For a gal who sometimes uses her columns to promote health and fitness, I thought I was invincible. That is until I found myself tethered to the couch in acute pain.
OK, I did it to myself. I had no one to blame. But wait — perhaps the gal on the YouTube video should shoulder some of the burden.
Although I am a yoga enthusiast, sometimes I like to shake things up. This particular day, I passed up the yoga video for a more aerobic workout. The instructor was a 30-something gal wearing blue spandex. That should have told me something.
I’m one of those weird folks who enjoys exercise and have done so during most of my adult life. The gal in the blue spandex invited me to join her in a HITT (high-intensity interval-training) workout. Thinking I was 30-something, I accepted her invite.
Surprise! Surprise! I was able to keep up — somewhat. I felt pleased and smug until the next morning.
As I got out of bed, I felt a twinge in my lower back. After breakfast, I settled into my office to finish up some medical billing. When I bent over to pick up a piece of paper, the twinge morphed into pain. I found myself face to face with the floor for 10 minutes.
I took anti-inflammatory medicine and tried to lie down — no good. I tried to sit up—no good. The stairs that I usually take two at a time, seemed like Mount Everest.
When my back talks to me, she usually shuts up after a couple of days. The next day if I held my breath, I could walk — gingerly. I had an important errand to run (no pun intended) and decided to ignore my body’s cries for rest and soldiered on.
Big mistake.
The first hurdle was getting into my car. I slid in sideways—and it wasn’t an easy slide. I managed the drive to the bank that takes ten minutes. The drive felt like 10 hours and I hit all the bumps.
The second hurdle was getting out of my car and into the bank. Good Lord! I was attacked by a vice-like spasm that rendered me breathless.
Driving home I hit the same 10 bumps. I exited the car with my newly learned sideways maneuver and slowly climbed Mt. Everest aka the stairs. I felt vulnerable and anxious. I made it an early night and retired to bed with my trusty heating pad.
The next morning, the “self-limiting” backache began to ease — ease into something else! I felt pain around my knee. I reasoned it was more than likely, my old tennis injury. Diagnosing myself (we nurses are great at self-diagnosis), I figured that my gait was off due to my “pretzel-like posture,” consequently triggering my knee pain.
I was again tethered to the couch with an icepack resting on my elevated knee. This time I stayed put.
About three days in, the old tennis injury and the back pain hit the road. (Probably bent on hitting on some other unsuspecting poor soul.) Although I was a tad skittish about resuming exercise, I decided that exercising my arms was harmless.
Another mistake.
This time I found another gal on YouTube who promised sculptured arms. Easy-peasy! I had done these exercises before. The instructor looked harmless in her sweat shirt and pants.
I did the arm workout without incident for a few days until my right wrist started to let me know she existed. (I am right handed!) With some research, I diagnosed myself, again. I suspected De Quevains tendonitis — a self-limiting syndrome aka washwomen sprain.
My wrist began to protest loudly and finally started to shout. I could not use my right hand. Fear reared its head. Dismissing the self-limiting thing, I called my physician.
After giving him my history of pain, I was cautioned to take my exercise program down a notch.
What was he saying? Was I too old?
When I posed these questions, he laughed and said: “Ceil, not at all. You have a sports injury that’s self-limiting. I don’t see many folks your age with sport injuries.” Geez! There’s the age thing again. My physician wrote me a prescription for physical therapy.
Feeling humbled, I entered the physical therapy suite. I noticed folks who had major issues ambulating. Perhaps they were victims of stroke, car accident, or a myriad of other issues that may permanently limit their daily activities.
I worked hard with two competent physical therapists. With a room full of people struggling to get better, there was an air of camaraderie. We were the walking wounded.
After a few months, I was discharged with all my body parts in good working order.
Columnist Harvey Mackay writes: “One mistake will never kill you. The same mistake over again will”
I’ve heeded his advice.
Nowadays, I primarily stick to yoga, Pilates and walking. I still switch it up from time to time. However, when surfing YouTube, I quickly scroll past the gal in the blue spandex.
No fool am I.
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