If You Give a Sarah a Massage Chair…

A few weeks ago, I was visiting a friend out of town. We had a sleepover at her parents’ house; partly because they were away on vacation, mostly because we’re both moms of young boys who love the rare luxury of sleeping and eating and toileting in peaceful solitude.

Of all the rooms in her parents’ house, she sold me on the one with the massage chair.

“Remember that time you were mildly violated by a pedicure massage chair?” she asked.

“Sure do!” I replied, shifting in my seat uncomfortably as I reminisced on the mechanical object that pumped up and down randomly in the middle of the seat cushion at Fancy Nail Salon IV. “I’m sorry, but nobody needs their crack massaged. There’s something wrong with those engineers.”

“Yeah, that was weird. You have to try my dad’s chair, though. It’s awesome. Just be warned – it really gets in there to loosen things up.” she said, miming a kneading motion for emphasis.

Despite my trepidation, I tried it.

Late at night, by myself, in someone else’s bedroom, I tried the massage chair.

A couple things to note:

This was the kind of chair where every limb has a designated compartment.

This is also the kind of chair with inflatable cushions that trap said limbs in place.

The first minute or two were pure heaven. The rollers, the punchers, the karate hands, the vibration – it was an amazing chair, indeed.

And the butt massage! She wasn’t kidding. It really does get in there. Two little robot hands worked my cheeks like Play-Doh. (No crack, by the way, just cheeks. As all massage chairs with healthy boundaries should do.)

The butt massage escalated and segued into The Big Massage. All of the fanciest features working in unison.

The leg cushions inflate. The arm cushions inflate. The shoulder cushions inflate.

The chair even changes postures.

It begins raising your legs up while lowering your back.

From a seated position —

“wow this really is a fancy chair I like this”

to lying down —

“it’s going to lay me all the way flat – how cool!”

to upside down.

“oh dear heavens this is how I die.”

Upside down, late at night, by myself, in someone else’s bedroom. Arms trapped, legs trapped, suspended in mid-air, robot hands gently kneading my gluteus.

The chair leaves you in this position juuuust long enough to panic that Siri isn’t close enough to hear you ask for 9-1-1 before it releases and returns back to normal.

Overall, it really was great massage, especially if you like claustrophobia and being terrified of the unknown and stuff.

The next morning, relaying the experience to my friend, I said, “The only one my soul loves besides my husband is a man named Eduardo at Massage Envy. I think this chair might give him a run for his money. It was firm, yet loving. My neck kinda hurts, though. Is that normal?”

“Yeah – you know how you can be kind of sore for a little bit after a good massage? I bet that’s it.” she reassured me.

10 days later it still hurt enough that I made an appointment with a chiropractor.

I’ve never been to the chiropractor, but all my crunchy friends swear by it so I thought I’d give it a go.

My first visit, they had me sit and wait in a room with an arsenal of what I can only assume were medieval torture devices.

Down the hall I could hear the clanging of metal on metal; loud pops, screeches, and the silent torment of spinal columns reverberating around me.

“My panic was premature,” I thought. “This is actually how I die.”

I didn’t die – although it was a bit touch and go when I had to write “luxury massage chair” under “cause of injury” – but they did take a bunch of x-rays.

Having never been before, I didn’t know what to expect. I certainly didn’t expect them to say, “Thank you, come back tomorrow.” without having done any adjusting.

But I came back the next day anyway.

The nurse escorted me into the small, sparsely furnished consultation room where family members receive news of a loved one’s passing.

The chiropractor shut the door, sat down next to me, and said, very solemnly,

“Are you around a lot of birds?”

A little laugh escaped, because I could have sworn he said BIRDS. As in, winged creatures.

“I’m sorry?” I replied.

“Birds.” he clarified. “As in, winged creatures. Do you spend a lot of time around them?”

“Um…no?”

“Did you grow up on a farm? Hang out in caves? Live in a damp, moist environment?”

“No, no, and no?”

“Hmm.” he replied.

“What do you mean ‘hmm’??” I screamed internally. “Medical people don’t get to say ‘hmm’. Especially not after weird questions about FEATHERED THINGS.”

He went on to explain that the x-rays were showing what appeared to be a granuloma on my spine. (Come again? A who-muloma??)

On one image, it was visible. On the other, it was not.

So here I am, waiting for a simple adjustment for a neck that is apparently too weak to handle inflatable massage cushions, receiving, instead, information about a possible PROTUBERANCE on my SPINAL COLUMN that he is “RUNNING PAST HIS RADIOLOGIST” – all of which is SOMEHOW RELATED TO BIRDS.

B I R D S. (As in, winged creatures.)

After taking another chest x-ray and confirming that “Oh, good, it’s just in your LUNG, not your spine.” (?!?!?!) he explained that at some point in the past I inhaled a foreign object that my body didn’t know what to do with. To protect itself, the body calcified the foreign object and shoved it into a weird part of the lung to be used never.

It’s not uncommon; they see this a lot in damp, moist, cave-like conditions with ample bat and bird droppings floating around. (Our summer home in the Carlsbad Caverns, perhaps?)

No big deal. People inhale weird stuff.

Totally fine.

Except…what??

Putting all the facts together, I find that:

If I hadn’t gotten into my friend’s parents’ luxury massage chair,

I wouldn’t have gotten a neck injury. And if I wouldn’t have gotten a neck injury,

I wouldn’t have ended up at a medieval torture chamber chiropractor. And if I hadn’t ended up at the chiropractor,

I wouldn’t have gotten a chest x-ray. And if I hadn’t gotten a chest x-ray,

I’d still be living blissfully unaware that there is a CALCIFIED BIRD DROPPING IN MY LUNG.

Because that’s essentially what he thinks it is.

Mummified poop.

In my lung.

From a bird. (As in, a winged creature.)

I’m never getting into a massage chair again.

Eduardo, baby, I’m coming home.