Sciatica City

So, sciatica is a pain in the arse (literally) but when I first felt that familiar current of pain, like a key in a lock, exactly twelve hours after I had smugly completed an online fitness class (only Level 2, which was basically designed for a lazy octogenarian – I exaggerate, but not much) – I was feeling very sorry for myself indeed. What is it about back pain that can bring you to your emotional knees so quickly? Firstly, all those jokes that circulate about knowing you are middle aged when “you can put your back out reaching for a slice of pizza” are no longer remotely funny but instead, spirit crushingly depressing. The pain and tightness was so severe that I could not put my socks on – I was crying with the effort. My usual go-to’s all help -a bit- such as putting an ice pack down the back of my pants; taking Advil till the hour is more seemly for a glass of wine; stretching like a slow-motion Georgia O’Keefe every hour, on the hour; supporting myself against the shower wall like an upright Sphinx while blasts of scalding water hit my spine; and best of all, leaning deeply into a tiny tennis ball till the bright, exquisite pain/relief that comes from dissolving a pressure point kicks in. Then, for seven minutes, I can dance, leap and yes, put socks on.

But then repeat all of the above again and again.

During the time I am shuffling carefully around the house, pausing to weep in doorways, I feel the full weight of my advanced years. Why did I not exercise and stretch more all along? When did I become quite SO ugly, my features cribbed like a shrunken apple doll head? The bathroom mirror also suggests the new onset of upper arm flab as I pass by (the kind that moves when you are whisking an egg). I am more and more convinced that this is it – the pain will never leave, I will become incapacitated, I will not be able to bathe myself. I think of everyone who deals with constant pain each and every day and feel shame for not thinking of them more often, although what can I do? The downward spiral continues with every click as I stand at the kitchen counter, watching myself waste time, scrolling through meaningless drivel. A brief visit to the history of the Stoics does little to lift my mood – because, for sure, that should have done it right – and a rich butter tart square only leaves me wanting more.

Oh yes and there’s a Pandemic happening.

The General has been immersed in his genealogical research this week and seems oblivious to my Saturnine mood, excitedly calling out from his perch at the kitchen table that he just found another reference to ‘Rumbold Augustus‘ (not making this up) and can I help him make out the date? I have not felt like laughing, at all, but this ancestor’s name and The General’s absurd enthusiasm about it does actually make that happen. Stanley, concerned, trots back and forth along beside me and keeps presenting the tennis ball hopefully. He seems happy that I am using it too, if not for fetching.

Later on, The General will dispatch me upstairs for a hot shower and cautiously issue the suggestion that I colour my hair to cheer myself up.

Which happens to work almost as well as the tennis ball.

Today I woke up early and – miracle – I stood upright without having to pull myself into place. I am sitting in a chair. And I just put something away in the bottom cupboard. So grateful, I am.

Thank you for listening.

3 comments