Guest post by Laverne H. Bardy whose humorous, often irreverent, slant on life in general, and aging in particular, draws a large readership. She has been syndicated with Senior Wire News Service since 2004. Her book, How The (Bleep) Did I Get This Old? was released in January, 2012, and is a compilation of the best of her columns.
I have no idea how I injured my back, but the results landed me flat out in knife-twisting agony for nearly three weeks. I’ve had back problems before but nothing compared to this torture – not even back in 1985 when the medics came, hoisted me off of my bedroom floor and carried me to the ER, where the doctor instructed me to sit up and when I said I couldn’t he said, with great annoyance, “Of course you can; you just don’t want the pain.”
The man was brilliant.
So here I was, writhing in agony, hurting too much to read, write, watch TV, or eat; unable to do anything but look up at the ceiling, moan, and wipe an occasional tear from my cheek. Experimenting with new positions took on a whole new meaning.
My doctor promised relief.
“I haf a proceedchure,” assured Dr. Mengele. “You vill be my last patient Vendesday (so no one vill hear your screams).
My friend, Joanne, drove and then listened to my cries and labored breathing as Dr. Mengele pummeled and kneaded. And when it was over, with sweat pouring down my face, I threatened, “You’d better be able to show me a baby.”
I was given a prescription for a muscle relaxant. Instructions on the bottle warned not to drink alcohol, because it might intensify the effect of the drug. I thought, “…….and the bad part of that would be…………….????”
About a week into this ordeal, in a drug induced state, and still on my back, I began to discover little activities that held my interest. I examined my hands with the curiosity and wonder of an infant who’s just discovered his feet. I noticed that the lifeline on my right hand is longer than that on my left and wondered if that meant it would live longer. I spent an entire day pushing my cuticles back so far, they currently reside under each first knuckle. I counted the age spots on my hands and arms which took me through days nine, ten and eleven. I watched the cobwebs on my ceiling fan circle around and around and, incredibly, never drop off. I braided my chin hairs.
I discovered that I can’t drink water lying on my back, and no matter how careful I am, it’s impossible to peel a hard boiled egg on my chest without having the shells slide off onto the sheets. In addition, I came to understand why nobody has ever approved the manufacturing of a Chest Top Computer.
My pain was more severe than usual one morning, when I discovered I’d been sleeping on a Kentucky Fried chicken wing my daughter had loving attempted to feed me the evening before.
My cousin Phyllis prescribed her own home remedy. “Buy a car like mine, with heated seats,” she suggested. “When I had back pain problems I spent the better part of most days driving in my car. I only came home to eat,” she continued.
I liked her idea a lot, but my HMO wouldn’t approve it.
The only plus to being out of commission was a weight loss of seven pounds, but I gained it all back the first day I was able to make the trek down the hall to my refrigerator.
I’m presently up and around. I still have pain but it’s really bizarre how everything is relative. What I’m now experiencing is an incessant nagging, aching, stiffness that infringes on the quality of my every waking moment. But hey, compared to what I had before, it’s Nirvana.
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