Circling Back

Back Pain and Bitterness

The invisible thief, back pain robbed me of my lifestyle more than a decade ago. Every time I felt I was making progress, it hit the brakes.

It started innocently enough. I’ve always punished my body, high-impact, endurance, strength. Never a gym goer, but constantly in motion, chasing the high of exertion and danger.

At first it was the usual aches and twinges in the lower back, nothing I hadn’t worked through before. But as the years went on and the intensity increased, I’d find myself locked in place, unable to straighten up after another session on the water.

A few days of rest, and I’d be back at it, until the cycle repeated.

When it became unmanageable, I went to the doctor. Muscle spasms, they said. I knew muscle spasms. This was something else.

Chiropractor, no improvement. Then finally, an MRI. Vindication. A bulging disc. Still, the reassurance: happens all the time, it’ll sort itself out.

Years went by. I tried all the things, massage, posture correction, orthotics, acupuncture, diet, medication, meditation. Sitting hurt. Walking hurt. Living hurt.

Then, after a house move, I stumbled out of bed. One leg was dead. I tried to shake it off, but realising I couldn’t bear weight, I was taken to A&E.

If you’ve had nerve pain, you know. It’s not like other pain. Hidden, untouchable, immune to standard painkillers. It scorches through you, unrelenting.

I was a wreck. In pain, drugged up, barely functioning. When I finally arrived at the surgeons office, even the receptionist looked worried. I’d had an epidural, but I was still losing.

The surgeon tested my reflexes and strength. Another MRI. The bulge at L4-5 had compressed my spinal cord to a thread. I was prepped for surgery the next day. Any longer and I could have permanent nerve damage.

I woke up from the op crying. Relief. The axe in my back was surgical pain, but the searing nerve fire was gone. I asked for more morphine. They maxed the legal limit. Still I sat there, lucid, asking for more. “You shouldn’t be awake, let alone coherent,” the nurse said. Months of pain meds had built up a serious tolerance.

Then came the next challenge, using the toilet. Nothing moved. I was full of drugs, nauseous, grey-skinned. Laxatives didn’t help. An Enema didn’t work. The second one finally did. Not a fun way to recover.

That was the tipping point for me and pharmaceuticals. When I left hospital, I went cold turkey. Sweats, chills, aches. I understood those scenes in rehab documentaries.

Recovery was deliberate. I walked daily, followed physio to the letter, reactivated the muscles step by step. But too much progress brought setbacks. Every time I edged back toward the life I used to know, I’d be knocked down again. Another thing off the list. Wakeboarding was a no brainer, but then snowboarding, surfing, horseriding and running were all off the table.

Years passed. I ended up bed-bound again. Getting to the bathroom was a struggle. I had to rethink my shouldnt’s versus my cant’s. I couldn’t sit comfortably. My old identity of a strong, capable, active person was gone. I tried to redirect that energy into academic interests. Brute force was no longer an option.

It’s strange, trying to figure out who you are when you can’t do the things you love. Then you leave your career, and what’s left? I was bitter. I envied people who were content doing nothing. My release valve was gone, slammed shut.

I tried to rewire my brain. Pain signals had worn deep grooves. I consumed self-help, shifted toward gentler pursuits. But the depression crept in. What was the point of living if I couldn’t be free of pain, or active?

I couldn’t trust my body anymore. New scans showed degeneration, bone growths, more bulges. I had to walk away from everything I loved.

I’d spent a lifetime trying to build good health and honest success. Now mornings brought only frustration and dread. None of the ‘right things’ seemed to help; healthy eating, meditation, supplements, cold therapy, swimming, Pilates, strengthening. What was the use of clean living if I was wrecked anyway?

My partner mentioned medical cannabis. So did friends. I was dead against it. Not me. I wasn’t about to become a stoner, it didn’t suit my demeanour.

It took another bedridden week to change my mind. I doubt anyone would’ve believed I was on it. For several years it was a quiet secret only my partner knew.

I hadn’t touched it for 6 months before my breakdown.

It remains an inner conflict, my family would be devastated if they knew, but it has also brought me closer to them as a result of the introspection it induces.

It didn’t fix my back, it didn’t fix my depression, it may even be doing more harm than good. I’m still not an advocate. But like my antidepressants, it’s held me up, allowing me to see things differently.