Suddenly my back was killing me. It hurt to get up, to get down, to roll over, to brush my teeth, to do anything. I put up with it for a week, remembering unfondly my many sessions with chiropractors in the ’80s and ’90s. Back then, a doc had told me that if I walked or swam every day my muscles would get strong and I would not have so many problems. It worked for almost two decades.
I don’t know whether it was moving furniture and painting my den or the last-minute rush to finish my book while sitting scrunched up at my desk for hours, but I was in pain. I made the call. After x-rays, talk and an exam, Dr. Schones, who is young enough to be my son, told me I have a disintegrating disk in my lower back. Just like millions of other baby boomers. He signed me up for three treatments a week, with ice, Ibuprofen and careful movements in-between. Nuts. I was sucked into the chiro zone again.
Folks at church got to watch me struggle up and down from the piano bench last week. We Catholics get up and down a lot. Okay, grab the bench, eeeease down slowly, carefully scootch forward, ahhh. Let us pray? They’re standing. Oh no.
Just when I’d start to feel better, I’d go back to the doctor and he’d crunch my bones again. Back to the couch with the ice pack. By Friday, I had stopped screaming, “Jesus!” with every adjustment and just said, “uh.” I only have to go twice this week.
I’m feeling much better. I’m doing my walks, doing a little yoga and looking forward to saying adios to the doctor, even if they did have homemade cookies on Friday.
Meanwhile, I’m sick of looking at that plaster vertebra with the squashed red disk. Dr. Schones says mine looks much older than I am.
Last week I learned of another body part that’s aging too quickly, but I’ll save that for next time. Meanwhile, get away from the computer and move around while you can.
Unleashed in Oregon 