Many years ago I attended a picnic at my sister’s house. I don’t remember the occasion or the year, only that suddenly I found myself flat on the floor in her living room, gripped by excruciating pain while everyone else was outside in the yard. I had come inside to go to the bathroom and when I took the first step after exiting the bathroom, my back seized up in a tight and painful ball dropping me like a rock, face down onto the carpet. I could not move and could barely scream out for help. I can’t remember how long I was on the floor but eventually my sister Linda came inside and found me there. At first she laughed, figuring I was trying to play some trick on her. Where would she have gotten such an idea? Finally she realized I was in great distress. And since my big sister has always been the type of person who knows exactly what to do in the clutch, she ran into another room to fetch her nurse’s bag. Back then she was a public health nurse who made house calls in Gilpin Court, tough woman—my sister. Anyway, I remember her pulling a giant needle out of her bag and giving me a painful shot in the buttocks, one that she seemed to take just a bit too much delight in administering. Later she told me it was Demerol. Within ten minutes or so I was able to sit up. The subsequent trip to the doctor revealed that I had damaged a muscle in my back the previous day when I had helped a friend of mine move a spinet piano up a flight of stairs in his new house. Although I didn’t recall being in any pain while moving the piano, the doctor assured me that it had done some kind of damage which had resulted in the severe spasm that had thrown me to the floor the following afternoon. A couple of days later I was totally fine and feeling cocky when I saw my Dad who asked me about how my back was feeling. When I answered, “Great! No problems at all....” he looked me square in the eye and said, “Listen son, I don’t care what that doctor told you, I’m here to tell you that you’re going to have trouble with your back for the rest of your life so you better get used to it.” My Dad, Mister Encouragement.
He was right. Of course he was.
Although I haven’t been thrown to the ground since that day at Linda’s, my back has always been like a temperamental child for nearly 30 years now. I can go months with no problems whatsoever despite lots of strenuous activity, then throw it out brushing my teeth. The list of benign activities that have managed to throw out my back are truly laughable. My back has been sent into violent spasms over...
-teeth brushing
-plugging in a lamp
-picking up my car keys from off the floor
-filling my car up with gas
The past few days, after all the lifting at Kaitlin and Jon’s new house, the back has been quivering between good and evil. Every move I make, I am aware of it. I can feel the muscles tighten and loosen back there and every thing I feel makes me suspicious of its intentions. It will probably work its way out on its own. It usually does. But I did resort to taking a muscle relaxer last night to be on the safe side. May do it again tonight.
So yeah...Dad had it right 30 years ago. He hurt his back when he was in the Navy during WWII on a ship somewhere near Guadalcanal, and it gave him fits for the rest of his life. But, I take great comfort in the fact that when my Dad was 80 he was still putting in a garden every year...by himself! But it was so like my father to give it to me straight, no sugarcoating—“Your back is going to give you trouble for the rest of your life!” That’s just the way he was. Mom, too. They parented us with very little regard for our tender feelings. They were in the truth telling business. If I wanted a feel-good story I could watch Mr. Rogers. None of this, “Everything is gonna be alright” nonsense. Nope, tough luck about your back there, Son! By today’s standards I suppose it sounds a little harsh, and maybe it was. But I would give almost anything to have them both back. I don’t know about you but I need someone who I can always count on to tell me the truth. Don’t you?
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