A few days ago, I slipped on the stairs outside Harold’s apartment, and fell about half a flight, hitting my back on every step on the way down. It was…. not my finest moment. I tried to handle it with some ice and some Advil, but by that evening, it was pretty clear that I was becoming less mobile, so Harold finally made me go to an urgent care. (Also Harold would like you all to know that he demanded I see a doctor, and that left to my own devices, I probably wouldn’t have gone, and then all hell would have broken loose, and also that he was right and I was wrong.)
Not too much damage, at least. I’ve got some bruising on my lower back, and apparently that means when I sit down, stand up, cross my legs, or, um, BREATHE, it sends spasms up my whole back. That is a serious design flaw. The doctor gave me an assortment of muscle relaxants and pain meds, took some X-rays, and told me I wouldn’t be going to the gym for a while and that I probably shouldn’t drive, either. (At least something is going my way.)
About the painkillers: I can not believe people take these recreationally… I’ve been slow-witted and dull since I started taking them. Harold and I were watching The Shield, and I spent the whole time asking him what was going on. Who’s that guy? Why’s he stealing money? Is he a cop? What’s in the gym bag? What’s going on now? I imagine I was a delightful companion in every way.
If there is anything that makes one feel as old as having a hurt back, I don’t know what it is. And I don’t really want to know.