Back pain is the worst. It is the worst pain of them all. I used to think migraines were the worst pain a body could produce. Then, one time, I had tonsillitis, and I said to myself, "Fuck, this is bad." In fact, it was so bad that I lost 20 pounds, seeing that the pea-sized hole my esophagus had become would only accept applesauce as sustenance. So in the midst of this horrible forced diet, I decided that I would rather starve to death than eat anymore applesauce. It was terrible. But still, it was a walk in the park compared to chronic back pain.
Miniscule issues like migraines and tonsillitis and the Ebola virus are just cupcakes and cream-soda compared to lower-back pain. In fact, I’d rather have some big-footed child kick me as hard as they can in the shin each morning than suffer from chronic back pain. And it can even be a big fat kid with a bowl cut who calls his mom 'dickhead' and wears black jean shorts. These details don't matter to me. Give me the worst kid ever created and let him kick the shit out of my shin and then eat more Wendy's bacon burgers. Because the tradeoff would be worth it. Fuck obesity, my back fucking HURTS!
I didn’t always have back pain. In college, I was a bartender (no big deal). And at the end of my shift, we had to restock our coolers. In a strategic attempt to finish quickly (so I could leave and drink more and fall down some stairs and break my head/ribs/nose again), I tried to carry three cases of beer all at once. I am not a tiny man, nor am I a giant man, I fall somewhere in between. But three was too many. Immediately, upon attempting to lift with my knees locked, I felt an electric charge of intense pain run up my spine and sidle up to my brain. And I knew it was bad because I had just spent the previous six hours drinking 294 beers and shots of Popov or whatever disgustingly cheap shit we were dumping into our faces back then. The pain was so bad I collapsed onto the floor. Obviously, my coworkers laughed and took pictures of me lying there like an injured fawn, but I don't blame them, because I guess I would have done the same thing. Hey look, he is hurt, let’s pour Twisted Tea in his face and then take his pants off and then leave him in the woods to die – COLLEGE!
So the next day when sleeping 12 hours didn't magically wipe away the pain (the cure-all remedy in college for every ailment), I went to the doctor, but instead of seeing a real doctor I saw some kind of man nurse. And he was a real dick. He kept asking me weird questions about the bruises all over my arms. Uh, bro, I’m here for my back, if you can’t tell by the way I am awkwardly hunched over and dying of excruciating pain, stop worrying about the bruises I received while wrestling homeless people outside of the Green Turtle in Fells Point. All in a night’s fun, I say. But he insisted on looking at these bruises. I felt like a battered wife. Should I cry? Should I break down and say I am an in an abusive relationship? WHEN DO WE GET TO THE PART WHERE YOU TREAT ME FOR WHAT I CAME IN HERE FOR?
But the nurse wasn’t having it. He wanted to draw blood. What? Why? What is happening? Is this going to help my back? He waved off my pain as a "strain" and that was that.
Needless to say, his simple diagnosis didn’t help my back. And here I am, nine years later, all kinds of fucked up. I had an MRI done last year and the results said I have three slipped discs at the base of my spine. I asked him what can be done for this, and after unreasonably long time of him sizing me up while I sat there in my underwear, he said, "lose 20 pounds." I told him, "maybe I should contract tonsillitis?"
He didn't get it.
I don't blame him. But I kind of do, because he was sort of a dick too.
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