Friday I had my annual gynie visit. A couple of years ago I found a new doc so I could go to a practice that was just GYN, not OB/GYN. I was tired of sitting in a waiting room surrounded by pregnant women, with all the associated literature, magazines, posters and imagery regarding pregnancy. So I found a new practice that, I’m fairly certain, is by lesbians, for lesbians. Which makes sense, since not a whole lot of lesbians are having babies. It’s nice not to be hassled about pregnancy or lack thereof, or confronted with pregnant 16-year-olds. Anyhoo, the visit was uneventful as usual. But when I de-stirruped and got off the table, my back bothered me a little bit, and slowly got worse as the day went on. By the time I got home Friday evening I couldn’t stand up straight and decided to lay on the floor, which usually helps. Bad idea. Every time I tried to roll on my side or lift up on an elbow to get up, I felt like I’d been tazed. Or what I imagine it feels like to be tazed. Waves of pain shot all the way down to my feet and brought tears to my eyes. (If childbirth is anything like that pain, I’m glad I didn’t have to experience it.) I couldn’t get up for 45 minutes, and feared that I was going to have call the fire department to come get me, à la those TLC shows where the squad comes to get the morbidly obese guy out of his house and into an assisted-living facility. Anyway. I was finally able to get up, but was in bad shape all weekend. Bret said I looked like Fred Sanford when I walked.
I was diagnosed with a herniated disk 12 years ago, but this was the worst flare-up I’ve had in years. In a haze of pain over the weekend I pleaded with God that if I would just get better, I’d promise to start exercising again. I am feeling a bit better today, but still a little hunched over. I guess that means I’ll be bringing my tennies to work again soon to resume my lunchtime walks. Darn bargains with God.