For weeks now, I have a thirst so dry it gets me out of bed at night. Tongue like sandpaper, I leave a glass of water on my nightstand so I can glug-glug the minute I wake up. The thing that worries me is that it’s past high summer. Thinking it’s an imbalance, I call an acupuncturist from an app.

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The afternoon of my appointment, Dr. sends a few reminders. Drink at least 1 ½ liters of water starting this morning till 4pm and you will not be able to use water 5 hours after. No cold drinks, she adds. For your own good.

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At home, at my 23rd floor apartment’s dining table, her mahjong case stuffed with needles and Chinese incense, she starts by asking for my presenting symptoms. 

 

I wake up in the middle of the night and in the morning so thirsty. Like I n-e-e-d to get water.

 

How much coffee do you drink? She asks. And alcohol, how often?

 

Coffee everyday, an espresso. Alcohol, thriiice.. I say, squinting. A week?

 

When was the last time?

 

Last night.

 

How much?

 

Maybe... two... glasses.

 

In history taking, I always leave something out by shame, or forgetting. The truth is I had been consuming various dehydrating liquors the night before.

 

For the next 48 hours, Dr. cautions: No sex; no sports. Don’t shower till 3pm. And when you do, get the water to a boil. Start with the feet.

 

I take one last shower, we move to my bedroom, and making me lie down, feet to pillows, she sticks a mix of modalities on my back: needles - 60 over the course of the session - along with these big Hershey’s kisses shaped incense called moxa, which she props on top of a receptacle, like a diffuser on the skin. Made from a Chinese herb called mugwort, they are alternated with the acupuncture needles, in aid of another alternative medicine procedure I had topped up with on the app called moxibustion. She eyes the smoke detector ominously mounted above my bed. Is that going to be OK, she says. I assure her the alarm is centralized, the security guards will call if they see anything from their monitors downstairs, no need to worry about activating the showers. She allows it. In a minute, she puts a dozen or so spears of the mugwort on my back and feet, which compared to the big Hershey’s kisses, burn down to a perfectly circular burn, like the nails that pin Jesus effigies on the cross. Much like in acupuncture, they create points, but of heat, as they light all the way down to my skin. I am to tell her if they hurt but I brave it. 

 

Lying on my belly, I pass out as their embers cough yellow stains on my back and ash on my sheets. When I come to, puffs of black smoke rise up like a chimney and Dr. offers to take a picture of it on my camera phone.