Two Saturdays ago I was attacking Himalayan blackberries by
the roots, crawling under bushes to get to their thick giant canes with my Hori
knife and clippers, feeling like a conqueror, until I tweaked my back trying to
toss the canes out into the yard from inside the branches of the bush. I said a
lot of “ouch, ouch, ouch” while my back rebelled as I clipped the roots from
the final canes before maneuvering out from the branches, and hobbling into the
house. I took a dose of ibuprofen and one of my prescription muscle relaxers
and felt fine until late that Tuesday night when my husband and I were pushing
furniture around our living room in order to set up a ladder to determine the
source of a sudden roof leak. I felt a sharp twinge when I stood up from the
couch, but forgot about it by the time I went to sleep.
Wednesday morning dawned, and I couldn’t stand straight when
I got out of bed and couldn’t put weight on my right leg. So I hunched way
over, bent my knees, and shuffled to the bathroom. It was a painful trip
downstairs to the couch, where I spent nearly all day, except for the agonizing
moments when I hobbled to the kitchen or bathroom. That evening, my husband drove me to
Urgent Care where they suspected I sprained the iliac ligament on my right
side, causing inflammation of my sciatic nerve, through the groin and down my
leg.
I was given a shot, prescription anti-inflammatory, muscle
relaxer, crutches, and instructions to rest—bed rest, but I can’t lay down comfortably,
so I ensconced myself on our reclining couch (as I had all day) with pillows
and blankets, pills and a water bottle, heating pad, earplugs, all within arm’s
reach so I might get a decent night’s rest, which I couldn't.
I was supposed to spend the following day in real estate
classes, but Thursday came and I felt worse not better, I couldn’t imagine
trying to hobble around the MLS office on crutches, or sit up straight and lean
toward a monitor, when any motion caused pain. And so I spent that Thursday
much as I had Wednesday, trying to remain as still as possible, waiting for my
husband to return home from work to take me to the ER where I got stronger
painkillers and steroids. At home, I watched TV and typed on my laptop only my
fingers in motion, no shifting or fidgeting, movement only as a last resort. And
most of my typing involved cancelling activities: not just the real estate
classes, but a trip to Florida to see my soul sister as well.
For the past two weeks I’ve experienced what friends and
loved ones with chronic pain experience daily. And in my temporary disability,
I can say that pain makes me tired, grumpy, weepy. It’s not a contemplative
stillness that leads to creativity, but a stillness that when breached brings
waves of bodily insult and the hard accompanying breath of trying not to
crumple in place, or break down in sobs, or give into hopelessness of ever
feeling better. Pain is a thug, threatening to pummel if we’re not completely
obedient to its demands.
I’ve been told the only way through pain is acceptance, to embrace
it—and I thought that meant psychic and spiritual pain, and that seemed true enough.
But I've always tried to dull physical pain: I take Chinese herbs and rub arnica on my neck
at the first sign of a neck or headache, and I try to “stay ahead of it” with
painkillers after surgery. I’ll do anything to avoid physical pain, but
there are moments when my “pain body” (to use a phrase from Eckhart Tolle) is
all consuming, when my consciousness is solely focused on my pain, my world
spun so small it’s no bigger than the sensation of spasm and heat slicing
through my thigh.
I know I’m supposed to ask why this injury showed up or what
it has to teach me, but I’d much rather distract myself with HGTV home
renovation shows or reading all those links about literature and life I save
from my Facebook feed and forget about. Only when my body is completely
still can I find pain-free moments. Media helps me forget about my circumstances—being unable to
walk or work, and having to cancel a trip this weekend to Whidbey
Island with the Chrysostom Society, an amazing group of Christian writers.
Sitting on my couch reading these past few weeks, with only my own mind’s
chatter to contend with, I've taken an awful lot of naps; another method, I suppose, to cope with
pain and disappointment.
My dear husband has been preparing all my meals and waiting on
me, bringing down clothes and toiletries down from our top floor bedroom, in addition
to working full-time. When I try to care for myself, pouring a cup of tea, or
carrying a plate, my body rebels with a sharp zing, a high voltage warning that
I’ve overdone it. So I sit and stare at the growing pile of clutter on our kitchen table and floors in need of vacuuming, and I resist the urge to clean.
It is though I’ve been given a prescription for stillness
along with my cyclobenzaprine. Will I follow the instructions, and if so, what
will my life look like when I’ve been healed?
