The right kind of pain

It's the day after a new workout, and my body is very angry with me.

Muscles that I previously had no idea I had are now sore all over. One of the cats walks across my stomach and I let out an "oof." And oy, the hurt that comes with each sneeze...

This is the good kind of pain, the doiscomfort that comes with somthing different. Last week, I tried personal training for the first time, and in addition to feeling pretty silly trying to balance my backside on a fitness orb, I think I picked up a valuable tip or two. And, since I was training muscles that otherwise wouldn't be impacted by a walk on the treadmill or ride on the bike, little bits of muscle tore, which I understand now is supposed to happen as a part of the exercise process.

I shouldn't be this pleased to feel a bit of soreness in my bicep and pectoral. But a few years ago, it wasn't the right kind of pain that was causing me much more than discomfort all hours of the day.

Sometime between my junior and senior of college, I ruptured a disk in my lower back. Between the L4/L5 vertibrae, to be exact. To this day I have no idea how it happened. Gradually I started feeling soreness and tightness at the small of my back, coupled by some unusual pain down my right leg. Eventually, I grew concerned enough to visit the doctor, something I try to avoid at all costs. I'm the classic doctorphobe. Unless something is bleeding profusely or turning colors unknown to Crayola, I'm not going to see a physician.

Yet something was wrong, and I knew it. The doctor diagnosed sciatica. For anyone unfamiliar with the term, the sciatic nerve is the largest in the body, running from your back down the length of your legs. When something pushes on the nerve, it hurts like the Dickens (Bah humbug). The doctor told me to take off some weight, so for the first time in my life, I tried going to the gym in earnest. I screwed something up, and the pain worsened. Soon, the discomfort in my leg was searing agony all the way down to my foot. A return to the doctor and an MRI confirmed suspicions. The disk was herniated, of slipped, or ruptured, or whatever euphemism you want to use. They all mean the same thing: ow, ow, ow, and ow.

Physical therapy, including traction, was useless. The traction was especially awkward: they'd put me on a table, strap some weights around my body, and pull me in two different directions. I don't know how this was supposed to cure my back, or whether they were trying to extract government secrets from me, but it sucked. Basically, I was in the torture rack, and the therapists only got mad when I screamed "Frreeeedddddooooommmm!"

Next came the injections, or as I remember them, spinal scrapings. They started administering cortisone shots in the form of epidurals, a series of three that ranged from slightly painful to holy heck, what are you doing to my back. I went from doctor to doctor as my senior year started. The pain made me lame, and I couldn't walk more than a few hundred feet before having to stop and calm the nerve. While this is mildly annoying walking around a college campus, it's awful when you're a proud member of the marching band. Suddenly, a halftime show becomes an exercise in ouch. I had to sit out shows and basically spent my entire final year of band sitting on the sideline, watching my friends perform at Rentschler Field.

Given my size, I was lucky that I hadn't ruptured a disk prior. It's a common injury for the overweight, a signal of bad posture or extra stress on a spine ill-designed for heavy lifting. But it was getting worse. One more MRI, a new orthopedist, and the decision was made. The ruptured disk had wrapped itself completely around the nerve. I got through the year, then a week after I graduated, I was under the knife.

The surgeon told me later it was a wonder I could walk at all. The injury was bad, causing me to take Vicodin with the frequency of Dr. House. I still have a zipperish scar marking the site of the incision. The surgery did the trick, for the most part. Some residual pain remained, but the rupture was gone.

I never want to go through that again. I lost a valuable part of my last year of college to an injury related to being a big dude. The worst part: when you can hardly move, you can still eat, and of how the pounds increased. It still hurts to think of the time I missed on the band field, or the fact that I had trouble enjoying my best friend's wedding since while I was standing next to him on the altar, I was in some kind of Percocet daydream. Some things you can never get back, but I'm going to do my best to make sure there's no repeat rupture.

So yeah, I'm happy to take the subtle pain of a muscle that's gone unworked for too long. It beats the hell out of sitting in the stands and watching all your friends do something you love.

But enough of the sad memories. This was a good week, and it's starting to show. I know I promised some photos, but the camera's nowhere to be found. My face has definition now. Picture John Candy morphing into George Clooney, and while I look nothing like either of them, I'm starting to feel pretty darn suave.

And what did George Clooney yell frequently on ER? STAT!

(er, Stats).

Weeks until wedding: 34
Week 15 pounds lost: 4. You may now dance in celebration.
Total weight lost: 43.6 pounds
Average weight loss per week: 2.9 pounds
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 73 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 16.4
Percent chance I'll increase that goal: about 98
Number of subscribers to this blog: 30
Number last week: 26. I got one new follower for every pound lost. Good thing I didn't gain any weight.
Night of Hanukkah: second
Days before Xmas: 12. Time for those geese to start a-laying.
Greatest holiday gift I ever received: Karl Malone rookie card.
Sad but true Hanukkah gift I once received: underpants stuffed inside a trash can. Oy, Harry, you're killing me!