And got a little cupping action from my massage therapist.

I woke up one morning with what felt like a dozen Charley horses in my leg.

I’m not sure who the fuck Charley is, or why their horses were in my leg, but they clearly weren’t going anywhere. I had no choice but to agonizingly slide myself off of the bed and onto the floor. It was there that I instantly questioned my decision which had now left me twisted like a badly formed sourdough pretzel that resided on the floor.

I wasn’t getting up, and Charley’s horses clearly weren’t listening to any of my verbal commands to help pull me out of this rut.

It became my normal routine:

• Wake up to excruciating leg pain and curse Charley
• Slide like a sloth onto the floor
• Grab onto anything that would allow me to pull myself up to the least painful standing position
• Contemplate life for a while and how important my leg actually was, or not, until things relaxed so that I could hobble my way to the next room to start my day

Fun. But It didn’t stop there.

Over the weeks waking up was no longer so much of a thing because I couldn’t sleep. I needed help. I went to my chiropractor a couple of times. Slight relief, but no fix. I also saw a kinesiologist to no avail.

With no resolve, I hit up my primary care physician. She kindly printed out 3 pages of hamstring exercises along with verbal instructions to look them up on YouTube to figure out how to actually perform them. She also handed me a business card for a sports massage therapist who apparently worked miracles.

A quick look at the handout along with barely being able to put on a sock at that point and I can’t even tell you where those useless things ended up.

A phone call to the massage therapist consisted of her explaining all of the techniques that she’d use to try to address the issue. One, in particular, was cupping. A few things to consider here…

• I had never been to a massage therapist.
• I’m a guy.
• My only experience with cupping had nothing to do with fixing anything painful, quite the opposite, actually.
• I’m a guy.
• I was interested in this cupping thing.

Days later, I found myself with a half dozen three-inch plunger-like things sucking the absolute fucking bejesus out of specific points on my back, leg, and recently shaved ass cheek, per her previous recommendation so that the cups would stick better.

Ever get a hickey on your neck that you had to hide from your parents after a good make-out session in the back seat of a car that you never should have been in in the first place at that age?

Cupping is a distant relative of that. Except that this relative hates you.

When you cry uncle, they say fuck you and keep sucking. They leach onto you and invite their friends to hate you and latch onto other areas of your skin. The sheer burning that is experienced makes you wonder if this whole thing is legal and has you questioning why you’re about to pay for it.

Lastly, you thank the holy hell that exists that the cupping is kept as far away from anything that you’d hoped it might include before agreeing to it.

Oddly, there was some relief that followed. However, I’m now convinced that the relief was from when these bitches finally were released from my skin.

I paid the lady and I included a tip. Upon hearing that another session was required, I hoped that it might help her show more mercy during the next suck session and I made my way home.

My next appointment was a week later on my birthday. Surely she’d show some compassion based on my special day along with the bruises on my skin that she left on me from our prior make-out session.

Nope, not a fucking chance. Twice the plungers and double the cupping.

Fuck me, and not in a good way. I didn’t even get a Happy Birthday out of her.

My body must have been keen to it by now because at the end of it all, not a single bit of relief this time. Paid, tipped, and made another appointment for a few days later that I’d bail on for another visit to my chiropractor instead.

My chiropractor had a look of concern. He checked a couple of things and said that he wasn’t making any more adjustments without seeing some x-rays and an MRI.

At this point, I was no longer only losing sleep and barely getting out of bed. I’d migrated to the sofa for the evenings and my daily regimen consisted of doing the wounded soldier with my good leg pushing me along to whatever would allow me to prop myself up where I’d remain for the better part of the next half-hour.

I’d cautiously walk around the dining room table while holding onto the backs of the chairs as if I were racing a snail and losing by a lap or two. The snail would finish and I’d keep going for another thirty minutes.

For the next 10–12 hours, I’d stand up with my laptop at the kitchen counter doing whatever work I could while eyeing the butcher block for the best knife for leg removal. This went on each day while I lived on Advil and caffeine.

Each day, I carefully went over each knife blade and what it might have to offer.

My x-rays showed nothing. After a few weeks of different doctors trying to find some way around the insurance company’s unwillingness to cover an MRI, someone had success. Of course, that required traveling a couple of hours from home for someone who found it excruciatingly painful to sit or lie down for any length of time.

I knew that the MRI required that I didn’t move inside the tin can. I was given my choice of music to listen to that I wouldn’t be able to hear or focus on regardless. I took a few deep breaths and chose to meditate.

Yep, all that buzzing and banging going on and I was able to meditate my way through it. Once I was extracted with zero fanfare, the tech asked if I had fallen asleep. He was impressed when I mentioned my wide-awake ability to focus under the circumstances.

Here’s how I did that…

The MRI results showed a moderate bilateral foraminal stenosis at L5-S1.

Short version? One of the holes in my vertebrae was smaller than it used to be causing the nerve to go in normally, but come out like a flat ribbon. This resulted in a pain that I can only compare to childbirth. Although, I’ve been told to maybe not use that comparison around women who’ve actually given birth.

I met with spine surgeon number one.

A nice enough guy, but after hearing a few keywords like, uncomfortable, never seeing anything like this before, and not wanting to do more harm than good had me fearing that I’d be stuck with nothing but a life of useless and pleasure-less cupping sessions.

His solution was to do spinal injections and hope for the best. If that didn’t work, then we’d discuss the surgical option.

Ummm, I’d have a beer with this guy, but he wasn’t getting near me with a fucking scalpel.

I had previously reached the point where I was begging my regular doctor for something that would relieve the pain. I’d stopped at an ER on the way back from my MRI and the attending was kind enough to give me some Oxycodone.

I’m well aware of the actual pandemic that is going on relating to the prescribing of opioids. I barely take an aspirin if I don’t feel well. I’m not one to take pain meds. In this case, I was about to be someone who took pain meds.

She had conceded and gave me nine pills, enough to get me to my next ortho appointment. The rationing as if I’d just asked my mom for more than one cookie for each hand as a child continued, as did the pain.

The day after my visit with Dr. McGillicuddy, I called back to see what my other options were. I was kindly told that they’d see if another surgeon would take a look at my results. Within the hour, they called back and I had my second chance at sparing my butcher block kitchen knives from being an accomplice.

By that point, I’d chosen the bread knife. Sharp and serrated, good for the muscle and bones.

The appointment was the next day. Unlike my drinking buddy who brought the computer in and used shiny objects and the production to show me how good my spine looked yet still wasn’t able to find a smoking gun, this doc was a bit more no-nonsense.

He walked in holding nothing but a piece of paper with his notes scribbled on it. He had me perform two physical tests, stepped out to look at my MRI again, and came in with my options- surgery being the only one that was gonna fix this mess.

Less than a week later, I’m lying on my sofa typing this after a successful back surgery yesterday. Turns out, they found a small bone fragment as part of the cause.

Basically, I broke my back. Or, at least I’m going with that because it sounds way cooler than saying that a little arthritis caused that whole stenosis thing.

Aside from now having what I hope will be a cool scar once it heals, there was a moment where I may have actually shed a happy tear that this is behind me. I’m so excited that I might get up and treat myself to a snack in the other room since I can actually walk now.

My post-op instructions are pretty straightforward:

• Walk as much as is comfortable, gradually increasing daily
• Don’t sit too long
• Don’t lift anything heavy
• I can drive once I kick my Oxy habit
• No sexual activity for two weeks

I might call up and see if that last one includes cupping.