Bad Back

I’ve been semi-motionless with back pain for the last three days. An ailment which, I have decided, is the worst thing in the whole world. It leaves one inclined to do things, but unable to actually do them. In fact, things that you’ve put off for months (scrubbing the mould off that corner of the room, cleaning windows, grouting), suddenly become the most fascinating and enticing activities you can imagine having the joy of doing.

But you certainly don’t get any sympathy during your enforced inactivity. Pretty much everybody gets back pain at some point, so declaring yourself as having it makes you a hypochondriac of the highest order. I am as guilty as anybody for writing off the reported pain of others. You’ll get no sympathy from me for your outlandish wincing and malingering.

The very worst thing about back pain, though, is its inexplicable nature. It sidles up to you unseen, tendrils of hot fire starting as a tiny twinge, before debilitating you into a state of lying prone on the carpet for relief, within the space of half an hour. This leads one to suspect that something terrible and sinister is at the root of it all. The internet of course, confirms this many times over. The term “back pain” is so terribly nebulous that it can be symptomatic of literally almost any disease or ailment. All of which I am currently convinced I have. I’ve got kidney disease, liver failure, polycystic ovaries, gallbladder problems, any number of degenerative spinal conditions, appendicitis (despite having probably had my appendix out at the age of three during an operation for something else), and a highly ironic sports injury. Either that, or God hates me enough to send me an immaculate ectopic pregnancy.

For an alternative, hopefully less hysterical diagnosis, I consulted a book of mine, The Universal Home Doctor, published in 1949. A more philosophical time, when we accepted our medical fate with stoicism, and, initially at least, took symptoms at face value. You know, like in that saying about when you hear hooves, think horses, not that Satan’s finally come to collect on that deal you did when you were 14 and having a witchcraft phase.

This book is a treasure trove of archaisms. Back pain, it reports, is practically endemic amongst women. Especially, it notes “before and during the courses.” We should avoid “anything in the nature of tight-lacing” (I think they mean corsets), and in the instance of pain in the lumbar region, “the bowels should be kept open with suitable medicine.” I found all of this calm advice quite reassuring.

Google should provide a parental-control-type control for the neurotic and paranoid. I don’t want to be one of these people (and as I mentioned previously, I am cavalier about health issues), who visits the doctor with a printout from NetMD which proves that I have phossy jaw. Incidentally, this reminds me. My local library is currently being refurbished (huh, only Alsager could be so out of touch with the outside world that our library gets up-graded, rather than being closed down), and during the renovations, asbestos was found. My first thought? “I did two weeks work experience there when I was 15! No wonder I sometimes cough a bit! Bring on the worker’s comp!”

You see, ailments today seem to be perceived through their benefits, rather than their drawbacks (pain, physical/mental deterioration, disability, social alienation, death). Get diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and one anticipates the arrival of a telegram from Stephen Fry, welcoming you to the club (hopefully with a headquarters in Piccadilly, furnished with oak panelling and velvet-covered chairs).

Every medical problem can have its upside. Got some freakish deformity? Channel 5 will make a documentary about you! Unsightly skin condition? Street Doctor or Embarrassing Illnesses will transmit a close up of it into the living rooms of millions of gawping voyeurs! (Incidentally, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t be convinced to appear on national television waving my supposedly embarrassingly ill body part around for all and sundry to say “urgh” at. If you can get it out on the telly, it’s not really embarrassing, is it?) And then of course, if you’ve had an accident at work? Well, you get the picture.

Incidentally, since I started writing this a couple of hours ago, I’ve had a miraculous recovery. The pain has gone away almost as abruptly as it came on. (Maybe this writing's been like the psychological equivalent of blood-letting.) The side-effect of this is that my mood has just taken an exponential swing upwards. Maybe I’d better get myself down to that club of Stephen Fry’s, where we can all have a good revel in how great being ill is.