It’s the early aughts. I’m no older than eight, stuck at a Hannaford grocery outlet. While my father was elsewhere gathering items for weekly survival, I found myself browsing the magazine aisle, skimming Sonic the Hedgehog comics while attempting to sneak peeks at the softcore pornography on display. It’s no wonder I blossomed into the mustachioed dirtbag I am today.
As I perused various publications, my eyes often wandered toward passing shoppers who struck me as odd. Many walked hunched over, shuffling across the grimy floors in misery as harsh LED lights emphasized their struggle. Where had these people gone wrong, and what had they done to warrant such debilitating discomfort?
I didn’t have answers, but I wasn't too concerned. Then and there, I convinced myself I'd never succumb to such significant chronic pain.
Smash cut to fall 2023. Now thirty, I lay sprawled on my bedroom floor, clenching my lower back in distress. For the second time that year, I was battling sciatica, and unlike the previous tango, I was losing this match in a big way. Cushioned surfaces had become my number one enemy. Lower surfaces, like toilets, were impossible to use without emitting tears. Standing perfectly still felt okay, but bending the body in any capacity felt torturous. The activities that once brought me joy were impossible to execute. Exercise? Please. When I walked, it looked like I was doing an impression of my grandfather in hospice care. Writing? Unlikely, as sitting for more than five seconds felt impossible. Masturbation? Doable, but at what cost? Getting there was a challenge, and climaxing felt like someone was dragging a garden rake across my spine. Bottom line: I couldn’t sit, stand, or move without experiencing violent pain. This suffering was all I knew for three months.
The origin of my chronic pain isn’t hard to pinpoint. Despite enforcing daily exercise habits since my teenage years, I neglected stretching, which resulted in my muscles becoming tight balls of fragile, useless tissue. On top of tightness, I was the victim of a silly sledding accident in December 2022. A word of advice: two inches of snow is not enough powder to warrant the construction of a makeshift ramp. The result of these Jackass shenanigans proved to be severe. My tailbone collided with the frozen earth multiple times, and in a matter of days, the right side of my lower body began to retaliate.
Armed with an internet connection, I slipped into the role of armchair doctor and diagnosed my symptoms. To my horror, it appeared I was suffering from sciatica. Sciatica usually occurs when a herniated disk or bone spur in the spine pushes on the sciatic nerve, which travels down one or both legs from the lower back. In my case, the damaged nerve originated in my right glute. At its worst, the pain would slither down my right leg and across my lower back, sending me into a crippling state of uselessness.
After enduring several weeks of unbearable bed rest, I decided it was finally time to see a doctor. Under their supervision, we developed a stretching routine that targeted tightness and alleviated the sciatic nerve. Several weeks later, I noticed progress. I continued to stretch daily, with the naive assumption that I had overcome my chronic pain.
A feeling of agitation began to develop in my lower back towards the end of September 2023. Simple tasks like bending over started to feel incredibly risky. I continued to stretch, hoping my issue was the result of tightness caused by fatigue and not necessarily my chronic pain coming back to haunt me. One day, while squatting down to pick up a lightweight object, I felt a shockwave permeating the right side of my lower body. The sciatica was back with a vengeance. Reunited with my ninety-year-old mobility, I shuffled to my room and collapsed on the floor.
This spell of sciatica felt much more severe than anything I had previously faced. After mustering up the strength to send my doctor an email, I returned to the hardwood floors of my room. I found their firmness to be much more tolerable on my spine when compared to the cloudlike structure of my once beloved mattress. While slipping back into armchair doctor mode, I discovered a community of online sciatica dwellers who praised the benefits of hard surface sleeping. Though intrigued, I was skeptical. I decided if I was going to rest on the ground, I needed to invest in some comfort. Rummaging through my closet, I discovered a thick wool rug, a yoga mat, a sherpa comforter, and extra pillows. I used the wool rug as a base layer. Next, I wrapped my yoga mat inside my sherpa comforter and placed both atop the wool rug. Finally, I set up pillows for my neck and lower body to achieve maximum posture support. By the end of October, I was COMMITTED to hard surface sleeping. Despite this pledge, the pain continued to linger. It was only a matter of time until drugs entered the picture.
Desperate for solace, I began to smoke grass each night before bed. The pain receptors of my sciatic nerve suffered heavy delays when inhaling THC. I would be on the ground, trying to enter my zen palace, when suddenly, I’d feel the delayed ramifications of a slight shift in posture I made thirty seconds ago. Marijuana tends to magnify feelings of euphoria and dread simultaneously. The discomfort was gut-wrenching enough when sober, but when stoned, the effects became elongated to a hilarious degree. Throughout the night, it felt like I was being shot to pieces by the antagonists of The Matrix, all while performing a botched slow-motion bullet dodge. Keanu Reeves, I am not.
