Chorus
I wish I could say I’d hurt myself heli-skiing in the Alps, but what actually happened was that I bought two chairs to replace the two chairs I bought that didn’t really work. Could I get them in the car? Could I get them out of the car? Up two flights of stairs?
The testosterone-filled chorus of my two sons and their father chanted from somewhere in the ether: “Please don’t try to do that yourself! Why do you insist on not asking for help? You know how your back is…”
But they were not there with me at that moment; their voices were only vibrations of memories of admonitions I’d heard so often over the years. Usually after hurting my back. I was alone, and since that had been the state of affairs for the better part of the last fifteen years, I’ve learned to be stubbornly self-sufficient.
An awkward position on a recent transAtlantic flight had gifted my lower right back and outer hip with a vague soreness. Yet neither that, nor decades of the history of the consequences of lifting things I oughtn’t rather than asking and waiting for assistance (acts I actively eschew) stood in my way.
I torqued and twisted awkwardly to nestle the chairs into the back seat, and then reversed the ungainly ballet moves to remove them. I bent my knees (as advised) to lift their unwieldy bulk, and carried them at an uncomfortable angle so they would clear the stairs, the landing, and more stairs. By the time I deposited them on the living room floor, I knew that ethereal tripartite chorus was nodding their collective heads knowingly: “Oops, she did it again.” Still, I persevered and removed the old chairs, took them downstairs, and installed the new ones in their rightful spots.
“Yeah, I tweaked something for sure,” I thought. Absent, though, any immediate discomfort, I went about with my day, full of smug satisfaction at my solo achievement.
Rude Awakening
I opened my ears the next morning to the now-customary cacophony of nearby I-95 construction noise. I could not open my eyes because a shear (geology: the tendency of forces to deform or fracture a rock in a direction parallel to the force, as by sliding one section against another) of pain cemented them shut.
The rest of my body tensed in response to what felt like half a molten-hot chastity belt clamped to my right lower back, hip, and upper thigh. Surely someone was trying to rip the skin off that area in a single, swift stripping motion. I shrieked and winced at every micromovement in a very futile attempt to alleviate the ache and/or make my way out of bed, but my body was having none of it. The chorus remained silent. Even they knew it would be cruel to heckle or “we told you so” at this juncture. Some demonic voice replaced them, rumbling gutturally, “DO. NOT. MOVE.”
I obeyed and lay still and considered my options as tears rolled very gently down my face; even they didn’t want to make waves. I could call 911 and ask that an ambulance crew extricate me after, I hoped, ample anesthesia. They could take me to the ER where I would point to the very angry red frowny face on the pain chart that the triage nurse would hold up to gauge my level of discomfort.
Or I could try to do it on my own (that’s what got me into this mess in the first place, I reminded myself from somewhere in the throbbing eddy of hurt). I decided to call my doctor (it was 7 a.m., but this felt like it had definitely risen to the level of emergency) to leave a message in the out-of-hours voicemail box begging for guidance.
“Diane, what did you do?” asked Dr. Sarfraz (he knows my back issues well after nearly 25 years) when he called back a few minutes later.
I explained the whole ugly scenario to him, and asked if I should take the who-knows-how-old pink oval tablet that I knew sat in my medicine cabinet in a plastic bag with “SOMA” scribbled on it in blue Sharpie.
“No. Do NOT take that. Can you make it to the office?”
“Yes, sure,” I lied. I doubted I could get out of bed.
“I’ll see you at ten.” Good, I thought. It might take me three hours to get there, if I didn’t pass out from the pain first.
I don’t remember the sensations of childbirth very clearly (I suppose it’s rigged that way or we’d never have more than one), and I’ve never had kidney stones, which I understand rival the former. But this anguish was exquisite. I slid out of the bed. Paused to cringe and cry. Crawled to the bathroom. Paused to cringe and cry. Brushed my teeth on my knees - personal hygiene, right? Paused to cringe and cry. Managed, in a crouching position, to pull some semblance of clothing over myself. Paused, because by then I felt nauseous and lightheaded.
The thought of two flights of stairs down to the kitchen scared me. The additional two flights down to the garage terrified me. I hobbled, holding on to the railing - or more accurately strangling it - as I tried to slither lithely down without putting any weight on my right side because it was ping-ponging shards of sharp, jagged metal from my hip joint to my lower back.
