Even in this age of recycling and environmental awareness, there are still plenty of things that we throw out: shrink wrap plastic, old underwear, my back. Actually, I probably didn’t throw my back out, but I came close. It’s as though I put it in the trash can (recycle bin for windoze users), and it’s just waiting to see if it gets thrown out or miraculously restored.
It was yesterday morning, as I was about to walk out, I tossed something into the bathroom trash can, which required a slight bend and twist. What it didn’t require was a popping sound and a wrenching pain from one side of my lower back, but that’s what came with the bend and twist.
I tested my back quickly, you know, to see if I could still walk after I managed to straighten up without whimpering too loud. Hm. One foot seemed to go in front of another, albeit with the sensation of a red hot poker twisting through my kidney, but whatever–I could still walk. So I got on my bike and rode to work. I figured that the ride might loosen the muscles up a bit. They may not have loosened up on the ride, but they didn’t clench up and cause my legs to stiffen up and shoot straight out from my hips as though rigor mortis had set in while I was in the midst of some yoga pose like Downward Facing Dog either, although it was touch-and-go climbing the hills.
The hot, hot, hot shower at work helped keep my back loose, although by the afternoon it was stiffening up again. Again, the ride home neither cured it nor caused yoga mortis, but I was an aching puppy yesterday night. So after implementing the first part of the testosterone cure for a debilitating injury–walk it off–I implemented the second part–self-medication with booze. After three glasses of wine, I wasn’t feeling any more limber, but I wasn’t hurting as much either. A few generic Tylenols before bed, and I slept like a dog–without the scratching around and whimpering while I dreamed. I hope.
This morning, and all day today, my back felt better, although there were still some things that I couldn’t do, like reach my feet from any position. That made putting on and taking off socks pretty interesting, but I’m getting used to that, and discovering new uses for pieces of furniture that I had never imagined.
All of this trouble over a scrap of trash has gotten me thinking, particularly since I can’t move well enough to actually do anything. My first thought is that we should probably start going back to yoga soon, although I might have to stand through the whole class, since I don’t think I could get to the floor unless someone tripped me, in which case I would be trapped in the yoga studio like a capsized turtle until rescued by a masseuse. My second thought is a series of questions that I don’t have the answers to, that I thought perhaps you, oh wise denizens of the innernets, could delurk and answer, or even just ruminate on:
- By demonstrating a “walk it off” response to potentially serious injuries, do I put my son at risk?
- How do parents determine what is a serious injury to their child, when there is no outward sign of injury?
- What is the best way to inculcate healthy habits in my child?
I’ve got some thoughts and reflections from my own upbringing that I’ll share, but I want to hear from y’all first. You know, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.
So, you regular commenters, lemme know, and you lurkers too.
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