Can I Trade in My Spine?

Have you ever been forced out of work due to a medical issue? I have not been sharing what is going on in my life lately, as I have been slowly losing my mind since September 12th.

Without having a schedule that someone gives me to follow, I typically have a difficult time finding the desire to function as a responsible adult with a household and pet. This time around, being forced out of work due to my own body failing me, I am antsy to get back to my new job. This is a first for me. Even the head manager of the establishment told me to enjoy this time that I won't get back, and won't have again for many years, hopefully. She told me to focus on healing myself and getting better; my job will be waiting for me. It was very reassuring that I have committed myself to a good employer.

You are probably wondering, how did I get to this point?

On Labor Day, Mike and I went to the Michigan Renaissance Festival, where I walked almost 6 miles, slowly hurting more as the day progressed. I was peeing every half hour with a constant urge to go. Convinced that I had a UTI, we stopped on the way home for some AZO (side note: always pee after sex).

I had been suffering a lot of lower back pain since January, with the occasional flare up. It was April before I had the first MRI on the area. However, I did not associate the constant need to urinate with the increasing pain in my lower back until the next day at Physical Therapy. The therapist I had been seeing since April mentioned that as a symptom of his uncle's back pain and I told him what had been happening to me the day before. He connected that with the fact that he could barely touch me without me wincing in pain. He said that I should not be lifting like I do at work, but that I should make an appointment with my orthopedic specialist and have him give me limitations for work because he did not think a physical therapist’s letter would have any weight at my workplace.

I was supposed to work later that evening, and I was scream-crying in pain trying to decide if I should call in, not wanting to not get paid for the previous day. I decided to go in and attempt to do my work in hopes that I could get through enough of my shift to get holiday pay.

Every coworker that I passed in the building asked if I was okay. It was quite obvious how miserable I was. "No." I do not lie.

Asking for help is not a strong suit of mine. I enjoy declaring my status as a strong, independent woman. But that day, I asked the tall early twenties man who works my department for any help he could offer because I was suffering. He could also see it on me, and asked several questions about my pain, in a pleasant, helpful tone while he completed my tasks. It was clear that he did want to help me, and could see how bad of shape I was in. Due to overtime restrictions, he had to leave, and I was left on my own to lift 60-75lb boxes from the floor to counter height, and then 20-25lbs from counter to above or below at least 24 more times. My back was not having any of the work; I could hardly scrub dishes.

At one point, I bent over to grab a sticker off an ankle height table surface and could not stand back up. It was at that point that a newly appointed supervisor walked into the cold room in which I work. We discussed my situation. He told me to let the managers know sooner rather than later and to go home and heal.

I did just that. I even left my water bottle and did not change my shoes before walking up front. I am not sure if it was my intention to leave immediately, but it was what had to happen because I could hardly walk. Three other employees asked if I was okay as I was hobbling to find a manager.

I let the managers know that I could not afford to lose holiday pay, so I made the attempt to come in and work, hoping they would honor it. They could see the pain as well, and asked if I could drive myself home or did I want a ride? I claimed to be able to drive home, and they insisted I go take care of myself, that everything will be okay with my department. I was there for shortly over an hour.

The following Sunday was the next day I attempted work. The rest of the days were covered by sick pay. Miserable is not even the correct word for how I felt that week. It was as though a car hit me while also piercing my left ass cheek with a rusty letter opener. Oh, and my knee was being crushed in a stabbing vice. Once in a while, my ankle would take the blade. This was mostly on the left side, but the right would ache from the same issue or sympathy. That day was Sunday, September 11th.

On Monday, my chiropractor wrote a very strongly worded letter saying that I could no longer lift over 25lbs until this flare-up ended, or I would risk severe nerve damage. The assistant store manager responded to the letter with a pamphlet about short term disability and what to do. They received my call the moment I walked in at home, rivers emerging above my cheeks. I could not work until a doctor cleared me to do so.

Eight weeks later, on November 8th, I received my first epidural: a steroid shot to reduce inflammation of the nerves with hope of fixing the entire issue. My orthopedic specialist, who looks like a Ken Doll, was not convinced it would do the job given the large size of my bulge and how squished the nerves are, plus the nature of my already dried out disc not healing over the course of the previous seven months of physical therapy twice a week. The MRI also showed arthritis in my facet joints at L5-S1, backing up my rheumatologist's finding of psoriatic arthritis. (I am currently also fighting my insurance company for approval to get a cream for my face that costs $1600 for 60 grams. Fun!) Dr. Ken said it was the next thing to try before surgery, and it was probably going to be necessary for insurance to approve a surgery if I do need it.

From the table, while the nurse took multiple x-rays of my lumbar area, I could see the needle enter my back on screen. More importantly, the guy on the other end could see it, and he began to inject a numbing agent and then the corticosteroid that would hopefully make me feel right as rain. (Why is that a saying?) It hurt like a motherfucker. It felt like I had been punched in the side of the leg and ass a hundred times while also actively getting punched. "FfffuuuuUUuuucck!" Ken assured me I was doing well and it was almost over. He reminded me to be still. Then, as he wiped the blood from my back, the nurse said she could not believe this young librarian-glasses wearing woman was capable of such words. "The F word? It's my favorite word." I struggled to sit up, choosing to be a cat (or a cow, I don’t really know) before attempting to use my feet.

It took nine days for the extra pain that the steroid shot caused me to dissipate. I went from a regular pain level of 6 up to 9 and 10 every day. It was bad. The first day that it felt like 6 again was a Friday, ten days after the epidural. I took a walk around the block and felt free.

Here we are, eleven weeks later, at a solid 4, sometimes—oftentimes—a 6 or 7. I am planning to meet two surgeons tomorrow to decide who will perform the surgery that could bring relief. Stress headaches have been a bonus on top of boredom, inadequacy, loss of independence, and constant and ever-changing lower back and hip pain.

Do people talk about this stuff? Are there support groups for people on short term disability?

I have a long list of questions for the surgeons tomorrow. Their responses will be color-coded in a long-neglected Hobonichi planner. Hopefully I can manage decent penmanship tomorrow morning. My gastroenterologist told me today (I had to get a hemorrhoid banded so that it will fall off and stop bleeding. Getting older is fun) that he would go with the one that does not say it will be the easiest thing in the world, especially if they are cocky about their results.

I have been out of work since September 12th, and I did not get paid for Labor Day. It was a fight with the short term disability company at first to give me the correct start date, but eventually I did get back payment for the first 9 days of this forced leave of absence.

There will be a light at the end of this arduous tunnel once I have a date set for surgery.

In the waiting, I have been doing what I can around my home in order to not stiffen up or pull all of my hair out. My bedroom is almost set up for entertaining myself 24/7 from the reaches of my new, firm bed. I bought an antenna for my roku-enabled television, and discovered hundreds of free channels on top of the local ones. I also had to pare down subscriptions due to the lack of income for the forseeable future. But I now have a Blu-ray player in my room and a huge collection of discs. Today, I watched The Price is Right like a proper sick 37 year old kid.

I have some wonderful people taking care of me, and I could not be more grateful. My friends have been there for me when I need to vent, or have questions, or need help lifting something, and to chat like we always do. The doctors I have employed make an excellent team. Dr. Jorah is still my favorite.

As Cecily Strong so gracefully reminded me, this will all be over soon. Sorry to should you, but you should read that book. Thanks for reading this, it means the world to me that you took time out of your own life to care about me. I love you, dear reader.