Pain

I had never felt pain like this.

In 1998, while touring the Isle of Skye, I pulled a moped upright from the wrong side, wrenching my back. But I could walk, and in a few days I was back to relative normalcy.

This morning, as I set Gwendolyn down on the kitchen floor, my lower back erupted with searing pain. I cried out and fell down on one hand, but the pain kept surging through my body, and especially down my legs. After seeing it on countless white boards across from hospital beds, I finally knew what the "10" stands for.

The blinding spike squeezed tears from my eyes as I crumpled to the cold tile. It came in waves, with every inch I lowered my body toward the freezing floor, pounding like a hammer on my spine and sending shocks of spasm through my limbs. After several cries, gasps and moans, I was face down, cheek to the tile, spread-eagle, prostrate. Any move I made caused new paralyzing slivers to stab out from my back. So I embraced the frigid stone pressed up against my chin while my confused two-year-old daughter looked on and until my wife came down the stairs.

"Are you all right?"

I can count on one hand the number of times I have been this not all right.

And now I know the difference between what has happened to me periodically over the last thirteen years--straining my back--and the nearly indescribable experience called "throwing out your back."

Ten hours, eight ibuprofen, three cold packs, and one chiropractic visit later, I can barely hobble across the room without stopping to cringe and pant. I'm praying that before a weekend full of scheduled work rolls in, I'll be able at least to stand up fully erect and lift both arms without flinching.

Tonight I sleep on the floor, feet raised, and pray that my spazzing muscles give me a break.

~emrys