It’s November 6 and I’m in the Waiting Area of a big local hospital waiting for my doctor to show up for her daily shot work. I call it that, because this is my second go at the treatment she does.
A few weeks ago, I felt that familiar twinge, which told me that after three years, almost, of being able to be a really active person, my luck was fading and I would have to deal with my back problem.
My sisters had had bouts of this sciatica-ish issue, but it had happened to them at a really young age, and they were already done with it. But not me. Three years ago, I wrote about my breast cancer, but the truth is, I was scheduled to have my back operated on just at that moment when I got my diagnosis. Now, after having my thumb operated on to relieve some arthritic damage there, I had to turn around and deal with my back once again.
But it’s my back. I need it if I’m going to walk, drive, occupy my time with fun and friends. I need it back, back, back.
So I waltzed into my pain specialist’s office, and she offered me the shots. A series of three pushes of corticosteroids and whatever else into the area causing the discomfort and hopefully, like it did three years ago, it would get me back in the saddle.
And so we did a December treatment to begin.
But shot #2 was problematic. That evening, after walking into the operating room, climbing up on the table and lying face down with a pillow under my stomach, while the anesthesiologist cheerfully pumped carefully chosen medications into my little shuttlecock in my hand and I happily gained unconsciousness, I had my doubts this would work.
By nightfall, I had increaed pain. Thinking it was just a reaction to the shot, irritation in the spine, I hoped it would abate.