Thankfully Back

Guess who's back... back again... (you're welcome for the earworm). I took an impromptu hiatus for a few weeks because I was feeling so stale you could have used me for stuffing, but now I'm rejuvenated and writing again. I hope that those of you here in the US had a fantastic Thanksgiving! Mine was... eventful, beginning with a 5k for which I was completely underfueled, progressing to a gig as Chief Spectator and Keg Girl for A's family's annual touch football game and culminating in a mad dash to the bathroom, mid-feast, due to a wily stomach virus courtesy of the two rugrats we babysit for.

A happy Thanksgiving, indeed.

Though it was (thankfully) only a 24-hour bug and I was recovered enough to eat my weight in beef wellington and 16-year old wine at the MIL's 50th birthday party on Saturday night, I'm still in a lot of physical pain as a result of my bout with The Demon. Perhaps it has something to do with the 22.5 hours I spent in bed between 3pm Thursday and 3pm Friday (half hour in the car to get home, 2 hours on the couch the next day), but for the past four days, my back has been absolutely throbbing.

I wish that I could blame it entirely upon the whole bed rest thing, but in reality, that's only half the story. The kink in my neck? Sure, that was from only moving my upper body enough to hit rewind on the DVD remote over and over again (I'll get back to that) while spooning wonton soup broth into my mouth. And it was easily solved with some ibuprofen, a couple hot showers and some active stretching on Sunday. The lower back/hip/glute pain, on the other hand, is a far more sinister presence with a few harder-to-fix roots.

It all started when I was 18 and kind of a bitch. On a frigid New England Sunday, not long after New Years 2003, I was sitting in my living room with my dad and stepmom drinking hot chocolate. I was a senior in high school, coasting into that last semester when the college applications are out, Early Decision results are in, and you're hedging your bets that you're going to get into the school of your dreams even though you got deferred as a legacy (damn you, BC). Per usual at the time, what started out as a nice little chat about the holidays and my life rapidly devolved into a screaming match of epic proportions. As my stepmother and I took turns screeching about my plan to finance my private secondary education through loans and black market sale of vital organs, my poor father just sat there with a vaguely dazed look on his face and the occasional, "HEY!" thrown in for good measure.

After hurling my final insult (something revolutionary and poetic, probably along the lines of, "I HATE YOU, WHY ARE YOU RUINING MY LIFE!?"), I proceeded with my next demonstration of maturity: grabbing my coat and storming out of the house in a fit of hormonal rage. Clad in my new couture Payless ankle boots and black leather jacket I'd saved months to purchase, stomping through the door without a thought to the artic temperature and fact that it had raining, it was an exit that would have made James Dean proud.

I think you know where this is going.

Those first 30 seconds were some of the longest of my life. As I lay prostrate on the front steps of my father's house, the icy slabs of cement nestled cozily against the soft tissues of my lumbar spine and neck, I had one of those moments that people experience right after they receive word of some life-altering event. I'd like to say it was some kind of divine enlightenment, complete with insight into the future and a desire to mend my ways, but really, it was something a little less spiritual than that. In fact, I remember the message with distinct clarity: "I just paralyzed myself over a fucking harpie bitchsnit."     

In those initial moments after I slipped, I couldn't feel anything. I couldn't even cry; these huge sobs were wracking my upper body but there was no sound, not even the faintest squeak. My brain said, "move!" and nothing did. After what seemed like forever (probably a second), my fingers and toes complied and I thanked the good Lord that at least I wasn't paralyzed. I was still terrified, though, and didn't move a micrometer for fear that I would somehow do more damage than I'd already done. My brother, having seen my failed double axel through the foggy glass window of his bedroom, flew outside with my dad on his heels. Together, they managed to calm me down enough for me to slowly (oh, so slowly) push myself up. It was better than the very best Christmas present, leather jacket and acceptance letter combined. I could breathe; I could sit; I could move!

Obviously, I went on an intimate emergency date with my doctor as soon as possible following the slip. I know I can be somewhat overly dramatic, but in 100% honesty, I'm very lucky that I escaped my little teenage tirade not only with the occasional flare of lower back pain, but with my life. The official diagnosis was a bruised spinal column at both the base of my neck (from hitting the top step) and the base of my back (bottom step). Ever the bedside specialist, my doctor bluntly told me that if I had fallen a hair to the left or right, I would have probably snapped either my spine or, even more horrifying, my neck.

Thankfully, it didn't come to that. With the help of a good chiropractor, some strong muscle relaxants and a sweet little device composed of electrodes and wires that made me look like ET post-discovery, I came away from it without a ton of lasting damage. Every so often, usually once or twice a year, I'll inadvertently do something that causes little spiderwebs of pain to radiate out of my lower back, around through my hips and crawling down my legs. It's hard to treat with regular methods, because most of the time I don't know where exactly the pain is coming from. Ibuprofen, heating pads, hot showers and rest are typically the only relief I get during these little spells.

As annoying as it is, I know that I am very lucky. I am thankful both because mine was a minor injury with negligible repercussions and because I don't live in chronic pain, where so many others do due to one reason or another. It definitely gives me a greater appreciation for what those people go through each day, and in a weird way it's a good reminder that while I act like a paper cut is the end of the world, there are people out there who deal with constant aches and pains on a daily basis. It's an interesting perspective that I think a lot of us don't stop to think about very often. Not to say that we don't hurt sometimes -- just that it's always nice to keep in mind that others do, too.

************************
Well, true to form, I started writing this post on Monday. It is now Thursday, and I'm happy to say that thanks to my friends IcyHot, Advil and Memory Foam, my back feels as good as it ever has. I even managed to go for another run on Tuesday, and it was honestly the best run I've had in months. Part of it, I think, was telling myself during the hard parts that it didn't hurt as badly as my back had, and also being thankful that I have the ability to run at all.

So yeah, that's my Thanksgiving post. A week late. Oh well. I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving and are now happily ensconced amongst the throngs of overly-caffeinated holiday shoppers out there clogging all centers of commerce. Deck them halls! ;)

Also, can we just talk about the Chuck/Blair scene from the Gossip Girl Season 4 finale for a second? I know I'm like an entire half season behind and all, but for the love of Bendel's, I couldn't decide if I should cry, scream or swoon. As much as I hate the stupid combo name, Team Bluck has my heart forever and always.

The end.