Upon learning of my situation, my doctor prescribed me prednisone, a steroid used to treat inflammation. My doctor provided me with enough medication for seven days. On the first day, relief was present, albeit fleeting. But by the third day, I noticed a significant change. I was no longer calculating each step in an attempt to reduce irritation. Moving felt fantastic! And the more I moved, the better I felt! By the fifth day, I realized I was Superman. I was faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Look up in the sky! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! No friends, it’s me on steroids.
There were downsides. On top of irregular bowel movements, my personality had taken a chaotic turn. I had two speeds on prednisone: mind-numbing optimism and stubborn impatience. Had it not been public knowledge that I was taking medication for an injury, those closest to me might’ve assumed a cocaine addiction. I can’t say that I blame them.
Despite these grievances, the drug proved to be effective for the seven-day window. But what would happen after those seven days? Would I lose my newfound mobility? Would the pain slowly creep back with each passing day? I notified my doctor of these concerns, who suggested I take a month-long physical therapy course at the local hospital.
At physical therapy, I wouldn’t shut up about getting an MRI. In my mind, an MRI would provide concrete answers. I had already acquired an X-ray earlier that year to check for bone damage after my sledding incident. The results were negative, but I didn’t get any information on the status of my nerves. An MRI could provide those details. My fellow physical therapy mentors quickly pointed out that my lackluster insurance would barely cover the steep price of an MRI. Sensing my disappointment, they reiterated that I was on the right path to recovery.
“Just stick to your stretching routine and incorporate hip, core, and stability exercises. If you do those things, you should be okay.”
Should. I hate that pesky word.
This incident marked the second time in a year that sciatica had thrown a giant curveball into my life. It was hard enough for me to be happy without chronic pain getting in the way. I was by no means a successful person. The strenuous labor I relied on hardly paid the bills. I aspired to work in a creative field, but those dreams had yet to materialize. To make matters worse, I was now suffering from a condition that made activity and inactivity equally challenging and painful. If I couldn’t beat this thing now, what would become of my future?
The act of embracing uncertainty was not a concept I willfully enforced on the regular. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always believed a little fear is good for the soul. But in a world filled with no guarantees, how could I be excited at the prospect of change, especially if I wasn’t one hundred percent over my sciatica? I think back to when I was a snot-nosed child at Hannaford, observing shoppers with chronic pain out of the corner of my eye. The world is a cruel, unforgiving place, especially if you’re suffering from a permanent injury. What consequences would beset me if I couldn’t prove to everyone that I was pain-free?
When engulfed in darkness, we tend to find light via community. During my three-month struggle with relapsed sciatica, I met several people suffering from similar conditions of chronic pain. These allies provided hours of reassurance and positive vibes. They patiently listened to my unrelenting rants as I riffled off all my fears. Most importantly, they stressed that my life was far from over. That being said, adjustments were needed. Activities that were once constants were no longer accessible. Embracing change wasn’t a mere suggestion anymore; it was an order. Failure to comply would result in another heartbreaking setback.
But how did they do it? When faced with uncertainty, how did my newfound colleagues embrace significant change? Simply put, they didn’t have a choice. As terrifying as a sink-or-swim scenario sounds, for many, it’s the only way forward if we wish to grow. The path to rebirth won’t be easy. Some will question our ability to function. Others will unfavorably compare us to our non-chronic pain colleagues. But for every apathetic asshole we’ll encounter on our journey, we’ll also cross paths with those who find our voyage inspirational and relatable. And if we can inspire others to free their minds from the unrelenting grip of chronic pain, perhaps they can also embrace uncertainty and evolve.
So, where does this leave me today? I’m in the process of embracing change. My updated exercise routine is serving me well. I notified my labor clients of my condition and canceled all future projects. I also sought advice from several graphic designer pals who helped give my shabby resume a sleek makeover. I started writing again for the first time in three months! And every thirty minutes, I remind myself to get up and stretch my muscles. While jobless, I’m taking on small occupations that don’t require back-breaking physicality, such as house and pet-sitting gigs. I’m also in the early stages of developing an OnlyFans account titled Softcore Smut on a Shoestring Budget, which is totally not a desperate ploy for cash driven by financial anxieties.
The point is I’m trying, dammit! For the first time in years, I’m optimistic about my future. Had I known chronic pain was the secret ingredient to embracing positive change and diving head first into uncertainty, I would’ve fucked up my lower back a long time ago. If you wish to take that as an endorsement to injure yourselves, by all means, go wild. I only ask that you refrain from using my name and referencing this piece when authority figures question your actions.
Good luck, my friends. We’ve got this.
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