On the eve of my 38th birthday at the start of November a disk ruptured in my lower back. This has become a common occurrence, usually once or twice a year. I would love to have an adventurous tale of climbing the peak, completing my first ever ‘double pike’ for Olympic gold, or saving someone in the over enthusiastic style of Tom Cruise in whichever Mission Impossible movie. Free falling from 30,000 feet, to the roof of a speeding train, fighting off highly skilled assassins…But I simply stepped out of the shower. Wow, boring. In fact, … a little embarrassing.
I’m always amazed what the human body can do. Bodies that can lift tons, run for miles, bend in half, produce life. I sometimes feel I wake up in the human equivalent of a Skoda Estelle, (which had a review of ‘…fairly modern, but technically backwards car.’) as I shuffle from the bedroom in the dark mornings, trying to shake off the rust.
Some days are fine, others days socks are a challenge. Some days are filled with the hottest of baths, multiple duvets and endless hot water bottles. Like the challenges of a blacksmith, she must make the material malleable, expanding and contorting according to temperature.
Comfort is always an issue. In our 3-bedroom terrace we must have a collection of pillows bigger than an Amazon warehouse. Hard, soft, microfibre, memory form, wedge, full body, leg, pregnancy pillows. Even Goldilocks got it right on the third try!
My body is high maintenance. Swimming, yoga classes, Chiropractor. Deep tissue massage, acupuncture. We have had various degrees of success with nutritionists, osteopaths, GPs, surgeons, physiotherapists, meditation, therapy, CBD, herbal tinctures and even crystal healing. Not for a cure but so I can continue to tie my own shoelaces every morning.
I guess the decisions of a fully loaded teen can’t always just remain in the past. And as my young body was untangled from the wreak, the outcome was predicted to be a much gloomier affair. That will be 20 years ago on 11th February next year.
That day has become a second birthday. Like the Queen or someone recovering from an addiction, celebrating the triumph of the day they decided to get sober. I guess this is my recovery, my triumph. That day I’ll notice my scars more, knowing that I have managed this pain and condition now for longer than my years before it. Some days I will break in frustration, worried what the future will hold if my body deteriorates. Angry by the pain and forced to take another ‘time out’ from my creative practice. Other mornings I’ll wake so elated and determined, I was given a second chance and I won’t waste a second. Over enthusiastically I’ll go 100 mph trying to do it all until I hit burn out.
The best days are not so melodramatic. I get up, stretch, paint a little, go out for walk across the city, grab a coffee. Discuss art with my husband. Cook and do chores. On those days he’ll ask me, ‘How’s your back today sweetheart?’ and I’ll realise amongst the mundane, day to day, I barely noticed the dull aches and pains. On those ordinary, routine days I take my small steps to victory.