I must one of the lucky ones. Other than period cramps that would make a Navy Seal cry I hadn’t experienced much in the way of chronic pain in my charmed existence. Ok, yeah, there was that little bout with an autoimmune disorder that landed my sorry backside in Bellevue Hospital for two weeks back in ’04, but for the most part, I’ve enjoyed embarrassingly good health.
Then in my 56th year, things began to shift.
Plantar fasciitis twice, muscle spasms in my lower back, hives (again), the renewed onset of acid reflux attacks, hip pain, and aching knees. What happened? Oh, right. I didn’t die and that means what? I got older. And as the years zipped along, the aches and pains have accumulated.
Another bit of good fortune, however, was that all of the above didn’t avalanche onto me at once.
It’s been more of a conveyor belt of pains. For awhile, those back spasms would incapacitate me to the point of being afraid to move. The worst was during and after my trip out to Black Rock City in 2019 where stretching wasn’t a priority and really should have been. As the spasms slowly subsided, I’d get clobbered by repeated acid reflux attacks.
Sidebar: I had my first experience of an acid reflux attack when I was 12. I was babysitting an infant cousin when it hit and I fell onto the floor certain I was dying of a freak heart attack.
Did I mention this to anyone?
Oh, hell, no! And until about fifteen years ago I thought these periodic attacks of severe chest pain that radiated into my neck making it hard to breathe were panic attacks. When I did finally describe this to my then-doctor, she nodded. Indigestion aka GERD (Gastroesophageal reflux disease). What a letdown. Panic attacks are just so much more dramatic than heartburn.
The gods have smiled upon my aging, aching parts — if not my financial situation — however that level of poverty has meant that I’m sailing through Year Three of being covered by Medicaid.
Thank you, my fellow American taxpayers.
Let’s talk feet. Twice — so far — I’ve been forced to hobble around the city in a clunky stabilization boot to address onsets of plantar fasciitis that all but crippled me. The most current bout hit a couple of years ago. Boot, injections, PT exercises, more injections, limiting walking, trying to minimize heel contact with the ground (tricky), and more Ibuprofen than my guts were happy about…see above.
Let’s talk hip. About a year ago I noticed a sharp pain in my hip/thigh/groin area when I’d pivot quickly or step backward. Off to yet another specialist for more tests and that lovely X-ray gracing the start of this story. That particular MD said that my labrum has ossified, folks, and ain’t a thing that can be done about it except…you got it…more physical therapy. The next guy, a geriatric specialist (yes, it’s come to that) shook his head. Arthritis. Plain old age osteoarthritis.
I now start and end my day with about ten minutes of various stretches meant to strengthen muscles holding my wobbly old bones and joints in place.
Let’s talk GERD. Back in August 2020, the attacks had reached a tipping point and off I went to the ER over here at Mt. Sinai. Nine hours, a CAT scan, an ultrasound, and a series of X-rays later I went home with no new information. It took another set of ultrasounds and several more visits to this and that specialist to determine I had gallstones. October 2020, I checked into Beth Israel with a lumpy, dysfunctional gallbladder and fourteen hours later I went home without it (but with wayyyy more painkillers than someone like me should be trusted with).
Let’s not bother talking about hives or muscle spasms in my lower back right now because those puppies have been sleeping for years now and that suits me just fine.
All of which is to say that as of two weeks ago nothing hurt (do I really dare even type that out loud??).
Dumb move. My old friend, the plantar fasciitis is back but at this very moment it doesn’t hurt so let’s just tiptoe past it and continue this little talk.
My previous visit with the orthopedic specialist regarding that last stubborn two-year bout of plantar fasciitis concluded with the cheery, young professional assuring me that it’s not unusual for these things to hold on for a year, two years, and even more sometimes but that by continuing to do my dutiful daily stretches the pain would eventually go away.
A month later, I found myself able to get up in the middle of the night without needing to hold onto furniture to walk to the bathroom.
Those happy days seem to be behind me for the time being.
For now — and let’s be clear that we’re talking just for this very moment — nothing hurts.
And that is just weird.
I’ve gotten into the habit of pausing whenever I’d stand up to gauge what hurts and how badly. Until very recently that pause had been — mostly — unnecessary. I was rising and simply walking. You know, like a regular person. A regular young person. The kind of person who never thinks they’ll always be able to walk easily.
Ok, right. I’m getting carried away.
Clearly, I’ll never walk like that person again. Even as I stride down Broadway generally able to keep up with my partner I’m still scanning for any ticks or twinges. And, sure enough, every so often my left heel or my right hip gives me a sharp poke to remind me to slow TF down.
Grudgingly, I comply. I learned in the aftermath of the autoimmune drama that my body is the boss of me.
So, no. I’m not dead yet and, yes, I’m pretty happy about that. And even knowing this current détente with my body is temporary can’t dampen my pleasure in (mostly) moving easily again. If anything, I take a deeper pleasure in it than I did when it was the norm.
Time to go out walking!
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That sounds about right. I am 84 years old - or young. I am healthy, but the aches and pains keep raising their little heads - my knees have a bit of arthritis, my hearing and my eyes aren't as sharp, but I'm doing - and I am thankful.