Dear Diary, today I couldn’t be brave any longer. Well, I really wasn’t being that brave to begin with anyway, but today I caved in completely to my back pain. I didn’t or couldn’t sleep last night because I was miserable with pain. I’m not going to gloss over it and call it that euphemistic term ‘discomfort’. Pain is pain. Period.
This latest round of muscle spasms sent from hell was not inspired by any overt activity like gardening the back forty, doing the clean-n-jerk with a 20 pound bag of dog food, or merely carrying a laundry basket. Nope, I just woke up one recent morning and noted a slight twinge. At that point, my Wonder Woman status was still in place. I shrugged it off and plowed through that day and subsequent days until this morning. Truth be told, by late in the day yesterday the graffiti was on the wall “prepare for the end of your comfortable existence”.
Diary, you know I try to put on a strong face because I’ve dealt with so many inconvenient painful body parts over my 6-plus decades of walking the planet. Remember that time when I was a kid and thought I could remove a piece of string that had wrapped itself around the front wheel spokes of my bike as I was riding it? I recall it as if it were yesterday. First I removed my flip-flop and then I stuck my foot out trying to reach the flying end of the string with my prehensile toes – WRONG! Good thing I was only a short hobble away from home when my Einstein brain dreamed up that folly. My Mother was pretty angry with me for sticking my toes in the spokes. She couldn’t seem to understand that I hadn’t meant to hurt myself on purpose. It took the better part of the summer for my toes to recover. That was the end of wearing flip-flops for that year.
And then remember that time my sister was riding me on the back of her bike when my right ankle connected with the rear spokes and tore it open. Oh good gawd almighty – remember. My Father carried me into the Doctor’s office a block away and held me down while the fiendish doctor sewed it back together with thick black cat-gut sutures. You’d think I would have forgotten it by now, but I think my screaming is still making its way back from Jupiter.
Then there was the jumping off of stone pillars at Tabor Field and wrecking my knees. I learned to enjoy the fizzle of peroxide on raw open wounds. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
Later on there was the three-week recovery from the tonsillectomy I had at age 28, the wisdom teeth I had removed, one a year for four years consecutive years between the ages of 30 and 34. But probably the pièce de résistance of my pain experience was having a child. It is said that women forget that pain. Methinks that is a misnomer of monumental proportions.
When I was a kid, I cried when I hurt. Now I just get angry. I’ve got things to do, places to go, people to talk to … the world needs me. Alas, with back spasms I’m not going too far too soon for sure. Yeah, I’m disappointed the world has kept on turning in my absence. As is said when language fails, those that appreciate it and those that don’t, ‘it is what it is’. Give me strength.
With unrelenting pain hammering away, I called my orthopedic doctor. I really like him, for years, so approachable, so willing to take the time to explain things. He has always been kind, sensitive and able to fix my aching back and other parts with therapy, heat and drugs. But not today. Today when I amazingly got him on the phone at 8:00 am on a Sunday morning and after apologizing for troubling him at this time, and after explaining I just wanted some pharmaceutical relief until I could be seen in the office on Monday – he said no. He said, “I can’t help you without a full work-up, it wouldn’t be good medical practice for me to order anything for you without me or another doctor seeing you first – go to the ER and get the process started. Sorry.” Sorry, SORRY! Are you freaking kidding me? But all I said was a wimpy, “OK.”
Going to the ER on a weekday is bad enough, but going on a weekend should only be attempted if you need life support equipment, you’re bleeding profusely, or drunk out of your mind and don’t know any better, “escus meee, sarry, escus me, I tink I hert myiiii toe…”
As I tried to find a semi-acceptable position for my fanny, legs and feet that wouldn’t cause the back muscles to sing in unison ‘nanna, nanna, nanna’ I assessed my other options. I could try some of the expired pain medications I found at the bottom of the medicine cabinet. After speaking with a pharmacist over the phone, that didn’t seem like a wise option. Maybe I could just tough it out until Monday, but there weren’t any guarantees I could get an appointment. Most likely the receptionist would simply tell me to go to the ER. Maybe I should try the local walk-in where I’d had great luck getting good care for poison ivy and a sinus infection. I had nothing to lose except pain. I rolled the dice.
So with my loving husband as the wheelman, off we went in search of relief. Mercifully, I didn’t have to wait long and soon was ushered into the room where hope springs eternal for those seeking solutions.
When the doctor entered the room a mere ten minutes later, I couldn’t believe my eyes: she was about my age, she was short like me, she smiled a warm motherly smile, I wouldn’t feel like Grandma Moses – yippee. She took a moment to read the notes on why I was there, and then she turned her lovely liquid brown eyes on me and said, “I understand your pain, I suffer from back spasms, too.” Cherubim and seraphim and other celestial spirits fluttered about her tiny shoulders. “Let’s see how I can help you today.”
She gave me a brief examination including the obligatory getting on the examining table. I didn’t care how much getting up on the table hurt, she was there to help me, she said so, and she did. We exchanged bad back experiences, including what has worked best for me in the past. I loved her, truly loved her, and in my weakened state nearly said so. I decided she might think I was more than just a wimpy Gramma, perhaps some sort of nut case negating my chances of receiving opiates, so I bit my tongue.
I’m home now, Diary, a mere two hours later. Not bad. Had I gone to the ER as suggested by Doctor-Its-Sunday-Morning-Why-Are-You-Bothering-Me, I’d still be there. Instead, I received just the right care and treatment. Dare I say for the right price as far as my insurance provider is concerned? I’ll follow-up and make an appointment with my ortho doc, got to keep him on hand for who knows what in the future of this aging body. But I also want to let him know that I found a doctor who gave me the right care in a timely, cost-effective manner – why hadn’t he thought of that?
Why hadn’t he suggested a walk-in clinic? I’m a witness that urgent care can work well to help stem the tide of rising health care while providing competent care, but unless you have cash, you better have insurance. That, dear Diary, is a story for another day.
By Marilou Newell