Sciatica sounds so 19th century, like dropsy, consumption, and shingles. A quack term for something that today would be referred to as neuromyathomalgia or “demeaning plebney.”
I have it in a bad way, have had it for the past three weeks, and it feels like a javelin has pierced my left buttock and emerged somewhere deep down on my leg. It makes sitting a total torture, bringing tears to my eyes. Muscle relaxants don’t help it. Advil is my new vitamin. Stretching, hot baths, lying flat on my back on the floor do nothing to help it.
The chiropractor, a diminutive woman, tried to “unlock” it on Friday by folding me into a pretzel and then leaping on me; but alas, she wasn’t hefty enough to produce that satisfying cosmic knuckle pop from spine that always makes paying the chiropractor fee so easy. Lying in bed won’t help it. So, it’s off to work I go this week, hunched over, my posture like a human S, standing in meetings, lying on the floor of my office with the door closed, avoiding sitting and therefore avoiding my keyboard unless I absolutely have to. Three weeks, and according to the online experts, maybe three weeks to go. This sucks. My productivity has gone away, I hate making people wince when I try to stand up, and I haven’t had a stitch of exercise since it first occurred while sculling three weeks ago today. So, with teeth gritted, I am trying to recover something productive other than trying to read the Sunday paper on my back with an ice back shoved down the back of my pants.