The Realities of Chronic Back-pain

I realize it’s going to be a bad day as soon as I wake up and try to get out of bed in the morning. A lacerating band of pain envelops my lower back as I make the movement one usually associates with getting up – bending at the waist and lifting the body’s upper trunk. I can’t do it. I have to roll on my right side, the less painful side, in order to get to the edge of the bed, and helped by the pull of gravity, slowly crawl upright.

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Then comes the next ‘step’, I push my legs off the bed, reach a sitting position at the edge of it, put my legs on the floor, and wince and groan until I’m standing upright.

It is 5.45am. I have 30 minutes to take off my clothes, shower, put on my make up, and walk down to my boyfriend’s car, in order for him to give me a lift to work.

I know I won’t be showering today. Each gesture which normally takes one second to make, will, today, take at least a minute. Preparing myself and arriving in time will be just impossible.

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I skip my shower, and start dressing slowly. The clothes I am going to wear today are already hung on the outside of the wardrobe. All I have to do is walk up to them. Slowly.

After shuffling with my back bent forwards, since I cannot stand upright anymore, I realize I am limping. It’s the pinched nerve in my leg acting up again. Figures.

I take down my clothes and realize that I can’t bend my leg to put on my skirt, so I sit down slowly on the bed again and jiggle it around until it’s around my hips. It would have been easier had I worn a dress, but I didn’t know the pain would be so bad yesterday, when I chose which clothes to wear. Walking back to the wardrobe, opening it, and taking down a dress, is too much of a hassle and would take even more time. I can hear my boyfriend finishing his breakfast, and I know he’ll shower and be ready in 5 minutes, so I know I won’t make it.

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Obviously, I have no time for breakfast. Then again, to be fair, I never do. Work starts at 6.45am and there’s only so much I can manage before that.

Done with my clothes, I shuffle to my dressing table, bend forwards slowly and painfully, open the first drawer, and reach for my eyeliner and mascara. Obviously, they have rolled at the back of the drawer again. And I can’t reach any further. Because it hurts. Fortunately I live with my boyfriend whose help is invaluable in these kinds of crises.

While he showers and changes, I manage to put on some make-up. Now all that’s left is to walk down four flights of stairs towards the door, walk to the car, and bend down to get in and sit down.

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It is 6.15am. And I am already trembling with exhaustion.

P.S That was some hours ago. I feel even worse now. I had no painkillers in my handbag at work, so one of my colleagues very nicely offered to go and buy some for me at the pharmacy across the street, since I couldn’t even walk that far…

Yes today is a bad day. Not all days are this bad. One can, at least, hold on to that.

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Dear Neighbours, I would really like to report you to the Police because…

Dear neighbours,

I appreciate that you are passing through a rough patch, which is why you find it necessary to fight, scream and swear obscenely at 5.30am each morning as soon as you wake up and see each others’ faces. I also appreciate the fact that you on the other hand don’t like to hear our T.V, which is why you reported us to the police some time ago. I can also understand that all this fighting while at the same time having one’s nose in other people’s business can take up a lot of one’s time, which is perhaps why you ignore your sick daughter who has been coughing her head off for two weeks, while you bicker and screech at each other. So, can you please give me a tip? I’ve got the police station on the line – should I report you for disturbance of the peace, domestic abuse, or child neglect?

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You’ve been fighting ever since we moved here (and were here to hear you), which is since last September. Personally, I’m not being nosy. I don’t need to be to hear you, since my bedroom is right over your internal yard and your door is always open. You make no effort NOT to be heard, if you know what I mean lol. Which is why I know a lot about what is going on with you, since the shouting matches take place every day.

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You reported us coz our TV irritated you (and this at only 9.30pm when most ppl watch TV), instead of keeping your issues behind closed doors and shrieking them at everyone at 5.30 in the morning. The police were laughing their heads off when they came. They themselves had not heard anything because the TV was NOT loud.

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Truly, you dont need us to create more problems for you, since you obviously have enough hatred and anger pent up inside you for a million people. If you hadn’t been such hypocritical assholes, I’d have thought nothing of it, even though I have to hear your bull everyday as soon as I wake up in bed, but seriously, I cant understand how you can complain about us, while creating this racket all the time.

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And what about your older son and his friends, who create another racket every weekend at 2am when he comes home after having been out drinking and carousing? They stay outside your door in the street for half an hour shouting and having ‘mock’ fights. I could report that too if I wanted to as could anyone in this street. How can you not hear them but be all over our TV?

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Anyways thanks again for waking me up this morning, and for the free entertainment. Makes me feel so much better knowing that I don’t have to face either of you in my bed as soon as I open my eyes! In a way you really make me feel better about myself and my life. Anything is better than having yours lol.

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P.S I didn’t actually report them… YET!!

 

 

Monday Morning (What do you think of the GRANNY PORN industry?)

I sigh and prod my face into a mask, trying not to slump. The last session has not gone well. The gynaecologist said that unless I stopped with my current lifestyle, not only would the continual discharge and incontinence continue, but the flow would increase too. I don’t really understand what he said the problem is; a ‘prolapsed cervix due to a weakness in the pelvic muscles’. Pelvic muscles – now THAT I can understand.

Mulishly, I gaze at the veggie-shop beside me. I’m so fed up of eating fruit and vegetables to ‘flush out my system’ as Dr Weiss says. What a load of nonsense. Better have surgery, like Didi, and be done with it. A little nip and tuck is all it takes. Change my way of life? As if.

It’s not that I like my job really, I tell myself, as I cross the street. I don’t. All those sweaty struggling faces trying so hard to look consciously earnest. The newbies are the worse, thinking it’s all real and then unable to do the job with all the lights and coffee-swigging mumblers on the side-lines looking on. Just another day for me – a traumatic experience for them. I guess I’m too jaded at this point. And that, too, comes with the job, as my mother used to say.

The bus stops and I get on, swiping my card and taking a look at the driver. I wonder if he recognises me, though obviously, he will not, exactly, remember where. Slowly, I shuffle along, trying to sit down gingerly, carefully, before the bus re-starts. It hurts to sit down. Not where you would expect though. My back and legs hurt, creaking with too much use. At least I never had the presumption to have any children. That would have ended my career for sure. Don’t know how they manage it – some people. Well, not all, just look at Cheeky Cherry – not even able to look her son in the face anymore. Should have known it would come to that at some point.

Arrived. I stumble past an old guy with sunglasses and a greasy baggy woolen vest thrown over frumpy trousers. Blearily he stares at me and looks away. Probably more of an interracial underage aficionado. No loss there. I round the corner, and enter the studio, a dim shabby building squashed between a hippy record store and a run-down block of apartments. Bathroom, then make-up and a look at the rack of underwear prepared for today.

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I glance at the three pimply teenagers waiting around hopefully, then spying me, with widening eyes, grabbing at the pill provided to strengthen their resolve, stiffen their spines, and everything else. No alcohol though. That would defeat the purpose. I wave a hello at Doris, the washed-out fluffer, as zombie-like, she coughs her usual mucus-riddled cackle, and sashay along towards the toilets, mockingly ogling the thin terrified wannabes. Bad, bad Nancy. Wasn’t nicknamed ‘Naughty Nancy’ for nothing.

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© Darkly Dreaming Moonsong

This short story was sent to Keith Kreates as part of his weekly challenge – https://wordpress.com/read/post/feed/36207183/831896472