Playing with kids will fuck you up |
In the way that slightly overweight dad’s who’ve let themselves go do, wearing ill fitting jeans and a t-shirt of their favorite sports team (an irony that only becomes apparent when standing near an actual athlete, with abs that look like they could be used to crash test Jeeps, and Pecs you could take shelter under), I’ve fucked my back up. The set up was quite an obvious one: I was wheeling my three year-old around our street on his Mickey Mouse bike, when we came to a slight incline of maybe two or three degrees. It was at this point my spine said “Fuck it, I quit” and I spent the next ten minutes on my hands and knees in front of all our neighbors, whimpering like a freshly neutered puppy. To be fair, the bike was about 18 inches off the ground, and I hadn’t bent over this far since my last medical. It also involved running, so in many ways I’m lucky to be alive.
I could try to explain the moment my back imploded, but all
I remember is seeing white and falling on the ground. I also remember my son
laughing at his goofy dad lying on the street making strange chimp-like noises.
We were about 15 foot from my front door, but it might as well have been on the
other side of the Mojave for all the fucking hope I had of making it home. I
considered crawling back, but between me and you, I’ve left enough dignity on
the sidewalk over the years to consider that. I managed to convince my son to wheel
himself over to the garage, and then I began the long trek home. Think Bambi on ice, after downing a fifth of Whiskey.
The drive to the hospital was a whole new world of pain for
me. I kid you not. Maybe that says more about my sheltered existence than my
injury, but I spent the entire journey unsure whether to pass out or vomit:
every bump and pothole treated me with a level of hatred hitherto reserved only
by ex-girlfriends. Whenever my wife hit the brakes, my back spasmed like my
spinal cord was connected to the power grid.
We finally reached the hospital, and then… Percocet. And
everything felt better. Everything. My pain slipped away into the ether, along
with all the other little day-to-day worries that turn an anxious depressive
such as me, into a twitching, paranoid mess. It was like God himself was my
personal assistant. All I could do was smile 'til drool spilt from my lips. I
cuddled my kids so much even my three year old began to feel embarrassed. I
told my wife I wanted to marry her. Trust me, you haven’t ever really
experienced strong painkillers until you’ve told your mother in law that you
love her. Repeatedly. I’ve taken a bunch of different, ahem… “recreational”
drugs in my younger days, and with the possible exception of ecstasy (that shit
is dope), nothing comes close.
As luck would have it, I was given a prescription for a
bunch more of the dime-sized magical little discs. Plus a note for a week off
work. All in all a very nice outcome for a man who may or may not have begged
for death at one point.
Except… as a precaution, my primary care physician suggested
maybe I should get an X-ray done, just to get to the bottom of the occasional
back-aches I’ve suffered over the last few years. “Sure, why not,” I said, willing to acquiesce to any demand she made
for that delicious prescription of sweet, sweet candy she’d promised me. I
wasn’t concerned. I’d pulled muscles in my back before; usually at the gym,
sometimes playing sports. I figured it was all a part life when you have a nice
round belly like mine, and the flexibility of Venus de Milo.
But there are a number of things you don’t want to hear from
the mouth of a medical professional, when you’re the subject. “That’s unusual”
is high up on that list. “Eh… what’s unusual?” I replied, relying heavily on
the drugs not to go into full-on panic mode. “Have you ever been diagnosed with
scoliosis before?” she queried. “Eh no,” I offered in response, “No I have
fucking not.” “Well it could be just a spasm, but your spine looks slightly
bent. Let me show you.” And there it was, the X-ray of my back that looked like
a game of Jenga… played by a bunch of four year olds. Usually when I look at things
like Ultrasounds, and X-rays, I can’t make head or tail of it. To me they look
like someone spilt their dinner on the floor then took a black and white
photograph of it. But there was no mistaking this: my spinal column looked like
someone had taken a hammer to it.
The nurse told me she’d seen worse, and that physical
therapy would probably fix it, but that the doctor would assess it and contact
me next week. But I see an MRI on the horizon, and if that’s bad news, then
surgery. Of course, usually this would have me hyperventilating in a state of
extreme panic. Not today though… now where did I put those damn Percocet?
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