Christ, the wandering sage, came to see me from the United States with his physiotherapist. He was a lean, athletic man with dreadlocks in his beard, and his long hair was tied in a gravity-defying bun. A T-shirt without sleeves framed his heavily tattooed arms. “I’ve travelled twice around the world to see if someone can fix my human avatar, and finally, my search has led me to you,” he said in a deeply spiritual voice. “And what’s the matter with it?” I asked. “I have this pain going down from my neck into my left arm, and it’s killing me,” he confessed, having admitted to trying every possible remedy, including trying to self-heal. He winced as he spoke of his condition, a flicker of earthly pain momentarily eclipsing his spiritual aura. He was a professional rock climber amongst other things, and was unable to pursue his passion because his fingers couldn’t grip well and the numbness in his hand didn’t allow him to get a feel of the stone. 

“The legion of surgeons I’ve consulted across continents,” Christ continued, a hint of frustration colouring his otherwise serene tone, “each one a fleeting stop on my global pilgrimage, have seemed hesitant. They’ve nodded gravely at the images of the two rebellious discs in my cervical spine, those tiny tyrants pressing against my spinal cord, but none have dared to offer a definitive promise. It was always a ‘We’ll see.’ For a man whose lifeblood is clinging to sheer rock faces, ‘maybe’ simply doesn’t cut it.”