Back Against the Wall...And Possibly an Operating Table

They say it was the straw that broke the camel's back.

A cough broke mine.

Not really. I'm sure this is far more an instance of death by a thousand cuts, but saying it was the cough is way funnier.

15 years of being a scrawny, wannabe tradesman meant my body had spent years lifting and twisting in ways I don't think could be written or illustrated by the most imaginative person in history. Couple that with a love of being a hack basketball player and siring children resembling bags of rapid set... it was never really looking great.

Now, all roads have led to me sitting in ED at 5:30am on a Friday, fresh off a sleepless night, wondering if the insane-o pain-o (medical term) was going to chill the fuck out anytime soon.

Of course, the first time my back raised a grievance was at the pub.

I'm not sure what preceded or followed the moment, but during it I obviously felt it absolutely necessary to pick Tommy Gun up over my shoulder and march him around the beer garden like I was carrying scaff to site.

I felt a tweak in my lower back.

"hmmmmm... better wash that down with another half dozen schooners"

A great start to back health responsibility right there.

I started my apprenticeship at 21, so thankfully I had a bit more maturity, wisdom and life experience than if I had started straight out of high school. I was struggling with my back something chronic at work, so naturally I used this wealth of knowledge and ignored it, and soldiered on.

I booked in at the chiropractor one afternoon when I realised I couldn't shovel dirt, which isn't a great look for a first year apprentice.

My research consisted of googling "next chiropractor appointment Pakenham", and that was that.

I went for one adjustment. They spotted a pigeon, and roped me in with the full used car salesman extended warranty pitch. I got the deluxe package of X-Rays and a 10 pack of adjustments... I saved 5% overall.

I'd be losing money not to lock that in!

That one adjustment was enough. The sun rose the next day and I felt like a fucking gymnast. I probably went into work and demanded we do more undergrounds to prove how good my back was.

Simple problems, simple solutions. My back signed up to that when I was 21. Simple problem - sore back. Simple solution - see back fixer guy.

Oh what it is to be young.

Over the coming years, and with the abundance of additional abuse (see 1000 cuts comment) I would sporadically head back into the chiropractor for an adjustment. After every adjustment they'd tell me to book in the following week.

Every time I'd tell them I'd book in, every time I did no such thing.

Until I had to.

I began to have to duck off from work to sneak in a session. That turned into fortnightly trips, and eventually weekly trips to the chiro.

Eventually, it was routine.

Stomach down - clicky gun a few times, maybe the massage gun if they were feeling spicy. Crack

Left side - Crack

Right side - Crack

On the back - Neck left. Crack. Neck right. Crack.

That'll be $75. See you next time.

It was the Band-Aid fix I needed every time. Unfortunately, it was like sticking that Band-Aid to an ice cube. That shit ain't sticking, and it's not the Band-Aid's fault.

Some readers (of world-renowned publication...) may be privy to how much I love basketball.

I like it so much I even attempted to play it from the ripe old age of 23. I never played juniors (cheers Mumsy) and never played during high school. I started when the team my mates played on needed a fill in. I came down, hit a couple 3s, and never left.

Unfortunately for the team, I pulled those 3s directly out of my anus. The hopes that they had just stumbled into a Klay Thompson marksman were quickly erased in week two.

But by that time, I was locked in.

You know what basketball is hard on?

Knees and backs.

You know what usually helps?

Stretching pre and post game and having proper basketball shoes.

You know what I never did?

You guessed it.

Hell, this is what I decided was the best foot attire for basketball games.

My back never stood a chance... and Milena insists on harping on about these facts ad nauseam.

Hell, I was so confident that I picked up a second run a week. 80 minutes of running and jumping on the hardwood in those fucking Nikes.

I'm not exactly sure how my body didn't stop work for industrial action sooner.

As the years passed, cracks started to form.

My neck actually locked up a couple times to the point I was turning my head like I was in a fucking Batman suit.

