Ow! My Back (pt 2)

So, my lovely blogees. When I last left you I'd been kicked out of our city's armpit ER with a pain pill to tide me over.

Yeah.

So I went into work Monday (because, yes, that's how I roll) in much pain, screaming out in horror when I had to take a shower, go to the bathroom, and pull my pants up and such.

So finally I decided to call in sick Tuesday (do you know what a massive thing that is for me?), and see Smokin' Dr Javier to see if, in fact, I needed that MRI I didn't want to have because it was not paid for my by insurance, the "Never Pay Policy."

Smokin' Dr Javier hit my knees with the little hammer, and then made me stand up. He ran his hands along my back, said, and I quote, "Ahhh," then stuck his thumb in a place in my buttocks that almost took me to the ground, and I was holding on to his 95-lb ass, so he almost went down with me.

I told him this was most precarious, as we didn't want to be found in the floor together all tangled up like that, as tongues would wag, and he laughed, then helped me to a chair and started writing.

His writing contained a refill of those pain-killing drugs I got in the ER, but not an appointment for an MRI. Instead he told me, "You need physical therapy and you need it immediately. Even one session could help." He told me to go home and wait, and he'd have me an appointment with someone he highly recommended. With a physical therapist.

And so at noon Tuesday, I met my new hero, Dr Everton.

I walked into his office and he started asking me questions about my situation. I found immediately he was British, which of course endeared me to him. He had a very droll sense of humor during all of the investigory questions.

He made me move this way and that, then told me that although I was in great pain, he thought my situation was not so dire. I had twisted and inflamed ligaments rubbing against my sciatic nerve. He also used the word "sacroyilliac" many times, which as a podcaster of the Hucklebug, I found comforting.

During our introduction and his making me go through some basic back and leg movements, we (somehow, I honestly can't remember) got to mentioning English football. That's when he told me he was an Everton fan. (Sorry, Stennie.) Then he asked me to put slip off my "jumper"(it was just a shirt) and put on the hospital gown he'd given me. I started doing that immediately, and he said, "Oh, no, let me at least leave the room first, love."

OK, this was my guy.

After I'd put on my hospital shirt and he made his way back in, Dr Everton asked me if I thought I could lie on my stomach on his bed. I did my best, and then - then! - he began to tell me how he was a "hands on" therapist.

He lowered my pants and undies, brought out some oils and an ultrasound machine, and began to rub.

And God, how he rubbed.

He massaged my hips and nether regions like you wouldn't believe. All the while, he told me his story (he was from Liverpool and began life as a printmaker, then followed his now-wife to Amsterdam where he studied physical therapy). He did a perfect Beatles Liverpool accent and a good Newcastle Geordie accent. We talked back and forth about England. It was bliss.

After the massage, I got off the table, and still had that screaming (remember?) sensation, but I felt better. I could almost stand upright. He scheduled me for another appointment on Friday. To be honest, I couldn't wait.

He gave some exercises to do in my chair at home and at work that would help loosen up the muscles. Push the back in, feel the strain, then relax the back, feel it let loose. He said to do it all day, every fifteen minutes, no matter what (even on the toilet), then I needed to move.

He was worried my insurance wouldn't pay for his sessions. (What are you talking about? I knew it wouldn't, but I was prepared to pay it myself, whatever the cost.) After I got home that Tuesday, he called me at home to ask how I was doing, and to say that the insurance wouldn't pay, and he was so sorry (Mr Socialized Medicine), but he'd try to get the "Blue Cross" rate for it for me. Didn't matter to me. That ass massage was golden. (And let's be honest, his working the system, less than half the price of an appointment with Smokin' Dr Javier. And still, he apologized. What a guy!)

So I came home and did my exercises. Push, push, feel the strain, then relax. Then move. Get up and lumber around the house or office. Where the first step made me realize how much pain I was still in. Well... hoo de hoo.

I saw him again Friday, and told him I wasn't so much feeling it (I was near tears when I entered his office), because all of the things I do in a morning's time (showering, taking Milo out, going to the bathroom, getting dressed) were the things that made me scream out in pain.

He wasn't the least bit worried. He told me that the push and strain exercises would help, but the key was to move. All the exercises led to movement. But - before my next ass massage - which, let me tell you was wonderful and I swear I could have one every single day - he stressed "movement" wasn't lumbering around a house or office, it was moving my sore leg and hip.

And so I got my ass massage (which, let me tell you, etc), and after I got back to work after that, I stood up every half-hour and moved my leg. This way and that. Leaned to the right and left. Put my leg forward and back.

And I'm not kidding - by about 2pm, I was really starting to feel a difference. I could move! I could stand up and walk without crying. I went to the bathroom and didn't once scream while pulling up my pants!

That Dr Everton knows his stuff!

And so Friday and most of Saturday was a revelation. I could do my normal daily tasks without screaming and crying. (Remember screaming and crying?)

Saturday was not so good, and all my fault. I drove the drive to B'burg, then watched a movie with my buddies, and didn't do the whole "strain-push-get up and move."

And how I paid. Saturday overnight was torture, I got almost no sleep.

BUT!

I got up Sunday morning and started the whole thing again. Push, strain, move. Move, move, move. It helped, almost immediately.

I see Dr Everton again tomorrow. I can't wait to tell him I've had some progress, but more than that, I can't wait for my ass massage.

Insurance or no, "Blue Cross" rates or no, I want that ass massage. Forever. From tomorrow till the end of time.

With the rates he got me from his apologies that we in the US have no socialized medicine, I'd be happy with two ass massages every week the rest of my life!

But I'm progressing, blogees.

Slowly. Did I mention I can't wait for my ass massage tomorrow?