Friday appeared to be developing into one of the worst days of my life. Thanks to the kindness of a stranger and, perhaps dumb luck, it turned out to be a blessed day.
For several months, I’ve been suffering with Sciatica . High doses of meds made only a small dent in the pain. After two steroid injections into my spine, the pain kept getting worse.
Out of desperation I scheduled an urgent appointment with my orthopedist last Friday. New x-rays revealed that my hip is badly damaged and has been the source of new, excruciating pain. Seeing my pain-twisted face, my busy doctor went above and beyond, phoning his friend, my spine and pain specialist to see if he could give me a steroid injection before the long, holiday weekend.
Barely holding back tears, I headed to the parking garage thinking I’d take a chance that the specialist, who hadn’t called back and whose office was just a few blocks away, would see me.
Trying to wield a brand new cane, I stepped into the garage and promptly was hit with another fierce surge of pain that caught me up short. It hurt so much that I started crying in earnest, feeling hopeless.
I would have understood anyone wanting to avoid my “scene”. However, one caring lady heading into the building stopped to offer help. I don’t know about you, but that kind of loving concern, makes me even more emotional. She gently offered me words of comfort and encouragement.
This dear lady, who surely had health concerns of her own, took the time and effort to help me walk to my car and get into it. I was so pained, self-centered and anxious to get to my doctor’s office before he left that I did a shamefully poor job of thanking her. She gave me the strength to get myself to the specialist who, miraculously, was able to treat me when his office staff told me it would be impossible. [I think my mascara-streaked face might have hinted at how desperate I was.]
I will look for opportunities to “pay it forward.” It’s the least I can do. Oh, and the steroid injection hurt like hell but has relieved about 60% of my pain. I think I’ll live . . . .