What a Feeling

In 1983, my best friend and I drove clear across the 175 bridge into Mesquite to see Flashdance. Many things would follow that experience. I would cut the necks off all my sweatshirts. I would get a Jennifer Beals perm, which, despite my mother’s insistence, was nothing like the Urban Cowboy perm. I would entertain random urges to learn welding. I would begin my life’s work of wanting to live in an abandoned factory with a pit bull companion. Mostly, though, I would hurt my back. See, the night was eventful. As I left the theater, ripe for a spontaneous dance off as any selfrespecting 15-year-old girl would be, I high kicked in front of my friend’s car. It had rained while we were in the movies. My white Keds sneakers slipped on the oilslicked asphalt, and I fell hard, sliding underneath the trunk of the car like a teenage wicked witch of the 80s east. My wounded pride and tailbone limped into my parent’s bedroom later that night. “Help,” I whimpered. My mom gave me the treatment du jour: a BC Powder, a heating pad for my lower sacrum, and firm instructions to lie flat on my back until further notice. My how back pain treatment times have changed.

Archaeologist findings of Stone Age man show both the prevalence and treatment for Neanderthal back pain. It was brutal. Holes were drilled into the head. HOLES. After all, back pain is totally caused by evil spirits and demons, and they must be released. The ancient Egyptians preferred to leave their heads intact, save for all the kohl they used on their eyes. Early recordings have scientists believing they opined that back pain was untreatable, choosing poultices over drills. And, with all that fulcrum teeter totter activity and pyramid building, you know there was some intense back pain. The Romans and Greeks swore by stretching and “other spinal manipulations.” Typing that made my stomach turn. While Hippocrates loved a good brain surgery here and there, spinal operations have not been evidenced. Instead, his writings suggest a preference to herbs, joint manipulation, and traction when dealing with the spine. If we fast forward to 100 BCE, we find Claudius Galen’s cure all to be balancing the four bodily humors of blood, yellow/ black bile, and phlegm. Gross. In the 1600s, rest was the answer, followed by surgery. This was usually performed by someone good with a proper knife wield, like a butcher or a barber… at the market or the barbershop. The 18th century was all about leeches and bloodletting. By this point, they had at least noticed that no one was living to tell the tale from the non-sterile barbershop back surgeries. Finally, the 1800s heralded sterile operating facilities, though they were more likely to prescribe heroin for all aches and pains. That brings us to modern day medicine & the post WWII era of pain treatment, such as my 80s incident. Take a pill. Get in the bed and don’t move a muscle. When in doubt, apply heat.

These days, we understand pain, or do we? I am always so saddened to see people suffering from drug dependencies that innocently began with a doctor’s treatment for pain with medication that quickly takes control of both the physical hurt and the very soul. We have a plethora of imaging options that can show us exactly what is going

on with our vertebrae, provided we can afford the insurance deductible. We have finally learned that heat may soothe sore muscles, but only ice decreases inflammation. Ibuprofen works well for these symptoms, but it is the ultimate gut destroyer. Mostly, we understand the power of a good old stretch over sedentary rest. There are supporting muscles to strengthen, cores to shore up, and natural curvatures to respect. And pain, once we look it in its ugly face, turns out to be something we cannot avoid forever. It will find us. It will use whatever avenue necessary, be that the arthritis of advancing age, the slip and fall, or the disc wear and tear that comes with a full life.

Thrice, I have cracked the old tailbone. Grace is not my middle name. There was a grade school ice slip, the aforementioned dance catastrophe, and a very scary fall on a waxy floor while designing a mobile kiosk for a candle company. Three honorable mentions lie in the children I birthed, namely the one that weighed over 10 lbs. These traumas resulted in something sort of rare, a collection of cysts in the lining of my spinal cord in the dreaded sacrum area known as Tarlov Cysts. When this area flares, fortunately it does not happen often, pain chaos ensues. Whether it was the post-holiday cleaning frenzy, the camping extravaganza that included me sleeping on a lumpy, tilted jackknife sofa, or the numerous times I’ve traversed the attic stairs to store away all the Christmas décor, I am in the throes of the back thing once again. Hippocrates was on to something with that manipulation thing. A good chiropractic adjustment does wonders for my back. My son, who inherited the BBS (bad back syndrome) swears by Tiger Balm and weird yoga moves done by an old professional wrestler. It works but listening to a WWF voice calling child’s pose “safety zone” is not pleasant. Mostly, time is the best cure. I may not be high kicking my way across a parking lot anytime soon, but I still have that dream of renovating an abandoned factory. As for perms, just say no, ok? A perm would look great right now, said no one ever.