On Saturday morning I woke up with a bad back.
That simple.
I’d done nothing to antagonise my back; I have been doing no heavy/awkward lifting, had not been doing any undue bending/twisting.
I just went to bed on Friday as normal, and woke up on Saturday with a bad back.
I spent most of Saturday horizontal, just resting, not making movements that could antagonise my complaining lower back.
On Sunday I went out on the Daytona, but I was double- and even treble-dosed up on a mix of ibuprofen and paracetamol to allow me to get out of bed and even get showered, shaved, and dressed.
Once I was moving, things weren’t too difficult.
If Saturday was an awkward day, and Sunday was a bad day, Monday was a very bad day.
I struggled in to work, did a full day, and ate ibuprofen and paracetamol.
The first thing I noticed when I woke up on Tuesday was that things had eased off, the pain and stiffness had gone away and I felt normal.
Yay!
All day long there was not even a twinge or a throb, let alone the breath-robbing pain that threatened to hurl me to the floor the previous three days.
As soon as I woke up on Wednesday I knew I was in trouble.
I’ll spare you the details, but even with the help of significant doses of painkillers, and the imaginative utilisation of remodelled coat-hangers, it took me almost two hours to get dressed.
Commuting to Westminster was a barrel of fun. Not.
So was the solutions design meeting. Interesting, but not fun. Obv.
And the trip back home almost had me in tears once or twice.
I fixed myself a light tea, came straight to bed and tried to sleep through the pain. Which didn’t work, obv.
At 4am this morning I knew I was beaten. I sent an email to colleagues saying I wouldn’t be in. At 8am I rang the Doc. At 8.15am I began the slow, careful ballet that allowed me to get dressed. At 10am I was walking carefully out of the surgery with a couple of prescriptions.
Predictably, I have boxes of super-strength painkillers, instructions to avoid heavy lifting, and a cautionary warning that it could take 6-8 weeks for recovery.
I’ve spent the rest of the day horizontal, dozing and watching on-demand videos.
A trip to the kitchen, a couple of minutes ago, revealed that the painkillers are doing their job nicely.
I’ll be back at work tomorrow.
When the Doc asked what I was doing when the pain really began to shout at me, and I said ‘brushing my teeth’, her response was ‘can you do it less vigorously?’
Well yes, I guess so. But I don’t think brushing my teeth put in so much agony.
Backs are strange things… it doesn’t take much to put them out.
And as a long-time sufferer, I offer you my sympathy.
I remember being laid up one week, having been prescribed bed rest by the doc. By day three, things were feeling a bit better. I hobbled to the loo for a wee and without thinking, bent down to lift the toilet seat. Put me back in bed for a further two days, that did.
I’ve found that the cause of my back “going out” is usually a strenuous action days prior. The strain sets it on edge but you don’t notice until it tips over that edge into agony.