I have suffered from Sciatica for a year and a bit now. In most cases, Sciatica disappears after a few months. In this case it kept on for 14 months, until yesterday.
I had an operation called a discectomy in which part of the disc pushing onto the nerve was cut back, allowing my Sciatic nerve some breathing space.
I am now sofa-bound. Every time I get up and walk around it feels like my midriff is going to just snap and I’ll end up doubled over, my eyes looking between my feet.
The anaesthetic was amazing. Some clear liquid and an oxygen mask before the white liquid, the main barbiturate solution, pumped in.
‘Do you feel a bit light-headed?’
I nod and the next thing I know I’m waking up in another room. The surgeon tells me something that I think is meant to be important but I have no idea what it is. Why do they have to tell you how it went when you’re out of it? For all I know I could have been left paralysed but missed the memo.
I was given an egg sandwich and a cup of tea. I chilled and listened to the radio. It was a pretty easy recovery, until I got home and the pain meds wore off.
I was spread out on the living room floor, reading a bulky sci-fi novel when I heard an intake of breath. Not exactly a snore. But kinda like a snore.
My fiance (let’s call her “Tired Teacher”) was sitting cross-legged on the couch. A four-colour bic hanging from her hand and a student’s English book spread on her lap. Her head was on her chest and her eyes were closed. Asleep.
This is common. I reach over and shake her leg. She comes to, head snapping up like she had never stopped marking. She offers an exhausted, embarrassed smile and gets her pen ready.
I get another paragraph in, a boy trapped underwater, his best friend struggling to get to him. The adults are racing to the scene but who knows if they’ll be there in time – another not-quite-but-kinda-like a snore.
Her head is down again. Eyes closed. Pen at the ready.
I shake her awake. Tell her to go to bed. She nods and puts her student’s book into a large bag. The same bag she lugs in and out of the car and somehow hefts to and from school Monday to Friday.
When the book is away she slumps sideways across the couch and is asleep. It’s 12.32 in the morning. She’ll be getting up at six-thirty.