On His Back With Pain of Fire and Ice

Some of you may have imagined that I was sunning myself in Bermuda last week, or cruising to Acapulco.

In fact I was at home, flat on my back, and occasionally emitting piteous screams.

For the first time in years, I had injured my back. I am never quite sure how I do it. One of the worst cases I ever had occurred when I was shaving. I merely twisted slightly to the right to say something to my wife through the open door, and I fell to my knees in agony.

This time it happened when I was trying to get up from a low rattan swivel chair in my den. As I rose, with my hands on the arms, the chair swiveled and tipped over; I fell. That was it. I was a basket case.

Unfortunately, I was home alone. My wife was visiting relatives for the weekend. I lay helpless on the floor, not daring to move. I thought it through. Gradually, in great pain, I rolled over and got to my knees and crawled to the bedroom. Filling the house with shrieks, I managed to get onto the bed and roll over on my back.

The phone rang. Thinking it must be my wife, I faced up to the effort it would take to roll off the bed and crawl to the phone. It was my older son. I told him I was out of action. He said he would come over the next day and his wife could help me. She is a registered physical therapist. That night I didn’t try to eat.

They arrived the next morning about 10 o’clock. My daughter-in-law, Gail, put an electric pad under my back. Then she cooked me some bacon and eggs. I am not supposed to eat bacon and eggs, but I do when I’m feeling sorry for myself.

I suppose the details of my ordeal are of little interest to the reader. But there is one effect of this particular kind of injury that always strikes me as curious if not sinister.

One’s screams seem to strike one’s loved ones as hilarious. I remember that when I hurt myself shaving and fell screaming to my knees, my wife and my sons could hardly contain themselves. They staggered about with hysterical laughter, holding their sides. It must have something to do, I suspect, with seeing the master reduced to a whimpering infant.

My three grandchildren were discreet this time. Mostly they stayed in the living room. But occasionally one of my screams would bring them to the bedroom door, their faces reflecting profound fascination.

In the afternoon, my daughter-in-law said it was time for the ice treatment. I had never had an ice treatment. She rolled me over until my back was off the heating pad, then applied a block of ice to the injured spot.

I screamed like the victim in a torture movie. I had not imagined that ice could produce such excruciating pain. I blubbered. I begged her to desist. She said it took five minutes. After a while I became numb, and it didn’t hurt any more.

That evening my wife came home and took over. I had appreciated my daughter-in-law’s professional ministrations, and I’m sure they helped me on my way to recovery. However, it was nice to have my own wife at hand. I hoped she would be more solicitous of tender feelings.

If I lay quite still, it didn’t hurt. But a cough or a sneeze was disastrous. That evening I was floating along, half dozing, in a kind of momentary euphoria, when my wife came into the bedroom with a towel and something in a paper cup.

“It’s time for the ice,” she said.

“No!” I shouted. But she insisted. “Gail says it’s very important. You want to be a baby?”

Reluctantly I submitted. I rolled over to expose my back. She pulled my pajama top up. “Where does it hurt?” she asked, probing with her fingers. “There!” I shrieked.

She applied the ice. I don’t want to say she enjoyed it, but it wouldn’t surprise me.

I’m not a hero. If I am ever captured by the enemy and tortured, I’ll betray my country. All they’ll have to do is put a chunk of ice on my back.