It was Saturday, a beautiful fall morning in 2017, a morning to enjoy the trees, chrysanthemums, pumpkins and scarecrows that adorned most houses I passed by on my leisurely weekend runs. Attempting to roll out of bed, a searing pain that traversed from the left shoulder midway down my back hit me like a ton of bricks.
“Well this is a sucky way to start the weekend.” I said to myself. “I’ll just try to stretch a bit.”
Always the optimist when it comes to my physical fitness, it never crossed my mind that the remedy was not in my control. Sore, tight muscles were par for the course of this distance runner. Just a few down dogs and child’s poses, and I’d be as good as new.
Except I wasn’t.
I spent most of the morning in the recliner, my shoulder accessorized with a bag of frozen veggies. The pain was unceasing. Finally, that afternoon, with Kurt away at a photoshoot, I turned to Austin, my son, who was home from college for the weekend. “Can you drive me to the doctor?”
The nurse practitioner was both thorough and kind. The x-ray indicated very little. Sending me home with a prescription for pain medication, she directed me to follow up with my PCP.
Except I didn’t have a PCP at the time. (Long Story)
Needless to say, I didn’t follow up.
After about six weeks of sleeping upright and melting countless bags of frozen produce, the pain subsided to something that was tolerable. So, like most normal people, I blew it off.
My grandmother was turning 100, and I had a birthday party to plan.
Fall Pictures in the Alley were busying our weekends.
The yard needed mowing; the leaves needed raking; Christmas presents needed to be purchased; tax forms needed to be completed. The endless list we call “Life” didn’t need any interruptions, especially something as insignificant as a health issue. “And besides,” I would say to myself with pride, “I’m fit; I eat green stuff. This will soon blow over.”
Boy was I ever wrong.