Jacques Callot: Beggar on Crutches and Wearing a Hat,
seen from Back, plate five from The Beggars (c. 1622)

" … I'd be aching, too, if I had to put up with all I put it through."

I have not had a BadBack since I finally submitted to that long-deferred back surgery more than twenty years ago. Before that, I suffered from a standard stenosis and a lingering adolescent denial in more or less equal proportions. The physical difficulty was easily resolved with a straightforward surgery. The denial required more than a decade of concerted effort and considerable suffering to finally resolve, which was achieved by my merely consenting to the long-averted surgery. I tried every non-surgical alternative but mostly embraced suffering as the antidote. I got very, very good at suffering because I was already a near master at denial. I could work through that white hot blindness that waves of pain brought, essentially blocking vision. I could stand and deliver while otherwise basically unconscious. I also experienced public collapse like that especially memorable time when a blinding wave of pain disabled me while I was strolling down Lower Broadway in New York City. Miles from my hotel room, I could neither stand nor sit comfortably. That one scared me.

It took a bout of shingles to finally convince my doctor and me that I had successfully tried and worn out every possible alternative. Acupuncture had added nothing to the quality of my experience. Physical therapy failed. The shingles, though, brought a mildly annoying rash. When I reported this to my doctor, he asked how that mild annoyance compared with the back pain I'd been experiencing. I told him the shingles pain was lost in rounding. He replied that shingles pain was known to be among the most extreme, and if my back pain had been greater than that, he needed to schedule that surgery, stat. Acceptance seemed more like acquiescence then, but he introduced me to this hotshot back surgeon who downplayed the significance of the procedure. He loaned me enough confidence to put on my big boy pants and agree to a surgery I'd long believed might be the end of me. That's how maturity often enters someone's life, through repeated insistence. Acceptance, then, was more than obviously required. I'd worn out every possible alternative, including endless suffering.

The surgery worked like a charm. My back was never bad again since then. It was like a former bad dog who'd finally been trained. It no longer embarrassed anyone. It stayed in its place and never once complained. Occasionally, I might strain it or drive long hours to leave it tired. It was still not above complaining, but it never again produced anything like the agony I'd previously grown to expect of him. Not until this last weekend. That almost familiar old twinge left me groaning. I could barely turn over in bed, let alone stand up. It was agony to attempt to do anything but sit stably or lie, neither of which prevented agony should I accidentally shift my weight. I sat as still as stone or lay there feeling very much alone. I had planned to paint the new porch ceiling, worrying over the setup. I figured two ladders, a roller, and a brush to ensure a fine enough application. I planned the operation in the finest details, looking forward to the challenge. When the sun rose, I could barely totter down to the end of the upstairs hall to my bathroom. I groaned my way back to the guest bedroom, where Max the Boy Cat curled up alongside to keep me company. Agony appreciates such company.

The heating pad made no difference. The rest was of little consequence. After two days of tiptoeing around the ache, I seemed no better or worse. My self-esteem was more deeply bruised, though, as I had failed to start my ceiling painting, let alone come close to finishing. I learned at the earliest age that one earns one's supper. One should not expect a free meal; excuses never cover the vigorish. The Muse suggests a note to the doctor via the dreaded patient portal. I shudder in anticipation of yet another wrestling match to prove that the portal holds superiority. Its purpose was not to provide a connection to the doctor but to deny entry and ensure the doctor's not overwhelmed with patient requests. Besides, what could my internist add to this discussion? And, no, I will not submit to a quackopractor, regardless.

My sudden BadBack seems like an allegory of what presently ails our society. Structurally, it's fine, or it was fine before a particularly assinine individual was elected incumbent. Surgery was not required. An ounce of understanding and acceptance could have resolved every reported difficulty, most of which were misinterpretations, anyway. My BadBack seems illusory. It lacks a necessary substance. It does nothing but hurt, but the pain signifies nothing. It seems meaningless, unless it means I am supposed to take it easy for some unknown reason. I had not been overworking myself this busiest yard work season of the year. I had been warmly anticipating inhabiting my familiar old Handiman Dave persona, donning my overalls and muck shoes to putter around completing chores. I'd made certain promises to myself. I had expected a certain level of productive engagement before disappointing myself. I had not even imagined overstepping my capabilities. Then my capabilities seemingly abandoned me.

I will continue suffering until this affliction abates, probably without outside intervention, at some unpredictable future time, but not this morning and probably not this afternoon, either. I'm not above believing I deserve this sort of affliction. I'm not without sin. I struggle to cope while I continue hoping. It's no different with any portion of my existence right now. At least I have a cat still interested in my company and The Muse, who does try to be understanding when her man fails to keep up his side of the family obligations. I ache more for normalcy than I ever will from this back pain. My back is not so much bad as misguided at the moment. I imagine it needs no reforming, just an ounce of empathy and a smidge of understanding. I suppose I'd be aching, too, if I had to put up with all I put it through.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #CHope , #PureSchmaltz