I am a word person. I am sensitive to word choices. (It’s a burden, actually.)
I will over-analyze and mull and wonder, “What did she mean by that?” when she probably meant nothing at all. It was simply the word that came to her; the word she knew, a word she always uses, uses without thinking.
So I went to the chiropractor today to have this “sensation” diagnosed and hopefully eliminated. He tested and poked and twirled and spun me around. Face up on the table, face down on the table, and the final diagnosis was: sprained pelvis.
The pelvis bones are held together with ligaments and these ligaments were stretched beyond their range by the squat presses I did at the gym. Similar to a sprained ankle, he said.
He did a few adjustments, but the prescription was basically to ice it 2-3 times a day and don’t do any squats or lunges or any movements that will exacerbate it until it heals.
He ended by saying: “It’s definitely salvageable.”
The word “salvageable” has been ringing in my head all day. “What did he mean by that?” Was I such a wreck that I needed to be “salvaged?”
I don’t think so. I think that some (maybe most?) of the patients he sees really do need to be saved from some destruction they’ve done to their spines. I think he just likes the word “salvage.” Somebody told me his hobby is cars, so maybe the salvage yard is a place he hangs out a lot, so he has borrowed the nomenclature of the car geek crowd/
But when I heard it, it sounded as though I was a totaled car, staring down the eyes of a metal crusher, and here comes my chiropractor saying, “Wait! That pelvis is salvageable!”
So here I am, waiting for the Alleve to kick in so I can sleep.
Feeling gratefully “Salvaged.”