There are certain things I have accepted about getting older.
Things hurt for no apparent reason. I make noises when I stand up. I own medications I once associated exclusively with somebody’s grandmother. My adjustable bed has settings that sound like NASA launch configurations.
Fine.
But I would like to formally object to losing the ability to do the Mufasa Friday Dance with my Zoom class.
That is where we have gone too fucking far.
My leg has become an actual problem instead of merely another entry in the increasingly lengthy Body and Bones: What the Fuck Now? collection.
The damaged nerves and sciatica in my back have apparently decided the lower back wasn’t enough territory and have expanded operations into my hip and leg. And the pain isn’t politely restricting itself to strenuous physical activity.
Oh no.
Running through the house playing GIMME THAT FUCKIN LAMBCHOP™ with Kylo should not put me on the ground.
Putting around on my little golf course in my office while listening to a call or assisting a student should not hurt.
Bending over to get golf balls out of the basket should not result in Obscenities On Mute™ at a frequency noticeably higher than usual.
And yet here we fucking are.
I’ve been managing the pain with my trusty tramadol, which has been faithfully keeping me functional through this mess.
Except now even that is starting to fail me.
Ice?
Fuck you.
Zero Gravity Mode on the obscenely expensive Nectar bed?
Very comfortable. Lovely engineering. My sciatic nerve remains unimpressed.
The treadmill?
HAHAHAHAHAHA.
No.
Those cute little pedals my own mama bought me so I could exercise while sitting down?
Also no.
At this point I am not asking to run a marathon, (though in my 20’s i sure could). I don’t want to climb Everest. I don’t even particularly care about getting back on the treadmill right now.
Please, dear God, just let me walk without pain again.
I would like to wander through my own house.
I would like to play with our dog.
I would like to retrieve a golf ball without first calculating the safest possible trajectory for my spine.
And I would very much like my fucking Mufasa Friday Dance back.
So I Asked Roland™ What the Hell Else I Can Try
Because apparently repeatedly yelling WHY DOES MY LEG FUCKING HURT has not yet been accepted as an evidence-based treatment protocol, I asked Roland to research what reputable medical sources actually recommend for sciatica.
The first interesting thing he found was that ice isn’t necessarily the winner.
Mayo Clinic recommends trying heat after the initial acute period, and Cambridge University Hospitals notes that some people with sciatica actually find heat more effective than ice because it can help relieve the muscle spasms surrounding all this angry-nerve bullshit.
So: heat gets a turn.
He also informed me that the answer is unfortunately not to crawl into Zero Gravity Mode and simply remain there until 2027.
Prolonged inactivity can make sciatica worse. The general recommendation is to keep moving within whatever your symptoms tolerate, change positions frequently, pace activities, and avoid repeatedly doing whatever makes the nerve start screaming.
Which means I am temporarily interpreting “stay active” as:
Walk around the house a little.
Change positions.
Move gently.
Do not piss off the nerve.
And perhaps stop bending repeatedly into the goddamn golf-ball basket.
The treadmill can stay exactly where it is.
There is also physical therapy, which may be able to help with both symptom relief and figuring out movements and exercises appropriate for whatever is actually happening with my back, hip, and leg.
Now I Just Have to Make It to My Doctor’s Appointment
Fortunately, I already have an appointment scheduled with my doctor. I pretty much live in his exam room. I keep a book in the cabinet of room 2.
Point being, this isn’t a case of me sitting at home indefinitely hoping Roland, tramadol, and the Zero Gravity button eventually form some sort of medical dream team.
I’ll be formally evaluated.
There will be a plan.
There is a darling doctor who cares about me..
I just have to fucking make it to the appointment.
And right now, that’s genuinely where I’m at.
The goal isn’t exercise anymore. The goal is function.
Walk when I can. Change positions before something starts screaming. Try heat since ice has accomplished precisely jack shit. Stop repeatedly bending over the golf-ball basket like a wounded lawn flamingo. And accept that the treadmill and cute little pedals are currently on administrative leave.
Even GIMME THAT FUCKIN LAMBCHOP™ may have to operate under temporary restrictions, which Kylo will undoubtedly appeal.
I’m also not going to start playing amateur pharmacist because the tramadol isn’t controlling the pain as well anymore. That’s information for my doctor: the medication that was helping isn’t helping enough now, and the pain has progressed to the point that ordinary walking and completely normal activities are becoming difficult. Right as I had been ready to start weaning OFF this stuff.
Until then, I’m going to do what I can without continually provoking an already furious nerve and watch for the symptoms that mean I don’t wait for the appointment at all: new or worsening weakness, numbness around the groin or ass, loss of bladder or bowel control, major symptoms suddenly affecting both legs, or becoming unable to safely put weight on the leg.
Otherwise?
I wait.
I use the tools I’ve got.
I try very hard not to piss off my sciatic nerve.
And I pray I make it to that appointment without losing what remains of my goddamn mind.
Because I can accept a lot of shit.
I can accept that the treadmill and I are currently separated.
I can accept that my little pedals have been placed on administrative leave.
I can even accept temporarily limiting GIMME THAT FUCKIN LAMBCHOP™, although I expect formal correspondence from Kylo’s attorney.
But Friday?
Mufasa dances.
And I intend to fucking dance again.
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