stiff neck

Pain in the Neck

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I’m standing in the changing room looking like a preschool craft of marshmallows and toothpicks. Stiff around the joints and ensconced in a white fluffy robe that looks comfy enough to eat.

It all started Saturday morning when I made a less than risky turn in my bed and found my neck was ablaze with pain. It began near the top of my spine and shot down to my elbows so that I moved with the grace and flexibility of an uncooked spaghetti noodle. And I kept forgetting.

“Mom, can we-”
“Gah! Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Babe, look at this hilarious-”
“Uh! What. Just, what is it?”

Trying to relax on the porch with a cup of coffee and never finding a comfortable position, I decided to call for a massage. That, my friends, is how I became part S’more, in a locker room, at a spa.

As stiff as my neck, I slid on the sandals they handed me and waited in the common area. It was all dark ambiance and artificial waterfalls and weird teas.
“Can I get you something hot to drink? Our signature recipe is delicious.” said the receptionist.
Yes and please sear it against my hairline. “That’d be great, thank you.”

I held the white ceramic mug between both hands and likely looked ridiculous trying to sit back.

“Brittany?”
Help. Me. “Hi.”

She introduced herself and her oils while I tried to explain the mess going on in my muscles. You know that movie Weekend at Bernie’s? I want to walk out of here like the dead guy.

I let the wave sounds wash over me and the vanilla aromatherapy soothe. She pressed her elbows to my back and I wasn’t sure if I was going to laugh or cry or pee myself. It was gloriously painful. And I was grateful she couldn’t see my face cringe.

Now weekend has weaved into the week, my desperate message to the chiropractor has been returned, and I’ve learned it’s likely a nasty virus I’m fighting. I’m still brittle around the edges and certain moves require a tenacious patience. But the big takeaway here is I will never, ever again, ever take for granted being able to look both ways at a crosswalk or down while I shave my underarms. Like, ever.

I’d Likely Pay You Three Times Your Normal Rate for This

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She found his feet while grabbing an apple. Curious, she knocked a hollow sound through his entire leg. He was silver, empty, stuck. And I am just like this Tin Man.

“Mom…” I turn my head in a momentary lapse of my condition, and I pay for it dearly. My only choice is to become stiff again, using my entire torso like a bad version of Mr. Roboto.  

What did I do? I don’t know. The only thing I can trace back to is one night when I got up to slay the green-faced witches of my little one’s bad dreams, my arm was prickling with the claws of evil flying monkeys. But that hardly seems enough to have me in such a statuesque manner.

“I’d likely pay you three times your normal rate for this,” I said to my chiropractor the next day. 
And with a click then a pop, I was oiled at the joints. God bless that man for not up-charging.

Days later I am not back to normal but I’m getting there. I can look in my blindspot when I drive or under my son’s dresser for the stack of clean clothes I told him to hang in his closet. I remember what a privilege it is to have my bones, muscles, and tendons doing their thing right.

I sigh. “There’s no place like home.” Or the office of a skilled bone-cracker.