Strange I thought, but at least it wasn't my back, because necks and backs are definitely not linked.

Eventually I retired those basketball (skate) shoes, although they're still a runway regular for me when going out, and invested in an actual set of basketball shoes.

Did you know that shoes can have ankle support and cushioning?

News to me.

After 5+ years in those shoes though, the damage had been done.

Between the Nikes and the Steel Blue slip ons that also offered approximately zero support anymore, I had written a cheque my body was just fucking aching to cash.

I don't remember the exact instance that caused it, but I remember it happening in the first half of a game. My back stiffened up...hard. I was running like I had a fucking piece of 90x45 strapped to my back.

Getting down into my defensive stance involved standing straight up, making my arms wide, and having absolutely zero lateral movement.

This was during the first half of the game.

Unfortunately, I'd hit one (1) 3 pointer, so I thought I was white hot. You couldn't get me off the court if you tried.

Yes, the back was tight, but I brushed it off, completed my usual zero cool down routine, and drove home.
I got home, and Milena asked me to fill up her drink bottle before I got into bed.

Fairly straightforward request.

As I walked back from the kitchen, my back felt a bit odd, then a lot odd, then I had to run to bed and throw Milena's drink bottle to her, or at her depending on who's telling the story, before collapsing into bed.

I was in that bed for the next three days.

There was one moment the next day when I attempted to stand up straight, and the pain buckled me and sent me crumpling back into bed.

This was the first I realised that it wasn't just about me anymore.

At that stage we had two kids, one of whom was starting day care the next day. Lucky in one regard because he was out of the house. But on the other, having to watch Milena deal with a four-year-old and a one-year-old the next day, fresh off his world being turned on its head, and not being able to do a thing to help, opened my eyes.

So the body team grew.

I started going to the osteo and went through their medical methodology of, "Hey, if we throw enough shit at this wall, something has to stick, right?"

I had adjustments, dry needling, which I fucking hated, and shock wave therapy, which is also kind of shit.

I began seeing Kelley, who's a remedial masseuse. She has been a wonder, but I was blissfully unaware that remedial is in fact Latin for "going to elbow the fuck out of you right now".

I went back to my PT Laura every Saturday morning and would be furious when she would make me complete a slightly different set of squats to the 17 sets I had just completed.

But with all this, I slowly began to improve.

Unfortunately, the issue I face when it comes to looking after my body is that I am very much a dumb dumb middle-aged male (medical term).

Reactive, not proactive.

So I got better, and all of a sudden I could push the osteo and remedial out a bit further. PT didn't have to be stringently weekly, I could give it a miss if I wanted.

Current day Coffee Otis is not overly impressed with past Coffee Otis about these indiscretions, particularly when a little bit later, I had the pleasure of being acquainted with sciatica.

If Time Magazine picked word of the year from my search history, sciatica would be a Usain Bolt favourite to take it out.

I was waking up at 2am every morning, with the joyful feeling of someone digging the head of a sledgehammer into my left hammy.

It got to the stage I would be twiddling my thumbs all morning, waiting for the public pool to open at 5am to get some release.

Having to share the heated pool with the water aerobics class who had an average age of 86 hit home.

I reassembled the team, but this time there were some fresh faces.

Upon the realisation that my original chiropractor was actually really fucking shit, I bunked up with a joint in Berwick who also did spinal traction. I reckon Dr. Leigh did more for me in two sessions than the other mob had in the 13 years prior.

I also floated the idea of surgery for the first time, to the point I went on the public waiting list after the neurosurgeon I met with said "whoa, you're pretty fucked up hey!"

I may be paraphrasing there. But the point stands.

I actually got the call to book the slice and dice in fairly quickly.

"Great!" I thought... until I remembered we had our third kid due in a few months and we kind of, sort of, had nowhere to live because I needed to finish the fucking house I was building.

Minuscule facts.

So the surgery got turned down, and instead I went back to annihilating myself further while building this house for the deadline of "before the baby comes".

