What Happened to Mommy's Back

Okay, so I royally threw out my back. I mean yelping-in-agony, pain-searing-down-my-leg, can’t-move-or-it-kills kind of back pain. It may have happened because of a teeny weeny 16-hour road trip to Michigan, but I’m not admitting that. It may also have something to do with being six months pregnant. Or it could be that I already had a weak lower back and possibly, inadvertently neglected to stretch or exercise like all the articles tell me to. But, as I said, I’m not 'fessing up to anything. What matters is that I was victimized by mind-melting pain that compares only to childbirth---except in labor there are nice people loitering about who will give you an epidural.

It had begun on a Tuesday and in the wee hours of Wednesday morning I made Danny call the office of our chiropractor, Dean O’Hare. The voice mail explained that the office didn’t open until 9. I could see that the universe was committed to my slow death. I made Danny riffle around for Dr. O’Hare’s cell number. We had it!! As Danny left a message, I decided that his voice was not desperate or urgent enough, so I glared at him. Nevertheless, a few minutes later, Dr. O’Hare called back.

“Going to die soon,” I panted into the phone. “Pain stabbing down my leg. Bottom of foot triggers excruciating agony.”

“Sounds like a full blown case of sciatica,” said Dean.

The word “sciatica” meant nothing to me. “Am six months pregnant. Will die soon. Help. Help.”

“The good news is, this isn’t hurting your baby at all.”

“Really?”

“Not at all.”

Birds chirped quietly outside.

“I haven’t used the bathroom in 10 hours." I resumed. "Cannot get up.”

“Now that you might want to take care of. That’s not so good for the baby. Is Danny there?”

“Yes.”

“Have him double bag some ice and put it under your lower back for 10 to 15 minutes every hour.”

“So you’re suggesting that into my volcano of torment I should toss an ice cube?” Actually, I didn’t say that. I thought that. But I was still being friendly because I harbored the hope that Dean might do house calls. "Ice,” I purred. "Good idea.”

“Can you move at all?”

“Not a bit. Can I take pain medication?”

“Not when you’re 6 months pregnant. Just Tylenol.”

Tylenol!!?? Molten anguish surged through my nervous system and he was suggesting Tylenol. “Certainly,” I purred again.

“If you can’t even stand without excruciating pain, there’s not a lot to do but wait it out with ice and rest. It will ease up. However, there’s a lot I could do for you in the office.”

The office, which was four miles away, could just as well have been four galaxies away. I wondered if my insurance covered helicopter transport. I hung up and stared at the ceiling. Then I whispered, “Honey, I have to pee. For the baby.”

Danny helped me out of bed, a sentence which is irritatingly easy to write. The actual act took at least 5 minutes and involved dozens of incremental shifts interspersed by yelps and groans. Then we hobbled together to the bathroom.

Later Danny filled a bag with ice and stuffed it under my back. I may have cussed a bit, the same way sailors cuss a bit, but eventually the ice was where the ice was supposed to be. I had the sensation of laying on a lump of sharp, burning rocks. But I inhaled deeply, willing peace into my body. With saint-like patience, I waited. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. No relief. I whimpered. My friend Tamara showed up. Sam's sitter showed up. Sigh.

An hour and a half later, Tamara and my husband had become my fan club and support group. Cajoling and cheering, they helped me once again to become vertical. Together we staggered towards the minivan the way soldiers do in war movies where the one in the middle is practically dead and the other two lug him forward while his boots drag a rut in the mud. I know how the guy in the middle feels.

At the door of the minivan, I released some adorable, ladylike bellows as they maneuvered my pain-wracked body into a kneeling position. To the casual observer, it may have looked like I had acquired a premature case of rigor mortis, but I felt like a circus contortionist folding into a matchbox.

After a 4-mile ride over what I can only believe were unpaved, speed-bump-overdosed, pot-holed roads, we arrived at Dr. O’Hare’s office.

“Hi Tina,” I mumbled. Tina was sitting in a chair. Effortlessly. Bitter feelings puddled in my heart. “Hi Amy,” I added. Through a blur of pain I noted that Amy was actually standing. Others were walking about the office. Clearly the world was mocking my newfound condition as an invalid.

But an hour later, after lots of assuring words, a few adjustments, massage, and grasping a jar of chirogesic cream, I felt comforted. Also, the baby was kicking vigorously. Relief.

I kneeled all the way home again, the roads having become miraculously paved during the past hour. My OB prescribed some sturdy pain meds, and I slept all day. I awoke only to grumble, get more ice, grumble, take a pill and grumble, in that order, except there was actually more grumbling.

That night was filled with dreams of pain drenched in aromas of icy-hot cream, followed in the morning by another epic journey over treacherous roads to the chiropractor’s office. This time Dean tried to show Danny how to gently massage my lower back and hip. Danny looked on dutifully, nodding. “Do this for her at home,” Dean instructed.

“Got it,” said Danny.

But Danny didn’t get it. At home, he wrenched and poked, asking tentatively if I felt better. I would have felt better if he’d driven over me with a riding mower. He was quickly re-assigned to his former duties of ice-fetcher and bathroom-assistant.

For the next days, the women at Dr. O’Hare’s office were fabulous. They greeted me enthusiastically every morning and gave me ultrasound massages. They exclaimed at how much better I looked than the first day and told stories about flushing their husband’s expensive salt-water fish down the toilet. I tried not to laugh because even if laughter is the best medicine, it was astonishingly painful. But I had to admit, I was feeling better. My in-laws sent a basket of flowers. My husband waited on my hand and foot. Yet as the weekend neared, another dilemma surfaced…

A childhood friend was getting married, and the wedding was to be held an hour and a half away in South Carolina. I was still kneeling on my trips to the chiropractor. Sitting in a chair was an Olympic feat for which I was still in training. The 16-hour road trip to Michigan had just about killed me. How could I drive an hour and a half away? At the same time, how could I let a stupid little nerve in the base of my spine sabotage me!!!

After much careful thought, I realized that things were not as grim as they seemed. I just had to improvise. All I would need was a driver (Danny seemed available), my son’s crib mattress, a neck support pillow, a pillow to put between my knees, an ice pack, extra ice in a cooler, one little pain pill, and a two year old for a peanut gallery. Honestly, it was a piece of cake.

Okay, so I winced at stoplights and clung to Sam's arm rest at sharp turns. BUT… I did clean out the trash from under his seat since I had unprecedented access to it. And I chatted lots with Sam, retrieving his dropped trucks and cheerios. I also made Danny park in discreet places so no one would see me lumber backwards out of the van.

The wedding was fabulous. Childhood friends flew in from everywhere. My sciatic nerve protested a couple of times, but mostly behaved itself. I felt elated.

Today marks exactly one week since my frantic pre-dawn calls to Dr. O’Hare. At ten o’clock this morning I drove myself to my appointment over smooth roads lined with blooming dogwoods.

“Hi Tina,” I said cheerfully. “Isn’t the weather great?”

“Oh, I love it,” she said. “Some people get depressed on these overcast days. But I love the deep purple clouds.”

“Sometimes a brilliant ray of sun will stab through the banks of rain clouds. It’s spectacular,” I exclaimed.

“Hm, hmm." She passed me my paperwork. "Room One.”

“Thanks,” I said, and limped to Room One.