The Back Story

For the last week, I've been trying to downplay (at least in my head) that there is nothing wrong with my back. Sure, it hurt, but I figured it should hurt after we'd been working so hard. I scheduled my massage for Tuesday and figured that I'd spend a day relaxing in our beautiful house and then move on with life - namely, start preparing for my classes, which start next Monday.

Before I laid down on the table, I told Lynn (the only massage therapist I've gone to more than three times - I love her) that I was feeling stiff and sore in my lower back due to all the housework we'd been doing. I got on the table, was trying to relax, and she got to work. First she put a little pressure along my spine. It ached a little, but not in a bad, painful way. Then she gently applied pressure to the right side on my lower back. As I yelped in pain, I literally jumped up out of the horseshoe that holds my head. I don't know who was more shocked - me or her. It's probably not often that a massage therapist has someone leap practically off the table.

It was in that moment that I realized that I wasn't just aching, I was injured. As I described to her how I'd been having mobility issues (trouble getting off my shoes, it hurt when I hit the brakes in my car, couldn't get out of bed), I also realized that I'd been deluding myself that this was normal. Though I think Lynn was a little shaken, she assured me that the massage was still a good idea, as I was putting a lot of strain on my surrounding muscles, but she said without question, I needed to see a doctor.

And so the next half an hour passed more or less in silence, except with the occasional "are you still ok?" questions as she moved to different muscle groups. Then came the moment that she and I had both been thinking about but not discussing: I needed to roll over.

It hadn't dawned on me until I was laying face down that even in my own bed, it was extremely difficult to roll over due to the pain in my back. But at home, I had a queen sized bed. Now, I was on a less-than-twin sized massage table. Oh, and I'm topless.

Sure, I trust Lynn like I trust my doctor - and it's not like I'm particularly concerned about her seeing my breasts. One of the things that no one tells you about getting married is that when you go in to try on wedding dresses, for the fittings, and finally for the big day itself, you will be getting undressed in front of spectators. So being less than clothed in front of short-term acquaintances is unfortunately not something that I'm afraid of. But being in pain, mostly naked, and having your massage therapist have to call for reinforcements - well, for some reason, that struck me as downright terrifying. And of course, there was the irrational fear that I'd just be stuck on a massage table forever.

Later, Lynn confided in me that her mind was full of stories from colleagues who'd had to call the paramedics to remove people who had become injured or passed out on a massage table. I'm very glad she didn't mention this option to me, as I have several former students who are paramedics, and this thought might have thrown me into even more of a terrified state.

As you've probably guessed, I was able to roll over. It was slow, not very graceful, but thankfully wasn't as painful as I imagined. And, from my back, I was able to prop up and slowly ease myself off the table. After lunch with Andrew at our favorite Italian eatery, I called my doctor.

Andrew and I went through three general practitioners before we finally chose a doctor. We thought we had a really lousy track record - clinics changed on us, and one doc was just a quack. Anyway, we'd resorted to just going to prompt care when finally someone referred us to a doc (actually, a nurse practitioner) who we were told we'd like - she's spunky with a sense of humor, and very good. Unfortunately, we've seen her so many times just this summer that she remembers us right away.

One of the biggest gains I made when I got married was in the area of health care. I got Andrew's insurance and access to his mother, a nurse. She's a great resource, especially when it comes to how much pain killer is ok to take until you can get to the doctor (answer: no more than two vicodin. So far, I've only had one at a time and that's enough to make the world just a little hazy and my back hurt somewhat less). And, Andrew asked me if I wanted him to come with me to the doctor, and of course the answer was yes. Some people might think this is strange, but as my mother-in-law pointed out, people never remember all the instructions, especially when they don't feel well, so it makes sense to take another set of ears with you.

Therefore, Andrew was sitting next to me, helping me remember all of my symptoms (the scariest of which is that my hips are no longer even - my left side tilts up and forward at visible difference), as the good doc told me that I needed to go to physical therapy.

Tomorrow at 8am, I'm visiting a physical therapist. I've never really given much thought to my hips (except when jeans don't fit), but I can't even begin to describe how much I hope she can put my hips back. What good are beautiful floors when you can't dance with your husband across them?

In other news: Andrew worked the mitre saw tonight and fitted the transition boards between the bathroom tile/hallway and dining room laminate/hallway. It looks beautiful and both of his hands are fully intact. He also did the laundry and made (most of) dinner. I give him mad props; he's pretty darned good to me.