Twisted Sister
There’s been a long-running dispute among literary types about which two words in the English language sound most beautiful together. It purportedly started with Wordsworth claiming they were “summer afternoon,” but anyone reading these words during one of our global-warming-induced July infernos might beg to differ. Tolkien said that, in terms of euphony, they are “cellar door.” Hannibal Lecter might agree, but for me there is no sweeter sound than two words that have recently come into my lexicon: “twisted sacrum.”
OK, that might not be music to your ears, but after almost a year of chronic back, butt and hip pain, these words have finally shed some light on my condition and given me something I haven’t felt in a long time: hope.
Since last fall, when I was diagnosed with tendinopathy and tendonitis in my Lower 48, I’ve been on a relentless search for causes and cures. I confess I actually started enjoying my MRIs, aside from the fact I’m convinced they sprinkle the tube with itching powder. Months of tests and treatment were all to no avail.
Part of me had given up. What started as vague tightness and discomfort in one hip had graduated to an inability to get in or out of a car without being hobbled. I thought this might be it for the rest of my life, and I started bargaining. Because you know that works, right? That there’s a big abacus up in the sky where you can cash in your credits if you need to?
My bargain was this: If I must live with the pain, I can; just please let me be able to continue to walk.
Then, in mid-June, I started with a new PT (my third), whom I call MMW (My Miracle Worker). She had me walk. She had me stand (which, frankly, all PTs do). But then she asked about my injury history going all the way back to childhood, which no one else had.
For this tomboy, it was a rollicking and bumpy ride down memory lane. She scribbled on a clipboard, underlined things two or three times, looking a little like a mad scientist. “Yup,” she said, as though at the end of an equation. “Twisted sacrum.” She also explained that my pelvis is tilted, with a little scoliosis and lumbar lordosis on the side. When I asked why no one else had mentioned any of this, she looked up and said, “Um. They weren’t looking?”
When I was on the table, she slid her fist under my arched back. “This,” she said, tapping my spine, “is supposed to be flat.” She then took my ankles and held my legs out. “And this leg” — she waggled my right ankle — “is an inch longer than this one” — left leg waggle. “Two, when you’re sitting.” All this, and we weren’t 20 minutes in.
She placed her fingertips under the Gateway Arch that is my spine, one at the base, the other near my neck. There was no kneading or massaging. It was more as though her fingers were poised to play a sonata. We talked, we laughed, and by the time the appointment was over, my back was flush against the table. When I rose, I can’t say I went from Igor to Isadora in one session, but I might have done a jeté or two across the parking lot.
There was just one hitch: I had to learn how to walk, sit and stand all over again. The prescription? Walk with my butt cheeks clenched. Go ahead, laugh. And then try it.
My first foray out felt like I was Tina Louise mincing around Gilligan’s Island in a lamé gown. My hips rotated side to side, like an agitator in a washing machine. I approached going uphill like I was a Full Body Cast Barbie. Downhill, I imagine I looked like R. Crumb’s “Keep on Truckin’” dude. It was clear MMW was going to have her W cut out for her.
These are early days, and I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself. I’m still creaky and I still have pain. But this is different. It feels like I’m building something up, rather than being torn down.
I have seen enough suffering and struggle in the world to appreciate how each step we take is both precious and precarious. And I know my access to healthcare is a luxury. In the grand scheme of things, my problems are puny.
But you see, walking is my world. It’s how I frame my days, work out problems, compose, rehearse, and sometimes actually converse with other humans. Walking saved my sanity after the death of my mother, during the end of my marriage, while coping with the isolation brought on by that and the pandemic, and while restarting my life.
Pain didn’t stop me from walking, but it tempered every step I took. Now that I’m on this new path, I’ve landed on perhaps the two most important words of all: Thank you.
Elizabeth Peavey attempts to straighten herself out here monthly.
