I freely admit that, in the past, I have cried and prayed to God to let me die, but always for valid emotional causes. Bereavement, distressing experience on a mountain rescue, Takealot delivery came a day late, chick-flick; all perfectly logical reasons to turn on the water-works. But, to the best of my recollection, I have never cried because of pain, and this includes when I broke my left arm and, not knowing it was broken, rolled over and pushed up into a handstand. If you ask any orthopaedic surgeon you’ll be told unequivocally that this is not a good idea. And it was really broken! Look up ‘Colles fracture’ on Google. I certainly never felt led to pray for death in response to that pain, or any other, not even stepping on Lego.
I guess you’re never too old to learn.
I had, hitherto, only had to deal with pain where my nerves served as messengers, conveying to my brain the fact that some part of my body had been injured. I had never experienced nerve pain, where you get the impression that some part of you is hurting but, in truth, it is not. The pain is caused by nerve damage; in my case, a nerve that branches from the lumbar spine. This has given me sciatica, sore feet, numb toes, and various other miseries. I feel as if I have moved into a whole new spectrum of pain.
I felt quite smug reaching my three-score years and ten this year whilst still being an active biker with hair that steadfastly refuses to turn grey to match my beard. I rode the 800-kilometre return journey to White River to celebrate my birthday with my son and daughter-in-law and enjoyed every minute of it. I even did some necessary maintenance work—including replacing the rear brake disc—on Linny III in their garage. I had delayed the work until my visit because I thought I might need some help. But I handled it all on my own, including torqueing the rear axle to 100Nm. I really felt quite pleased with myself.
When I got back to Gauteng, I dared to start planning another round-the-country sortie which would include a jump off the Bloukrans Bridge, and would be—I decided—my long-distance biking swansong. I had already admitted to myself that it was becoming more difficult than it was ten years ago. But I would still do the shopping on the bike and do short runs near my home.
Then the whole heroic scene changed suddenly on Sunday, 23rd July, in the year of our Lord 2023; about six weeks before my planned departure on another long trip. Carelessly, being in a seated position, I stood up. That’s all it took. Suddenly, at about hip-height, I felt as if I had been run-through with a heavy-duty electric cattle-prod set to ‘HIGH”. I’m surmising here, having never had the pleasure of even seeing a cattle-prod, let alone felt its ministrations. But, you get the picture? It was quite painful.
That night I slept—metaphorically—in the foetal position, but literally, the foetal position and other such contortions were beyond me. I was sort-of curved. And I scarcely slept. That’s been the story for two months now.
Waiting for the first faint fingers of Aurora to sneak into my room reminded me of standing guard duty more than half a century ago. So cold we could scarcely move, we would watch the sky gradually lighten, heralding the approach of the end of our twelve-hour stint and the arrival of Sol, who would doubtless thaw our frozen limbs, re-start our circulation, and warm us up.
Back in the present, the arrival of dawn brought no miraculous cure, no warming balmy day—it was mid-winter on the Highveld and I was still a septuagenarian with a buggered back. I commenced a battle of attrition, waged against my digestive system, as I started a regimen of scoffing down liver-threatening quantities of pain-killers, and anti-inflammatory drugs, which are not seen as a blessing to the gastrointestinal tract.
My stomach did not enjoy the experience. But pain is never wasted. It served as an indicator. I could tell by the level of pain in my guts how soon I’d need another handful of anti-inflammatories.
With that amazing insight that motorcyclists develop, I realised that riding Linny III was unlikely to have a happy outcome. In fact, I doubted that I could even pull her out of the garage… if I could get to the garage. An online shopping delivery arrived—a package weighing half a kilo. I had to push it along the path to get it to the flat. Then I slept for an hour to shake off the exhaustion. This didn’t seem good.
Now I had a conflict; I didn’t want to moan to my children because I felt it would sound like I was trying to manipulate them. In my heart of hearts I knew that they would never think that, but, having been raised Anglican and gone to a Roman Catholic school, I was very good at guilt. But I really didn’t want to worry them unduly about what I was still regarding as a ‘mere flesh wound’. However, my flat was starting to look like an animated example of the Principle of Entropy.
Of course, much as I tried to dodge reality, in the end I had to bow to the inevitable and admit that the only way I could get to the chiropractor, or even the shop on the corner, was by shouting (texting, voice-noting) for help. Kathleen, my eldest daughter, was the inevitable victim, being the closest. She kindly re-arranged her busy schedule to take me to the chiropractor, wait for me, bring me home, and help sort out my flat, along with her busy life of majorix domo, wife, mother of two, senior grade science teacher, hockey coach, and international hockey umpire. ‘Sixteen-hour day’ doesn’t describe it adequately; and only one item attracted an actual salary.
The jury is still out on which is worse: to be the care-giver of an old man with a stuffed back, or to be the actual stuffee.
If you have the right kind of philosophy, you might say I was getting the full-on karmic pay-back for all the times I’ve been impatient with people with ‘back trouble’. They seemed like such ninnies. Now I am one!
I prefer to see it as paying for all the very enjoyable hooliganism in which I’ve indulged throughout my life; a kind-of ‘pay it backward’. Je ne regrette rien.
Back to PAIN! Not only does this kind of pain seem to disable one physically, but it seems so to occupy one’s mind that logical thought and memory go the way of the Mary Celeste—the sails are set, the lights are on, but there’s no one on board. So from here on, I probably do not constitute a reliable witness.
As I struggled on, reluctant to surrender and ask for help, I became increasingly aware that I was losing the struggle. Finally I just gave up. I think I sent a message to Paddy. Whatever, at some point on Friday (not sure which one) I got a very concerned-sounding message from him, saying that he and Liz were coming up from White River the next day to fetch me. I didn’t argue; in fact, I think I broke down and cried. My unusual non-argumentative stance probably confirmed for Paddy that he’d made the right decision.
Once the arrangement was concluded, I ‘rushed’ around, sorting things out because I didn’t want them to think I was living in a pigsty. I soon realised that this was a doomed cause and subsided onto my bed. I did manage to get my bags down from the top shelf of the cupboard and to pack some clothes.
What a delight when they arrived next morning! I hobbled out to open the gate and welcome them. Soon we were drinking coffee and chatting whilst they did some sorting out in the flat. By the time we left, the flat looked as if it had had a spring-clean—which it had, only in mid-winter—making me feel bad that my dear daughter-in-law—pregnant with my next grandson—had mopped the floors that I had been neglecting for a fortnight. Paddy, ever the work-horse, had washed the dishes, and done hosts of other household tasks to make the place look less like Hiroshima: the Day After.
The trip down was better than I had feared. The car seat, aided by a safety-belt held me in a good position, so I remained comfortable. Nonetheless, it was good when we arrived and I could collapse onto a bed.
Over the following two weeks, I got going with some treatment. We also eliminated the lurking threat of cancer—prostate and osteosarcoma being the two most popular options. My children were very relieved. I took a while to feel grateful, having got into thinking that a slightly swifter death from cancer might be preferable to a few years of existence with a spine that hurt like fury and severely limited my mobility. However, now that the ‘threatened cloud has passed away’ I feel more positive about getting my back sorted out. I accept that riding a bike again would be the height of folly, but that’s life. I shall just have to limit myself to rug-making and downhill skiing.
Once again, I must express my gratitude that I have such wonderful children who have all helped in their various ways to get me through this disaster. I am indeed blessed!