to "prime" the area. The reason, you see, that my liver was bad was that my organs had all "shifted around" and needed to be reset to their proper positions.
I was wondering why we couldn't accomplish this through the normal foot massage, but whatever. Not my place to guess - after all, she's a chiropractor, and my insurance company was willing to pay her for whatever she did based on her professional credentials (this is a post in itself - talk about aggravating).
And so began the "bloodless surgery." She pressed her hands down into my abdomen and started doing some things that could only be accurately described with the words "weird ass shit." She narrated her bloodless exploration of my gollywots...
"I'm grabbing your stomach now and pushing it back up near the rib cage where it's supposed to be. After that, there should be enough room to push your intestines over, freeing up space for your liver. This will improve circulation to the area and restore liver function."
I wanted to scream for help. Obviously, this woman was a madman. Within seconds, she'd engage in a little bit of the good ol' fashioned "chainsaw blood letting" to "fix [my] humors with a healthful glow."
My insurance was covering this.
When surgery was over and my liver was saved, the freak put me on a strange massage table where I spent the next fifteen minutes. I don't know what it was for, and I can barely remember it. My brain had kicked into "survival mode" by this stage of the visit, and all of my attention was focused on getting out of that office alive.
I did eventually escape, but without any benefit to my spine.
Why? Allow me to reiterate - I went to a chiropractor to get my vertebrae set back in place, and this is what I got instead:
- A foot massage
- Bloodless surgery for a liver that I wasn't complaining about
- A water table massage
- Potential exposure to what I can only assume must have been a Stupidity Virus - I don't think I contracted the Idiot Disease from the quack, but one can never be too sure
What really burns me up, chaps my hide, boils my blood, yanks my chain, milks my udder, and rearranges my liver through foot massage, is that people regularly pay for this kind of treatment.
This is OK! This is legal!
How in the [bleeping bleepity-bleep] did this strange practice come to be acceptable in the 20th/21st centuries? It's straight out of the god damned Dark Ages, and I still have a gap between my vertebrae (if any of you would like to touch it, then just let me know).
A brief argument
I've told this story before, and I've often gotten this response:
How do you know that your spine couldn't have been fixed through her methods?
My initial reaction is this:
However, that isn't a very diplomatic way to react.
A slightly nicer way of answering might be:
The burden of proof is on the person making the claim. It isn't my job to provide every single argument as to why her method shouldn't work - it is, rather, her job to provide me with proof as to why this does work.
She didn't do that. She ignored my questions and restated her baloney witchcraft explanations.
It's like people who claim that they've seen extra-terrestrial spacecraft. I cry "bullshit!" and the opposition calls me a "closed-minded skeptic" (I am, for the record, an open-minded skeptic, thankyouverymuch). They'll continue with "How do you know that what this person saw wasn't an extra-terrestrial spacecraft?"
Again, it's not up to me to prove that it wasn't - it's up the person making the claim to prove that it was.
I've seen a bumper-sticker on a lot of VW busses. It says, "Minds are like parachutes - they only function when open."
I would argue that this is only useful provided your parachute isn't riddled with holes.
Required reading
I've said it before, and I will continue to say it:
Carl Sagan's Demon Haunted World should be required reading for every human on the planet. It's a beautifully written guide on how not to be a raging moron in a time when the world is full of yahoos and quacks who want to dupe you, rob you, and take advantage of your finances/emotions.
!@#$ing chiropractors...