On Second Thought

As I write this, I am celebrating my 157 ½ birthday a whole century early.

Why?

Because, sciatica makes you muse about things like that.

Two weeks ago, I wrote about the beginning of this exodus. Although I am now a month in, I don’t know where I am in terms of healing because nerve endings are funny like that. But I know I’m not close to the finish line.

Not that I can run.

My doctor suggested a chiropractor who also utilizes physical therapy, so I went. This place also has electrode therapy, massages and this magic thing they say is a lacrosse ball. In short, it’s like a sterile, but friendly, spa for the infirm and those who walk funny. I love it there right up until the therapist tells me to do the exercise whose name shall not be spoken.

There is really precious little I can say about this particular affliction that is good, but I’ve learned with age and experience that when bad things happen it pays to find the good in them. Otherwise your life is one big struggle bus.

So here you go, a little sample of my optimism.

In only one week of doing the exercise whose name shall not be spoken, I have actually become fluent in French. It’s been impressive and captured the attention of a few people.

No actual French national can understand me, but I bet a sailor or two can.

Another good thing is that the headaches I have had every day for 14 years have improved greatly.

In addition to a jacked up back and hip, X-Rays determined that a wreck in 2001; getting tackled by a Hawk linebacker while taking pictures at a football game in 2003; and getting smacked in the face by a dumpster in 2009, all contributed to my neck being, in a word, discombobulated. It’s less discombobulated now, apparently, and that was an unexpected bonus.

In other good news, my husband walked into the room where I was languishing last weekend, and said something I’ve never heard before, “You smell like a man’s locker room.” Although he was referencing the medicated perfume I’ve switched to, I thought it was sweet that he noticed.

Finally, the magic lacrosse ball they gave me to sit on conspicuously resembles a Kong ball - a rubber ball that my dog Erma thinks is the best thing in the world. Sometimes I find it covered in dog saliva, and sometimes she just helps herself to it while I’m sitting on it. It has added a playful dimension to an otherwise boring healing process.

That’s it. That’s my optimism for the week. I’m off to practice my French.