I ruptured a disc in my lower back on July 4. I successfully ran a 10K that day, but the spine cushion (as it is called) blew due to genetics, not physical exertion, I’m told. The demanding event and requisite training only aggravated an already degenerative disc.
On Friday, I had a discectomy to cure the problem, which slices through my back, drills a hole in my vertebrae, and traverses the sacred spinal canal to remove the loose fragment that was pinning my sciatic nerve against my bone, causing pain throughout my entire right leg.
I haven’t been able to bend over, walk without limping, or sit for longer than a half hour since that ill-fated Independence Day. Worse still, the disability turned me into a part-time father, forcing Lindsey to pull double her weight, and making it impossible to pick up a chubby Maddie or “run fast” with an energetic Sadie.
Thankfully, I should be back to normal in two months, the dexterous Dr. Reichman informs me. I plan to revive my running career, play baseball again, and rejoin active society. To help me in doing so, I’m encouraged to loose a little more weight and gain a Michael Phelps-like six-pack to alleviate the work my back has to do.
Of course, I’ll never be able to lift railroad ties, a baby grand piano, and maybe even my own fridge again. And while that my seem like a blessing to most, I know what it really makes me: the dreaded, “Sorry, I gotta bad back,” guy, at 29 even.
I would be remiss, however, not to mention that I have been blessed — it could have been much worse. So thanks to all the “get well soon” notes, your prayers, the kind nurses, the skillful surgeon, and most of all, the unwavering support of my loving wife Lindsey. Suffice it to say, I’m exited for the future.