My New Least Favorite Word

I have a new least favorite word—sciatica. First of all, what is that first “c” doing in there…taking up space and making no sound? All it does it make the word hard to pronounce. Stupid. I would like to file a formal complaint with whichever ancestor of ours came up with that spelling, for all the good that’s gonna do. I shouldn’t be taking out my frustrations on the word, I suppose, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment.

This morning begins Day 11 of this nonsense. There has been improvement…gradual, grudging improvement, but the pain is still with me. Since I first shared the word “sciatica” with you all in this space 7 days ago— the algorithm from hell that plagues us all—has been bombarding me with advice. Illustrations have popped up all over social media showing healthy looking adults performing various stretching exercises, all with radiant smiles on their cheerful faces—a dead giveaway that they are mere actors who wouldn’t  know what sciatica pain felt like if their very lives depended on it. Even my sister sent me one such illustration with the hopeful claim, “relieve sciatica in seconds with this stretch!” But then she added this troublesome comment—“I try to do this every day. I think it really helps.” Not exactly a ringing endorsement. But, it didn’t matter anyway. That particular exercise is one of 5 different stretching exercises I have been doing daily for several months now with nebulous and unquantifiable results. So, my reaction to each new stretch suggestion has been…Stretch this!!

Even my neighbor offered advice. His Dad had a bad bout of sciatica pain and found relief with some orthopedic doctor down in Scott’s Addition whose technique involves getting your body in childlike poses or some such thing. I was in pain when he was relaying this information to me so I may have heard incorrectly. He sent me the link.

Meanwhile, I am treating this with a combination of ice packs, heating pads, copious amounts of Tylenol, lidocaine patches, voltaren cream, and a steadily dwindling supply of muscle relaxers, along with the aforementioned stretching regimen. In addition I have been alternating 15 minute sessions in the steam room with 5 minutes in the pool at AMFAM which actually does offer relief—for about 45 minutes.

All is not gloom and doom. I no longer am walking with a limp and I can now walk up steps like a normal person. I am also mostly sleeping through the night. But I am not on board with any sciatica pain as part of my future status quo. I want to put this behind me and get back to the days of my regular aches and pains, the ones which come with age and don’t require medications and gymnastic levels of bodily contortions to rectify.

And if I see another add like this on my facebook feed I think I might throw something…

Abundance, Poverty, and Home

I was driving home from Pawley’s Island a couple days ago, in that circuitous way that one must drive away from any South Carolina beach if you live in Short Pump, Virginia…that is to say, from gaudy abundance, through ugly poverty, then finally to the comfort and familiarity of home.

The gaudy abundance was provided by the grand strand of Myrtle Beach. Staying in the quiet serenity of elegance which is Pawley’s Island spoils you. You are surrounded by gorgeous homes with tree-lined streets connecting them with each other. Every tree seems laden with Spanish moss. Azalea bushes bloom on every corner. Wisteria fills the air with the smell of springtime on your short walk to the beach. But when you begin your drive north you must first get through Myrtle Beach, then North Myrtle Beach. That’s when you realize just how homogenized America has become. At each of the 15-20 stoplights on the 17 bypass there are the same gas stations, the same fast food, the same banks. In what used to be empty fields of hay and scrub pines, now there are Home Depot, Lowe’s and Hobby Lobby. In the distance there are Ferris wheels and high rise hotels side by side like LEGO towers. Millions of people travel here every summer when its hot as hell for their 12 square feet of sand at the base of these towers, then wait in line at Olive Garden for an hour every night for dinner.

But finally you clear out from all the excess and begin a slow meander on the only roads away from here—the back roads of rural South and North Carolina—which brings us to the the ugly, grinding poverty part of the journey home. We had just crossed the state line between the Carolinas when we happened to drive through the town of Chadbourn, North Carolina, population 1,564. There was a bumpy railroad crossing in the middle of town, on either side of which was evidence of what was once old tobacco warehouses. Now they are abandoned and overgrown with weeds. On either side of the long, dusty Maine Street we found one dilapidated house after another, some without roofs, others without doors or windows. Many of the worst houses were still inhabited by human beings, who set on barely serviceable porches looking out at their yards covered with old furniture, and old cars half shrouded by azaleas. By the time we got to the center of town we saw the husks of old brick buildings that probably once held drug stores, barber shops and hardware stores, now empty except for a thrift store and a tattoo parlor. The one fresh and thriving building held the seat of government for Chadbourn, the police station and the mayor’s office. Everywhere we looked in this sad little town we found the one thing that nearly every piece of real estate had in common. Trash. Mountains of it strewn this way and that in every direction. Just outside of town on the far side of an empty field we saw a long line of old beat up cars and washing machines at least the length of a football field. Driving through a town like this at 35 miles per hour does something to you. It’s the kind of experience that makes you Google the town when you get home to find an answer to the question, “what the hell happened to this place?” I didn’t find an answer except for the fact that 50 years ago Chadbourn was a growing town, busy and prosperous, a place where tobacco farmers sold and shipped their crops in the big train cars that stopped there. Ever since the 1990 Census, the town’s population has been declining. It’s a living ghost town.

Eventually, we made it back to Short Pump. We too have the same gas stations, same fast food and same banks. No trash though. The nicest buildings here don’t hold the government. I think the Henrico County Government Center was built in the late 1970’s. 

But I wonder what will become of Short Pump fifty years from now when I’m long gone. Will the businesses that built this place be gone by then? Will new businesses have taken their places or will Short Pump be filled with run down houses, tattoo parlors and thrift stores?

You Win Some, You Lose Some

Today is April Fool’s Day. This year is the first time in forever that everyone at my office could relax because I’m retired and out of town. Everyone else who has known me for any length of time will be suspicious of any blog post written on this day. But I can assure you that I have nothing up my sleeve this year. I have been introduced to a new enemy since early Friday morning and it has gotten and completely dominated my attention. Sciatica pain is no joke. After hobbling around on one leg all weekend at Kaitlin’s house, now I’m hobbling around at the beach in Pawley’s Island, unable to do much of anything. My best friends are Tylenol, ice packs and heating pads. Although I have been effectively sidelined, one thing remains true and steadfast…

Last night I was up probably 4-5 times from the discomfort. Each time, this girl followed me down the hall to the bathroom. Each time I walked into the kitchen to take some medicine, she followed me. Instead of sleeping on the soft sofa with her trusty blankets, she slept on the hard floor beside the bed. Now, while I sit on this loveseat with an ice pack on my hamstring, she hopped up next to me and immediately fell asleep.

We will head out for breakfast later, and this afternoon try to make it to the beach. It’s supposed to be sunny and 70 after lunch. But, we will probably cut this trip short and head back home. It will be far easier hobbling around at home in familiar surroundings. You win some and you lose some. I feel bad for Pam since this is her spring break. I’ll have to make it up to her when I’m well.