115
Bach Achers
115 Bach achers
Dear Wally:
I’m writing this from my bed spread eagle and groaning. And no, it’s not that kind of fan letter so
simmer down. I’m laid out with back
problems and damn grumpy about it.
Either entertain me, or fix me, or both, would you?
-back acher
Dear back acher:
I am laboring under
similar circumstances these days, and it’s frustrating as hell because my back
has been otherwise healthy all these 45 years. What’s more, I have subjected it to a life
of manual labor (except for the pansy writing stuff) and it has not ever failed
me. So now it appears the honeymoon is
OVER and I have trust/ betrayal issues
in addition to mechanical failure.
My first whiff of the vulnerable human back’s capriciousness came when my high
school pal Andy, who just missed the US Olympic team in swimming, didn’t show up for high school for 3
days. I called to find out if he was
dead (and if so could I have his locker which was nearer to Amy’s than
mine?) only to find out that this elite
athlete had tweaked his back by REACHING OVER AND HITTING THE SNOOZE BUTTON ?!?
on the alarm clock.
Ok, well what the hell are we humans supposed to do with
that kind of orthopedic fragility except wait for the other friggin’ shoe (or vertebra) to drop?
Fast forward all these years , and all those bales of hay
I’ve chucked from the field to the hay wagon and then on to the hay pile in the
barn, and as of 2 weeks ago I find myself wincing, holding my hip and gimping
like an old timer unable to stand up straight.
I’m not sure what happened other than perhaps the extended torture of carrying my young daughter on my
front a little too late into her toddlerhood.
Any parent knows the emotional benefits of such connection and absent
the insane pain in my lower back, it’s a beautiful thing to have a little
monkey holding on for a ride. Worth it
up until that exact moment that it is no longer worth it (which is more or less
45 pounds).
Now that little monkey is bringing me Advil and laughing at
me as I seek the elusive position of comfort which exists for me like an atomic
quark in that its presence is so fleeting and undetectable that it almost
exists in theory only. There’s a few
seconds here and there as I torque my body into shapes I never thought I would
unless I was crawling from the wreckage of a small plane.
The most promising position so far is what I’ve called the
‘bug collector.’ I get down on my knees
, curl up in a tight, little ball, swat the curious dogs away with my left
hand, extend my right hand out (as if holding a magnifying glass) and crawl
around a little. That seems to offer
some brief palliation (I try not to do this in public). It resembles some kinetic, asymmetric
bastardization of yoga’s popular ‘child’s pose’ but without the mindfulness. My daughter likes to imitate me in this
contortion (minus the groaning). Also a
favorite pose is the ‘NHL Goalie’ wherein I drop to a split, rest on one knee
on the floor and shoot the other leg far out.
I then hold myself on the ‘goal’ which is the kitchen table and groan
like I’ve been hit in the nuts with a slap-shot hockey puck. This pose also sometimes looks like a good
old fashion crucifixion gone wrong.
Obviously at this point it’s time to seek help--especially
as my housemate eats dry cereal from a
bowl and declares non chalantly that he had a friend who had lower back pain,
ignored it, and 2 months later was dead with kidney cancer. (Actually I suppose you want to hear that
as much I wanted to hear that. Sorry, I
take it …errr, back).
So I come up with what I hope will be a triple whammy
approach to force my back into compliance.
I do acupuncture with awesome Hillary Thing in Accord, which gets me
started on the right path. Then I drive
until I see the first roadside sign for a chiropractor, which is luckily one
mile away. DR. Marty Lupowitz says to me
, “Why do I know your name? hmmmm. Ohhhhhhhhhhh, you write THAT column, don’t
you?” A quick, if nervous, look in his eyes doesn’t make it clear to me
that I should own this truth or deny it vehemently. Next thing I know, I’m considering what it’s all come to with me
on my side and a grown man on top of me and ready (it seems) to break my spine
with his bare hands. The pesky SI joint seems to be the suspect and the good
doctor’s correction is creepy but efficacious, by God. Hard not to get up from that table and
wonder what the hell just happened if it’s your first time. I suspect the sensation (but not the relief) is similar to what a lucky deer feels when it gets hit by a car for the first time
and it walks away.
The final stop is to Rob Norris, an Accord massage therapist
who helps untweak the spazzing muscles that are clenching my vertebrae as
tightly as my mom used to clutch the “Sweet
Jesus” handle on the car’s passenger door when my dad would drive around
a corner too fast.
This trifecta of attention to the lower back fixes me up
right (while supporting the local economy) and I even cruise through a 7 hour
plane ride!
But then, a week later, I reached for the snooze button and
Whap! I’m back down. Lesson not learned.
So, I write this from some new creative position while I
grope for three telephone numbers. I
hope you get a break from the pain soon,
back acher. This stuff stinks,
right?
-Wally
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