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A Cure for Sciatica
By
Louis Fried
My damned sciatica flared up again. Since Marybeth died I was beginning to feel much older. Not yet ready for death, mind you, but older.
I bent over to get into the cab that I’d called. I wanted to go to MOMA, the Museum of Modern Art In SOMA, the south of Market Street district of the city. But then, as I bent, I felt that same old pain in the back.
I’d had the epidural shots a couple of times and, for my money, received only short-term relief, medical platitudes and recommendations to consider surgery.
“Eeowww!” I exclaimed involuntarily. Actually, if you’ve been there you know it’s more like a cross between a scream and a grunt.
“Problem buddy?” the cabby asked, half turning in his seat to look at me.
“Yeah. Same old thing … sciatica acting up again.”
“Hey, I got it, too. Some days it’s so bad I can hardly get in and out of the cab. In fact, last week I had to ask an old lady to put her luggage in the trunk by herself. If you don’t think that hurts tips, you got another think comin’.”
“So … what do you do for it?” I asked.
“Prob’ly the same as you. I go to the doctor. I get shots. I get told to sleep with a pillow under my legs. I get told about all the other things I can try … you know … stretching exercises, lose weight, chiropractor treatments, needles … whatchacallit … acupuncture. Shit … nothin’ helps.”
By this time I was used to discussing my problem with anyone who would listen. Other than enough shots of vodka, discussion seemed to be the only thing that made me forget the pain.
“Forget the new art show,” I said to myself. Then I told the cabby, “814 Bryant Street. Dr. Negroponte’s office. Let’s see if he can squeeze in an old friend and patient with no notice.”
Wincing, I crawled into the back seat and tried to get more comfortable. Charlie Negroponte was not only a neural surgeon and a PhD, but also a long time friend and once-a-month poker playing buddy. I felt sure he would see me quickly.
As we pulled away from the curb, the cabby looked at me in the rear view mirror. “My name’s Herb … what’s yours?”
Just my luck to get a chatty cabby.
I briefly considered saying Prometheus because of the pain or Hephaestus because of my limp, but finally decided that I’d better stick to the truth. “Jake Smith.” I directed my answer to the back of his hairy neck.
“Look, Jake … you don’t mind if I call you Jake … we both have the same problem, the sciatica … I’ve heard some talk about trying herbal treatments.”
“You mean pot, Herb?”
“No,” Herb chuckled, “’though that might help to kill the pain. I was talkin’ to one of my passengers who told me about this woman over on the West Side who has this shop. He gave me her card. Sells herbal medicines …”
The pain in my back was getting worse. Herb droned on, but I tuned him out, just trying to mumble responses at what seemed like appropriate times.
We pulled into the parking lot next to Charlie Negroponte’s office. SOMA was now upscale lofts and offices instead of the old warehouses. As I struggled to get out, Herb turned to me. “That’ll be twenty-one sixty. Look, Jake, It’s a slow day. I can wait here ‘til you’re through. No charge. That way you won’t have to wait for a cab.”
”But what if it takes a long time for him to see me?”
“Here,” Herb pulled a card from above the visor and handed it to me. “If it looks like it’ll take more than a half hour, call me on my cell phone. Then I can come back for you when you need me.”
I though about it for all of fifteen seconds, as he gave me my change. “Your on, Herb.”
I handed him a five-dollar tip and hobbled into Charlie’s office. I explained my problem to the receptionist, Mabel.
“I’m sure that the doctor can fit you in, Mr. Smith. Why don’t you sit down for a minute and I’ll check with him?”
In less than two minutes, Charlie walked out and took my hand to help me stand up. “You look like Hell warmed over,” he said cheerfully.
“It’s worse this time.” I gritted m |
