2 advil PM an hour ago. The advil is working better than the PM. Wonder if I can throw a little valium in the mix? Probably a bad call.
Anyhoo.
When a person, especially a relatively young person, overdoes it—say, works too hard, gets too little sleep and exercise, consumes more caffeine and trans-fats and alcohol than actual nutrients, lifts a few too many heavy things, experiences a couple of extremely stress-inducing news and events, the results are usually, say: the flu, some acne, insomnia (check), maybe hives.
OR.
A week of lying on the floor with ice packs and a cripple brace. Paralyzing pain when sitting, standing or walking, or sometimes still lying down, a trip to the ER, a prescription for Aleve (WTF?!?! Gimme the damn narcotics!) a marathon of What Not to Wear and Charmed, a diet of whatever I can hobble to the kitchen to grab and then eat lying down (pizza, ice cream, saltines.), a cab ride to a Manhattan neurologist spent trying to hold myself off the seat with my arms, a shot in the back with a promise that it will make me “feel great” and a prescription for Vicodin (Thank you. I will not let the prescription expire this time. Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb.)
My pony prince tells me I’m supposed to ‘fight getting old’ but I’m not sure that’s quite the best route. I have, ugh, a condition. I can’t go on pretending there’s not a kidney-bean shaped disc sprouting from my spine. I’m starting to understand my limits and I realize that in trying to save a little money here and there (and trying to carry too many things while climbing a ladder, and trying to do more than is wise in too short a time and trying to, well, do it all) I am now unable to do anything and have spent astronomical amounts of money on medical care and cab rides. This is the first time since Sunday I’ve been able to sit at the computer for more than three minutes. And now that all thoughts of quitting Tuckaberry, getting surgery, and (to be honest, albeit dramatically macabre) putting myself out of my misery are being slowly pushed away by the magic of a nerve-blocking steroid, I am beginning to truly appreciate the severity of my condition. “Bad back” translates to “one strong sneeze away from neurosurgery/wheelcharia.” My Fable-writer says that rehabilitation and recovery are not a strictly upward route. I think he’s on to something there. I was doing well. Really, really well. And now I’m worse than I was before the initial diagnosis and treatment.
This whole escapade has given me a lot to think about, (because that’s what you do when you spend five days away from the internet. Think. Funny, that.) including and especially how I continue to run Tuckaberry.
When I asked the neurologist: “Will it be like this for the rest of my life?” he said “There will be good days and bad days”. Translation: yes. When I asked him: “Can we have children?” he said “It will be more difficult for you. But it will be worth it.” Translation: it will hurt like a motherfucker for months. Hope you’re up to it.
Can’t sit upright much longer, so I’ll part by quoting the most cloying, trite, and irritatingly accurate author I can think of: Julia Cameron:
“Treating myself like a precious object will make me strong.”
Damn you, Julia. I wish I could quit you.
