It’s no secret that Singapore has some of the best medical care in the world; the rich from places like Indonesia flee here to have their heart bypass surgeries and recover from strokes. Away from the glitzy downtown private hospitals, there’s also a proliferation of cheap, storefont clinics.  In our bustling but immaculate neighborhood market plaza, with its sweet buns and raw squid and salesmen demo-ing the latest and greatest mop, there’s two dental surgeons, a walk-in emergency clinic and an acupuncturist, acumasseuse and herbalist who offers 15% off to taxi drivers. Last week, I had a migraine headache, which acupuncturists have helped in the states, and so I decided to pay a visit to the local cupper.

Inside the front door, the nurse-receptionist turned off her herb-mixing machine and greeted me gently in bemused Chinese. Her eyebrows arched upward. “Acupuncture,” I said poking at my arm.  “ID card?” she said. I handed her my Oregon driver’s license and a few moments later got back a white slip with SROOKS A OAKLEY and the number 522 at the bottom. “Please sit,” she said and pointed at one of those deli counter number machines on the wall, currently reading 516.

However, 521, a taut, salty-haired guy and the only other soul in the tiny waiting room, went next, was in and out in flash, and so there I was in no time at all watching the little digital numbers go to 522 ( you learn to follow such small protocols around Singapore). I headed for the office two steps up the hall.

Rosie-cheeked Doctor Wang Li Hua and I eyed each for a moment. “Do you speak any English?” I said. “A little,” she replied, roughly. She at least looked the part, sporting her white lab coat and poised to fill in a file the nurse had handed her. And she didn’t seem all that worried that a bulek had plopped down out of the sky and into her office chair in the neighborhood full of Chinese and Indians.“I have headaches,” I said, pointing up top. I made the universal sign for “recurring” with my right hand— the same one you make when you want someone to get on with a story. “Eating?”  “Passing movement?” “Sleeping?” she asked. Fine, I said. She checked my tongue, my pulse on both wrists, and my blood pressure.

And then she quickly she led me to a drab, whitewashed treatment room across the hall. She drew the big blue curtain between the cushioned examining table and the door, while I laid down in that time-honored, practice of patients everywhere — submitting the soft side to the healer.

The first one went between the eyebrows. A couple more over the right eyebrow. One on each forearm and a couple of the outside of each shin and ankle, the ones that always pinch. She left me absolutely no time to think about the act — the thinking is always more terrifying than the actual needles. And so I instead was soon daydreaming to the click of the kitchen timer she set, and to the purr of the air-conditioner, and the chatting outside and the occasional whir of the herb mixer.  A whiff of hash spread across the room with the incense she’d lit.

Some minutes later, I opened my eyes and Dr. Wang beside me with a bag full of herbs in one-dose plastic packets.
“Twice a day, with food,” she said.
“What about the herbs I’m already taking?” I asked, looking at her through the needles over my right eye.
“For one week…” she said looking puzzled.
“No..” I replied.

She disappeared, and then returned with a clean-cut guy about my age wearing a dark golf shirt and rimless glasses.
“Can I help?” He asked.
“I’m just trying to see if I can take my old herbs – Butterbur — with the new stuff?”  He translated to Wang, then came back and said yes, that would be fine.
“What is this new stuff?” I asked.
Over to Chinese and back.
“It’s Chinese herbs. She won’t say exactly what. They don’t like to say because it’s their own formula.” We all sort of laughed, as I tried not to jar any needles.
“She says they’re going after the root cause.”  Nice words. “But it might take a while.”
“I’d trust her,” he added. “I’ve been coming here for two months now.” They left, then he came right back. “Don’t forget to take with water. Not dry!”
“Thanks,” I said staring at the ceiling.

I tried to relax again. The incense and cold air from the AC washed over me. When the timer dinged gently, I stayed put, eyes closed, soaking up life as number 522 in this little cell block of a room with the gongs and pings of Chinese dialects sounding out from down the hall.