I’m writing this post on my back with my laptop balanced between my knees and my tummy. Had a fight with some weeds in my garden. The weeds are gone, but my back was wounded in action.
A visit with my chiropractor was helpful and I had high hopes. A few days later, I saw my doctor for my annual diabetes checkup. She said that the pain was muscular rather than spinal and recommended a magnesium shot. I happily complied. She also thought a massage was a good idea.
I love massage and didn’t have to think twice about that. My back was healing and with the magnesium and a massage…what could go wrong?
I was lucky to get an appointment right away and drove myself and my back to the waiting therapist. That massage was heavenly. Felt just great. I knew I had done right by my back.
There was only one slight problem. I couldn’t get off the massage table. Agony. My back was not having any of this. I guess I could spend the night in this little cubicle. I was conveniently the last massage of the day. Of course, I hadn’t eaten lately, and I would eventually have to go to the bathroom. The bathroom was down the hall and around the corner…
I had no choice. I had to pry myself off that table. I scrunched and panted and pulled. Quietly of course. Not. That poor therapist. She did her best to help me, and now it sounded as if I might be dying. Actually dying seemed like a nice idea at the moment.
With great difficulty, I hoisted myself off the table, and found that I couldn’t stand up. In fact I couldn’t let go of the table. I hung on for dear life and shuffled my feet toward my clothes. I found a new hand hold. How was I going to get home? In fact, how was I going to get dressed when I couldn’t let go of the furniture? I wasn’t.
The poor therapist, already terrorized by my cries of pain, had the unexpected pleasure of stuffing my not so glamorous body back into my clothes. I didn’t pay her enough for that.
I'll be back next week.