I was also injured. I was in a lot of pain. I was taking pills to get through the day. And since the accident I’d done nothing but go to work and lie on the couch at home, unable to do much more than that. Even sleeping was agony: any pressure on my lower back burned; it also raised the urge to pee, waking me, making me toss and turn before I fell back asleep, if I did at all. I couldn’t walk the length of the Timmins Square (a quarter mile) without having to sit at least twice. Standing on concrete killed me. After standing or walking on concrete for twenty minutes I’d inevitably be laid up on the couch for two hours of more, my back burning and throbbing, my legs numb. I hid that fact at work, always telling myself that I was getting better, and popping a couple T3s and anti-inflammatories to prove it.
Luckily, the work was light, well, light-ish, and so long as I worked upright, I was fine. Should I have to bend forward slightly, I had about twenty minutes of work in me before I was useless. I probably should have gone to the appointment with the surgeon my GP had made for me, but I didn’t; I ignored it, telling myself that spinal surgeons rarely did anything for chronic pain sufferers and that spinal surgery risked even greater pain, or a fused spine. So, I did nothing. I lay on my back and wished the pain away. Light work was okay. I found that continuous light work strengthened my spine and the chronic pain receded. So too light exercise. All I did for the first year was man the 3 Mine cage and operate the slurry plant. Both jobs required some pre-starts and a little clean-up, but for the most part, both jobs required sitting. I was okay with sitting.
This went on for the better part of two years. And still I wasn’t getting any better.
Nothing changed until we got Hunter. Hunter was part Lab, part hound (maybe boxer). She loved to run, and if she didn’t get enough exercise, she’d get bored and get in trouble, chewing up shoes, digging up strands of carpet fiber, clawing at furniture. I had to do something about that, regardless how painful walking might be. I began to walk the nature trail behind my street, the one that crossed McLean and wound its way around rock and creek and beaver dam until rising up behind Timmins District Hospital and crossing Ross to connect with the Gillies Lake circuit.
One day I took her out on leash until we gained the trail. I detached her and gestured for her to run. She looked at me with disbelief or misunderstanding, but after a few more sweeping gestures and a few more meters gained, she got the picture and took off like the wind. I followed at a meager pace, pleased at how soft my footfalls were on the granular “A” bed, even more so when walking on duff.
I’d call out to her on occasion and she’s return as far as the next bend in the trail, her tail and ears high and at the ready, her eyes bright with excitement. Once she spied me, she’d either disappear up the trail again or bound towards me, leaping high like a gazelle as she passed.
Those first walks were short, no more than a third of the trail’s length before I stopped, rested, and waited for Hunter’s return. Luckily, the Mattagami Conservation Society placed picnic tables along the trail. Then we’d head back and I’d attach the leash when we were getting closer to McLean. I’d have to bear the pain on some walks, sitting at each stop, my gait slowing to a crawl when all I wanted to do was get on all fours and do just that. The walks got longer as the summer progressed, extending into the fall, and then into the winter as I noted that the trail remained open and accessible, fully packed down by passage of MRC sleds and hundreds of footfalls. My back loosened up. The pain lessoning with each and every month. And soon, within the year, I was walking the full length of the trail, at least as far as topping the hill just behind TDH.
And before I knew it, I could actually jog down that hill and not feel like someone was impaling me with a red-hot poker. I was still on the pills, though.
Hunter and I kept up those walks even after I decided to take a gym membership. I did so with a degree of trepidation. Pumping iron was not what I’d call light work. Running on a treadmill seemed tedious at best. But I took it slow. I was assessed by a fitness employee, I raised my concern about my back, taking care to be clear about my injury and my level of pain. He started me on light weight, instructing me to never lift more than I was comfortable with, and how often and in what increments to increase the weight I was working with. He also showed me proper stretching techniques and ways to support my back while exercising.
And in time my back began to get better. I say that, but that’s not true. I feel the pain still, even all these years after, but my body has adjusted to it. My spine has strengthened because it had to. It supports the ruptured disk. And I did not feel pain in my spine the same way. I am desensitized to it. I can experience pain that would probably drop you to the floor.
Because it used to drop me.
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