Where the Pain Began
Acceptance doesn’t mean resignation; it means understanding that something is what it is and that there’s got to be a way through it. — Michael J. Fox
I’ve talked about my current health and chronic pain situation. I thought I would take some time to give a little context on when and how some of it started. Growing up, my activities revolved around sports: softball, soccer, and basketball mainly. My mom coached volleyball, so I played that “sort of” too since I went to all the practices. Side note: I have a great coaching story to tell; watch for that!
Back then though, they didn’t have volleyball until high school, so for organized sports, it was those main three. I never felt like I was very good at any of them. I was small and pretty weak. I wasn’t particularly fast. But I knew the game — not so much soccer. By the time I was old enough to be on the court for my school, I’d been through so many practices with my older sister, I had the most knowledge on the court. Knowledge though wasn’t flashy, so I always felt second rate.
That’s what happened with volleyball. I wasn’t strong; I wasn’t fast, but I was smart. And every summer, every camp, I got smarter. I spent an entire summer in a relatively unfurnished room practicing the defensive roll for hours until it was automatic. I think I was the only player across all the teams we played who actually did it in a game. I loved being on the court. I found the holes and, rather than power, used finesse.
Then, mid-season junior year, everything came crashing down. I don’t even remember exactly when it happened or how, but I hurt my back. Not an “I have an ache in my back” hurt, but a “something’s wrong” hurt. As per usual, for the first week or two, I was not fully believed in the severity. I was told to walk it off, stretch it out, quit being a wuss and more. After a couple weeks and me getting to where I could barely walk, I was finally taken to the sport clinic. The x-rays showed my vertebrae were malformed. Rather than the smooth shaped block bones they should have been, they looked more like a northern road in the springtime ready for pothole work. Major pothole work.
Remember this is the late 80s, CT and MRIs weren’t used for cases like mine or at least they were never mentioned as being needed. The doctor said I needed to be sidelined for two weeks minimum. We were playing our school’s rival in three days, so yeah, I was going to sit out two weeks, sure. Damn skippy, I played. We lost, which really pissed me off.
It was 5 or 6 days, perhaps even a week after that my mother came home from the club at about 2am, maybe 2:30, I thought she was already home, to find me on the couch bawling my eyes out with an ice bag on my back. She wasn’t real pleased with that welcome home picture and informed me my season was over. The next day, I started physical therapy three days a week after school for over a month. It didn’t help. I was given exercises, but they were for show, my back just laughed. At one PT session, they were doing, something like a tens therapy with heat. I don’t know what happened, but I started spasming so bad I actually yelled for my mother to get help and take the things off.
Once things settled down, I heard the absolutely best thing a 16-year-old wants to hear. “You’re going to be in pain for the rest of your life. You need to deal with it.” These were his exact words. I still remember them, clear as ever, 33 years later. It’s not something you forget. What really pisses me off is, so far, he’s been right.
