Back to Back to Waaaay Back

Say muhl-TIFF-ihd-us or
muhl-TIFF-ihd-eye, not mult-eye-feye-dus.

I'm trying to flex my multifidus, but I can't. This muscle in my lower back is so weak it is undetectable to the waiting hand of the physical therapist. In fact, I'm not even sure you could call mine a muscle since it doesn't seem to be doing anything useful.

Thanks to a friend and reader, I now have a chiropractor and a series of treatments scheduled for the next five weeks. I've already been twice. Monday's appointment was a diagnosis.

Right away, I knew the doctor would be warm and welcoming with such deep creases beginning at the outer corners of his eyes like rays of sunshine. Let's call him Dr. Nice.

After examining my posture and testing my stretching abilities, Dr. Nice explained what he believes is causing so much pain in my lower back.

A bulging disc. Maybe herniated, and it is putting pressure on my sciatic nerve, which I suspected. Dr. Nice says the leg pain and foot tingling is never good, but especially not for a 31-year-old.

The surprise, though, was when he said I probably injured my back in high school when I was a jock. He used that word. Jock.

I'd never really thought of myself like that. I just liked sports...a lot of them. And, my parents believed in letting me and my sisters try any activity we wanted to...and sometimes didn't want to.

Swim team. No problem.

Soccer. Already signed up.

Cross country. OK.

Baton-twirling lessons. Sure (although, not sure if it's really a sport).

Water polo. Go ahead.

Tennis, track, golf, volleyball, basketball, softball, ballet, jazz, tap. I even tried synchronized swimming once.

Now?

Nothing.

Sports don't inspire me like they used to. There's no team to join. No records to break. No game to get in shape for.

It's not as if I'm not doing anything all day. There are loads of laundry to carry up and down the stairs. There are stuffed toys, plastic toys, noisy toys to pick up off of the floor. A kitchen to be mopped. Babies to be bathed, well, just one baby...thankfully. There are dishes to be washed and stairs that need vacuuming. (Man, I wish there was a Roomba that could do these. Hey, Roomba people! How about a Stoomba?)

What I learned this week , after Wednesday's enlightening explanation of spines and cartilage and jelly-filled doughnut discs, is that I'm not living in a 16-, 18- or even a 21-year-old's body.

Perhaps that is obvious, but it hadn't quite registered with me until now. Apparently, the gray hairs weren't enough. I need to be stooped over first, brought to my knees by pain.

I guess some people just don't take hints very well.