It was the day before Father’s Day a few years ago and I was planting
flowers in the bare spots in the garden. I knelt in the garden alongside our
garage, moving the last plant out of its pot and into the ground. I patted the
dirt around the new planting.
Smiling, I stood up, and a pain shot through my back that forced me to grab the side of the garage to steady myself. The pain was so severe that passing out loomed as a distinct possibility. For a few moments, I stood with both hands against the wall (think of the “getting frisked” position). Then I moved, but with great pain. I could barely walk, but I forced myself. The pain eased and eventually dissipated, and I thought I had pulled a muscle.
Six weeks later, the pain suddenly returned; this time, even worse than before.
Smiling, I stood up, and a pain shot through my back that forced me to grab the side of the garage to steady myself. The pain was so severe that passing out loomed as a distinct possibility. For a few moments, I stood with both hands against the wall (think of the “getting frisked” position). Then I moved, but with great pain. I could barely walk, but I forced myself. The pain eased and eventually dissipated, and I thought I had pulled a muscle.
Six weeks later, the pain suddenly returned; this time, even worse than before.
To continue reading, please see my post today at The
High Calling.
Photograph by Peter Griffin
via Public
Domain Pictures. Used with permission.
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