elise in lumbar-land

My three-year odyssey of back pain has led me finally to a chiropractor's office, a place I never thought I'd enter after reading Dr. Sarno’s books which explained my pain to be psychosomatic and nothing that a firm self-talking-to couldn't fix. And it worked. For a while. But now the yoga has brought my pain into sharp relief. There are certain poses and transitions between poses that just hurt my back in a way that I can't abide any longer.

I happened to be in class last week with only one other student, which is something I never experienced in New York. Sometimes it's lonely but sometimes it's great, like a semi-private session for 75% off, and who doesn't love a bargain in these trying times? So the teacher generously worked with me on my back issues while the one other student in class turned out to be an acupuncturist who stayed after class to talk with me about my lumbar troubles, and I tell you it was heavenly. I didn't even have to pay her. People are so giving and kind and helpful in this world. What's more, she knew about Sarno, but told me to go to my primary physician to rule out anything structural, which I admit Dr. Sarno does too, and me, well, I never did do it.

But then I did. Last week.

And it was while I sat on the end of the paper-covered examining table with my feet dangling that I thought of the title of this post. Because the first thing that I ever did three long years ago for this frigging pain was physical therapy. It didn't work. Then acupuncture. Zilch. Then Sarno. Nice for a while.

The doctor filled out a referral for an X-ray and bone density scan. Then it turns out that I have arthritis in my knees. And my kindly doctor, who is a frustrated author and stand-up comic by the way, tells me that what saved his back was a chiropractor, and why don't I go see one of those before getting the X-rays?

So I did. I got an evaluation on Monday from my new chiropractor, who is also a drummer and painter. These suburban people-fixers are very well-rounded, and the acupuncturist is a former graphic designer.

Me? I am out of alignment. My pelvis, now this is personal, is tilted. To the left. And forward. And my right side is in constant spasm, even though it's my lower left back that hurts. And my scapula is winged. Chiro said that if I were a bird I'd fly in circles. I told him that's how I feel a lot of the time, that now it all makes sense. Then I managed to work into the convo that I'm a frustrated novelist and he told me to acknowledge him in my next novel, right before he threatened to give me homework. Writing homework, because he is a childless wonder who has time to paint and drum and adjust peoples' vertebrae and he thinks all I need is the right inspiration. Did I mention he paints a mean tiger?

He cracked my neck, cracked my back and then hooked me up to a handful of these little electric zappers and now my back and neck feel tight and not miraculously pain-free. But I have been admonished to be patient and not to expect a miracle, even though my evaluation alone is miraculous after three years of pain: constant spasm resulting from misaligned pelvis. Priceless somehow. I roll that sucker around my mouth like a Milkdud. Chiro says my yoga will kick ass once the treatment starts bearing results. Not that I'm competitive or anything. 

CHAPTER 2

Stella's homework is to bring in a family picture so the class can discuss everyone's families at circle time. I thought this was the perfect shot. Oh to be a fly on the wall. I'm just happy my daughter isn't one of those kids who flies into traumatic sobs at the sight of her mother in drag. (Or father.)

CHAPTER 3

Below, a drawing by Hamish. It's Daddy about to be smushed by the trash compactor. Can you see the tear rolling down his sad little cheek? Hamish is really into trash compactors these days, especially when they are going to receive his parents for snack. He tells me almost daily that he wants to put me in one, not today though. Today was good. The drawing though. I was a little chilled when he explained it to me but then I thought, well, isn't that what people are supposed to do with their strong emotions? Put them on paper? Isn't that what I'm doing with this blog? It's healthy, right? Who doesn't want to throw their dad in the trash compactor sometimes? So I stood there watching Hamish draw and then out of nowhere he drew an X through Daddy and put it aside. When I asked him why he did that he answered, "I think it's a little too mean." And I thanked the ceiling, where Jesus lives.

CHAPTER 4

My college roommates, we've been friends for twenty-thousand years now and I get ferklemt to get together with them these days, because fair reader, what forty does to me, is teach me what's precious about life: and it's good friends. One of these beauties has a gem of a coffee shop in SoHo and we sat in there after closing time soaking up the conversation and looking out the window at all the drunken youngsters. It was sublime. Then in the cab back to my in-laws in Brooklyn, wouldn't you know there was a traffic jam at three A.M. Now that I'm a tourist, the novelty is back.

CHAPTER 5

Since my October 23 blog post regarding the New York Times article about screaming at our children, I haven't screamed at my kids. I raised my voice in irritation at Stella this morning. Stella who awoke at 5:30 A.M. coughing and warm, I was sure it was the swine, but then she was twirling and cool before school, but unapologetically three in terms of cooperating. I didn't lose it though. But I noticed that I raised my voice and said so.

I'm trying to get the kids to see A) that I'm working hard on my own issues and that they're not the only ones who grow and learn and change, and B) that they can do it too. Hamish especially. He's really into punching me lately, usually in the butt. The other night at the tail end of a dinner play-date he punched me in the stomach so hard I went, "Oof!" But I didn't yell. I cried. I let my friend see my tears of frustration because I don't pretty it up for anyone.

"I don't know what to do," I sobbed, as she backed out the door with her darling daughters. I tried putting him in his room but I cannot stand holding the door shut while he tugs on it from the other side, so I walked away from that. What usually happens though is that Hamish will hit me and then he'll stick his tongue out at me, yell at me and then let me know he's ready for dessert. This is a good time to deprive him. This night he really wanted ice cream. I told him no way, and if he wanted any chance of having cereal for dessert he needed to go to his room to cool off for five minutes and he did, which I thanked ceiling Jesus for then too.

Hamish had already pushed a good friend of his down at the playground just hours earlier and now this. I sat there not knowing what to do, growing scared of the teenage him. The postal him. The incarcerated him. But when I called Bryan to talk me down from that ledge he assured me that boys are just physically violent like that and not to worry, we won't be seeing our child in an orange jumpsuit and shackles, ever.

Here's what I'm noticing in my non-violent parenting efforts: when I don't yell or scream or spank, the smallest show of irritation is enough to grab the kids' attention. This is good. However, I'm working on not being uber-irritable mom either because she is no fun to be around, and I don't want the kids to emulate that crabbiness, and anyway constant irritability usually leads to yelling. The other notable is that I may have taught Hamish his crappy coping skills, but neither one of us is a lost cause. (This is where treating myself kindly comes in handy.)

Typically, Hame resorts to punching or yelling when he doesn't get his way, and after being scolded by me turns to Stella and threatens his sticky little fist at her. Usually. But today he wasn't so bad. We're talking through it a lot more, and I let them know when I really want to throttle them, which is usually daily, and then I keep calm.

Maybe I'm dreaming but I think they can tell that there's a difference. In any case, it's rewarding to solve problems without going ballistic. There is a way to raise kids without bullying them into submission. I'm working on the doormat part of the equation, and when I explained the concept to Hamish he identified. Hopefully he'll catch on and realize that he can raise his sister peacefully too. I could use the help.