So I had this grand idea to shoot video of Jake outside on his new swing and in his new sandbox and write a post about it yesterday. I thought what perfect material and how convenient that it's right in our own backyard.
I injured myself. Not doing anything particularly physical or risky. Oh no, no, nooooo, I was stretching. Sitting down in a chair. Stretching. And it wasn't any sort of crazy yoga stretch. I simply reached my hands back behind my head and had a nice, usually harmless back stretch. Only this time there was a crunchy sounding, "POP" followed by lighting bolts of unimaginable pain. So I hurled myself to the floor (cause that’s what you do), rolled around for a few minutes wishing for death and tried to assess what next. Not being able to move my head or lift my arm, I clearly needed help. So I lurched over to the desk, reached up with my good arm (where the hell is my life alert?) to the phone and dialed Jonathan trying to explain without panicking him that I broke my back somehow and couldn't move. Basically, I've fallen and I can't get up. Given that, as any good, panic stricken husband would, he rushed straight home to my rescue and swooshed me away to Daniel Freeman ER for 5 fun filled hours. That’s five hours of lying on a gurney next to a moaning and snoring, large ex Mexican wrestler (Lucha Libre) guy with a cut finger. No kidding. Then finally about an hour later, this snarky male nurse, who probably wanted to sedate me so I wouldn't notice as much how long I had been there, came in and said,
"May I offer you a poke in your butt to make you feel better?"
Me: "Excuse me?!"
Snarky Nurse (rolling his eyes): "an injection of painkiller in the muscle of your buttocks. NOT in your butt. It should take the edge off." (I honestly think he says the fore mentioned statement to every female patient just for pure shock value, but that’s just my theory)
Me (already bending over and feeling oddly embarrassed by both the misunderstanding & my choice of underpants), “right. Please poke away.”
It took about 15 minutes for the injection to kick in, but when it finally did I was jubilant that the feeling of my arm getting ripped out of my shoulder socket by invisible gnomes had disappeared.
4 hours later…
It’s not broken! BUT, we don’t know what’s wrong with it so we’ll just assume you tore something, put you in a sling, give you some vicodin and send you home. GREAT, so glad I came and exposed my young son to millions of crazy microbes for 5 hours just to be given a bottle of vicodin. Never mind. All worth it.
Jonathan’s been a doll for staying home and helping out with Jake since this all happened. His back went out too so we’re quite the pair of hunchbacks. I was saying to him how I thought stretching prevented one from injuring oneself. I thought I was doing a good thing. He replied that everything changes when you hit 30. Wait a figgin minute . I haven't even "officially" "hit” anything (I have 3 1/2 days left of 29) and I'm already injuring myself from a measly back stretch? And by “hit” do we mean the brick wall of life where you suddenly have to be mature, responsible citizens of society and apparently fall apart ? Because having a baby made no difference what-so-ever in making that happen. I guess I'll find these answers and more when I'm 30. Or maybe you elders who are already there can fill me in.
(Sorry this long overdue post had to be about back pain and aging. I promise a Jake video shortly. Here’s some pictures of my boys to tide you over. )