Four weeks ago my back started to ache. I’ve been know to cite the “tincture of time” as the best cure for most things, but even I knew I was beat when I found myself sitting in my car and wondering just how I was going to get out without help. Now I have a small pharmacy on my counter and my second physical therapy appointment tomorrow morning at oh-my-god o’clock. I have drugs and ice packs and heat pads and therapy and still a sharp point of pain in the axis at small of my back.
My physical therapist wants me to know that I’m getting old. As if I didn’t see “elderly multigravida” scrawled across the top of my chart when i was pregnant with Elliot. When I humble bragged that I can walk many miles comfortably, but threw in that I hate to just stand for a long time, he said, “You’re weak.” To my face. Perhaps most galling because it is true.
Still, I’m not *that* old or un-fit. What I am, according to this therapist, is the mother of a “dynamic load.” Any chump can learn to life a static load safely — a heavy box, a piece of furniture — but a heavy object that remains always in motion — a rambunctious three-year-old — is a whole different proposition. In the final analysis, I believe I hurt myself potty training Elliot. If there is any dignity in that, I have yet to find it.