Hit the mark with two weeks to spare.

Some call it tight. I call it precision execution.

Between Dr. Leigh and Kelley, I prospered. Sciatica was gone, no lower back pain, and there was freedom of movement again.

Naturally in my head, there was only one thing left to do -- back to basketball baby!

Everything was peachy, despite an Achilles scare. I've always said an Achilles or calf injury is automatic retirement, purely because I've classified each as an old man injury.

Somehow, I've never thought the same of a debilitating back injury. Go figure.

But, in a moment of absolute rinse and repeat, much to Milena's chagrin, I planted my foot for a layup off a fast (medium to slow) break -- which I definitely smoked -- and felt the back stiffen up again.

I know what you're thinking.

"Well at least you knew not to push it when you felt it!"

LOL. NOPE.

Ran that mother fucking game out, which included taking a charge from a Kendrick Perkins type Mack truck.

This time, at least, I somewhat recognised the situation. I ceased all basketball playing activities effective immediately... outside of shooting hoops on the warehouse ring.

I'm only human.

And now, after everything that came before it like a butterfly effect of stupidity -- the cough.

Friday morning. 7am. Standing in the kitchen with Igg planning how I'm going to stick 100 lollipops to him for his 100th day of prep without him looking like a suicide bomber.

Much like J with the Coffee Otis origin story bet, that was a task successfully failed.

There I was, standing like a proud, home-grown terrorist dad, when I had the fucking nerve (pun intended) to cough.

I was blinded by the light.

Except replace light with pain, and blinded with involuntary sounds and movements.

It was short, it was sharp, and for some reason, it ventured down my right leg. It was always my left leg, so that was a slight cause for concern.

I dropped my little lollipop strapped suicide bomber off to school, and got on with the day like I always do.

A couple days later, my calf tightened up like it was a politician on a polygraph machine.

I navigated my way through that hiccup with movement. I kept moving, kept walking, and kept it warm.

But then in an absolutely sick turn of events, I had the gall to decide I wanted a coffee. So I walked downstairs, and out into the warehouse.

Apparently that was akin to closing the Strait of Hormuz, and my body declared war on my right leg.

The pain in my ankle nearly keeled me over. The boss was trying to have a chat with me, and I was trying to put on a brave face and not be rude, all while thinking "if I don't find a seat, I'm going to be getting acquainted with the floor in a second".

The pain was horrendous, but I thought it would be short-lived. My body said "bet" and dialled it up.

That night was like no other night I've had in my life.

I've had sleepless nights before. Work stress, money stress, family stress. I've been there.

Insane-o pain-o sleepless though? That shit hits different.

The pain was radiating through every millimetre of my leg and being an absolute fucking jerk about it. If I iced my hammy, it'd kindly relocate to my calf. Wrap the calf, it'd call my ankle home.

I was on the couch tossing and turning all night, wondering what the actual fuck the muscle relaxant my GP had scripted for me was actually doing. Then at 4am, I realised that the tablet wasn't a placebo -- it actually HAD been helping. It wore off and I was in genuine agony. It got to the point of a 4:30am call to Mumsy to take me to the ED because of the pain.

And there I sat, wondering what my next move was. I was googling the pros and cons of all the different types, costs, and recovery times of different back surgeries.

All I could really think about (outside of wallowing for myself) was the family.

I'm not a dad who sits on the sidelines. I'm a husband who believes it takes two captains to keep a ship with three young kids on track.

I want to be in the action at all times, and this one had me genuinely scared about my ability to do that moving forward.

For the first time, I wasn't worried about whether my back would get better.

I was worried about what happened if it didn't.

I guess for now, like a good heist movie, I'll get the gang back together for one last job.

I just have to go against everything I'm good at, and make proactive the default setting because in my head, there's too much on the line.

I want to make sure I'm free enough for long enough to show my baby girl what a real netball transition looks like, from a dad who won a netball granny BOG in his non fucked back prime.