It came from nowhere. A shooting pain across my lower back. By the time I got my aging boomer body home from looking after my granddaughter and Daniel Tiger, I was no match. Thus began my journey into a complex hell—two ER visits, hobbling to the bathroom while pain’s knife rhythmically thrust into my leg like Bernard Herrmann’s classic theme from Psycho—EEK!! EEK!! And the oh-so claustrophobic rush of the clinging-clanging MRI, ending in back surgery on L3 and L4. I had a previous miracle surgery 20 year ago on L5-S1 when I was still a spry youth, but didn’t integrate the lesson (un)learned into my daily schedule.
Editor’s note: Jon Palmer Claridge is Tampa Bay’s longest running food critic, and right now he’s laid up after back surgery. This piece is a different speed for Jon, but it’s great to hear from him. He’ll be back with more food (and theater) reviews soon.
As I write, I’m preparing to be transported for roughly two weeks of rehab to get my strength back. There have been dramatic events nearly every day, but I survived LOTS of pain, thanks to wonderful, caring people at Morton Plant WITT-5. Here’re a few “true life stories” to convince you to take action now NOT to emulate me.
My very first post-op memory was a Kafkaesque nightmare, a dissociative moment in recovery, where the room was merely a sketch of reality—a grotesque, modernist line drawing by Egon Schiele desperate to catch up to the barked soundtrack of the OR nurses, all portrayed by the voice of a friend. My previous experience of anesthesia was like on TV, where you regain consciousness and slowly come into focus.
Or how about the two brave nurses decked out like Super Mario sisters in hazmat suits to give me an enema? Perhaps, you’d prefer the night of uncontrollable vomiting that had me hallucinating and babbling to my gobsmacked nurse about the musical theater song analysis that was our night’s work. And since the theater gods know how to craft a perfect climax, I filled my bed with a (CUE THE MUSIC) volcanic river of poop perfectly timed for when the nurses were at 7 p.m. shift change—what we had planned for as a 3 p.m. event and assumed had been unsuccessful.
Indeed, this is a cautionary tale about my own denial and failure to walk. Here is the result. Don’t be me. I’m now motivated through suffering the consequences of my inaction in the most visceral way. You, too, can have so much pain that you’re getting 2mg of Dilaudid injected into a friendly little IV port dangling from your hand every three hours. I am now also an expert at using a portable urinal since I can’t walk; I bet that’s on your bucket list.
It’s the perfect metaphor for my excuses and denial. You’re in deep shit, Claridge. Time to abandon your reclining office and hope that these next however many days you are in rehab make this lesson indelible. “You reap what you sow.” I’ve been posting it to friends on Facebook to remind them as they share joyous news. But there is also a dark side. I’ve never been an athlete probably due to sarcoidosis, which since it wasn’t diagnosed till my last back surgery (see above), may actually be the reason. But ANY able person can walk. Just get off your ass and do it. You don’t need fancy shoes or clothes. You don’t need to go fast or cover a great distance. It’s as simple as the great Oscar Hammerstein lyric from the first experimental musical, Allegro (1947) “One foot, other foot.” Don’t take your health for granted. The slow and slippery slope to decline will instead wrench forward.
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This article appears in May 27 – Jun 2, 2021.