I made myself eat something and drink a cup of PG Tips tea with milk because I hoped that whatever the doctor would give me would be strong enough that I’d need food in my stomach. I was so afraid of passing out while I drove that I figured hydration would be wise. All the while hoping I hadn’t somehow managed to break my hip because this felt light years away from a muscle strain.
I probably ought not to have driven because the phrase blinding pain became crystal clear during the short trip from Westport to Southport.
I Wanna Be Sedated
“Diane, what did you do?” Dr. Sarfraz asked again after the PA-in-training took my vitals and my sad story. I hovered over the padded chair for support rather than sit on it because sitting meant agony.
“Happy Ramadan,” I said, hoping that was the correct greeting. And told him the whole story, starting with the flight from England, all over again. He asked that I touch my toes, lean over backward, and side to side - all of which I could do with surprisingly little discomfort.
“Alright. You strained a muscle. I am giving you lidocaine patches, extra strength ibuprofen, a muscle relaxant - let me throw away that SOMA where did you get this anyway - and steroids. Only take the steroids if you don’t improve by the end of the weekend. Take all the ibuprofen. Muscle relaxants as needed and don’t drive. They will make you loopy.”
Loopy was exactly where I wanted to be, but I had to stop for X-rays (he wanted to be sure I hadn’t broken anything) and the meds first. Happily the X-ray technician took me in quickly even without an appointment.
“Given the level of and location of your pain (she could clearly see it on my face and in my gait) we want to be sure your hip, pelvis, and SI joint are ok.” She covered my thyroid with a lead shield and snapped away.
Happily, too, Achorn’s Pharmacy had received and filled the prescription in the time that it took to image my dysfunctional lower body.
“What happened to you?” asked the local, independent pharmacist who, like Dr. Sarfraz, knew me well.
I felt silly having to say, “I picked up some chairs,” rather than “I fought three people during my black belt test” (which actually happened 21 years ago). He nodded as he handed me the elixirs which would deliver me from this miasma of agony.
“Feel better.”
“Thank you,” I said as I hobbled back toward my car and home.
I spent the next two days in a doped-up blur. The triple play of patches, tablets, and ice packs allowed me to curl up into a pillow-propped, blanket-covered ball on the couch. iPhone and remote at hand, I paid attention to neither and drifted away into medicinally-induced oblivion. My angry muscles tendons sinews nerves relaxed for a blissful moment.
Painful Lessons
During my conscious moments I had ample time to mull the pain as I avoided doing anything physical for fear of rousing the sleeping monster. I thought a lot about the nature of pain and what pain brings and what it takes away. Even as a (purported) writer, I found it difficult to find words to accurately and adequately describe what I felt. It was like nothing I’ve experienced before, that I hope never to again, and wouldn’t wish upon my proverbial worst enemy.
It took from me the ability to think about or have interest in anything else. It was as if the pain moved into my brain and moved everything else out. It consumed me completely. It took away my center and perspective. I questioned my ability to live on my own, complete routine tasks, and even plan for the future. I couldn’t see past, through, or around it. It sapped my energy. No doubt the muscle relaxants did that too, but I found that my entire body tensed in reaction to the intense discomfort, and that tired me. It took, at least momentarily, my confidence in my ability to age gracefully (who, me, 63?).
It gave me a good look at my lack of patience and propensity toward catastrophic thinking. I wanted the pain to go away. NOW; ten minutes ago. When I let the gravity of worry raise the spectre that the severe pain hinted at something more dire than a strained muscle, I had to remind myself that no call from the doctor was, in this case, good news. Dr. Sarfraz would have called immediately if picking up a couple of chairs had, indeed, somehow managed to shatter my hip.
It gave me an immense appreciation for not being in pain - something I take for granted when at ease. It gave me empathy for those who live with some level of chronic pain at all times: whether mental or physical. Those with acute or chronic conditions; people in insufferable situations. Cliché as it may sound, it made me acutely aware of suffering beyond myself. I wondered, as someone to whom I related the story did, how the world would change if we could all feel each other’s pain?
It filled me with gratitude for the providers who helped me and the friends and family who checked in and offered to. It gave me a much greater appreciation for what my body does for me when I listen to the chorus and don’t lift chairs.
I often tell my yoga students that we should be grateful just to be on the mat, and tried to remind myself of that mantra as this, what I hope is a blip, kept me away from it.
OUCH! I realise this is a case of "Do as I say and not as I do" , but maybe don't be too diffident about asking for help. Trust you are on the mend and on the way to pain-free. Until the next time...
Remember that you have two strong neighbors you can always call on to help.