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.

Ode to the chub.

My mother was a small woman and I was a nine-pound, ten-ounce vaginal birth baby.

It’s fine, you can say it. I was a fat kid. A pan full of dinner rolls had nothing on me or my belly.

Sorry, Mom.

Obviously, I was far too young to recall a single thing from those precious few years of my childhood. The pictures, however, believe me when I say that they tell a tale of their own.

It was clear that for each one, I was either perfectly propped up so that my own weight would keep me centered and anchored in place, or the camera caught me on my way to a face flop due to a failed proper prop. I used to smile a lot, but you could barely tell because my heavy cheek jowls kept my frowning mouth shape in check.

I didn’t know how much fun I was until I had kids of my own, both fat babies in their own right.

My daughter was first. I knew based on the first two words out of the doctor’s mouth when she was born that she was plump.

plump. adjective. slightly fat in a fairly pleasant way.

“Holy sh*t,” he said just loud enough for everyone to hear as he confidently accepted the initial responsibility of the bowling ball with limbs and neck-less head at the time.

I was proud, she weighed the same as I did when I was born. It was like we’d started our own club and she didn’t even know it yet.

Whether it was squeezing her into the kitchen sink for a bath, being stuck on her back unable to roll over, or being beached on the living room carpet face down. Tons of fun. I use the term beached to define her lying there with her belly preventing any hand or foot from touching the floor and gaining any traction toward an out-of-reach teething ring.

She. Wasn’t. Moving.

Fat kid.

A few years later it was my son’s turn. Bets were to be placed before the all-clear was given by the doctor and not a minute later. I don’t think anyone was even close. It’s almost like he let his sister go first so that he could see what he had to beat and win a prize.

Ten pounds, three ounces. Are you kidding me?

That kid basically popped out and asked where the f*cking fridge was.

I knew right then that it was going to be Lorna Doones by the case, and that sh*t wasn’t cheap. I’d say winner, winner, chicken dinner, but he’d have eaten that, too.

Let’s just say that the word Cheerio coming out of his mouth wasn’t him bidding you farewell. It was him sending you off to the kitchen to get a box. His hands were like little balloons and he could only palm two or three of the tiny, donut-shaped cereal bites at once before they all fell to the floor on the way to his lips.

With an extra nine ounces on him, he could easily take a few more cold and flu hits than my daughter or I could have at the same respective time in our lives.

Fat kid.

They both laughed all the time. You know, that happy, belly laugh that could only come from a kid that actually had one.

They were fun.

They’re all grown up now. No remnants of the pudginess that they wore so well from birth up through being toddlers. I was guilty of losing it all, too as a child. But if I look really close, there’s still a spark of it when they smile.

My beautiful roly-poly babies. If I listen, I can still hear their little voices saying, “Hey Dad, get me a cookie, and grab me a juice box while you’re in there.”

I’m as surprised as you are.

I stumbled upon a piece about how influencers weren’t reading people’s stories, so the collective “we” should stop reading theirs.

It wasn’t the actual article that got my attention. It was a comment posted by a reader where they basically told someone with a rather large following on Medium to f*ck off. I say large following, the targeted person probably has one of the largest followings.

News flash, that person’s not going to read or see your comment, either.

They’ll never know that they should f*ck off.

The premise of the comment seemed to imply that writers with large followings only want you to read their material, but don’t have time for us little people.

Hmm, okay. You mean those same writers who freely share their wealth of knowledge and have potentially inspired thousands of readers to start writing?

I’m here to burst your bubble.

If you’re doing anything in your life with the goal of the person or people that influenced you to start doing it in the first place actually acknowledging your work in any way, stop it. Now.

First, Stephen, Steve, or whatever his friends actually call him, doesn’t give a sh*t about me. Sure, I’m a nice guy. I’m sure he would very much enjoy visiting with me and having coffee and a blueberry muffin at the small cafe in his home state that he occasionally visits based on the local rumor mill.

Truth is, there’s actually a better chance of that happening than him reading anything that I will ever write. Even if I wrote some amazing horror novel, he won’t care or call me to share his thoughts. Why?

Dozens of reasons.

For one, people like Steve are too busy doing whatever they’re doing and paying attention to events, music, movies, and literature that they care about and enjoy. Plus, I’m too small of a fish in the literary sea.

I guess I could always leave a copy outside the gates of his Bangor, Maine house. The chances that he’ll do anything more than run over it with whatever cool car he’s currently driving are nil.

I’ve actually been almost up to the gates. It was years ago, but, I was in town and figured I’d stop by. I’d like to think that he didn’t answer because he was probably already out and about that day and we just missed each other.

The truth is, he didn’t give as sh*t about me then, either.

Admittedly, I don’t write horror stories. Full disclosure, I like a lot of Steve’s books, but in movie form. I’ve never read a single one.

However, he’s apparently pretty famous if even I know his name.

Yeah, that’s how you sound, too, if you think that anyone who’s that big respectively on any online format or in the world is paying attention to you or what you create.

Nope, I’m not comparing someone with “100 million” Medium followers to Stephen King. I’m simply referencing those with the largest reach on a given platform.

I’ll extend it a bit further.

Let’s say that you picked up the guitar because one of the many virtuosos out there sparked your interest. Maybe you painted your first sunflower, either because you stumbled on a Bob Ross rerun, or you were enlightened by an original Picasso that was stolen on some TV show. Good for you! But, stop right there and slow your Prussian blue roll.

If you believe that you’re entitled to the reciprocity of engagement of your work by someone more well-known than you in the same field as your undertaking, best of luck. You’re going to find out that it’s still just as cruel of a world out there as it always was.

You started the thing because you were inspired, not for the accolades of anyone else. Keep that in check, be consistent and consistently improve. Do that, and your audience will take notice. Maybe not that famed person that initially inspired you, but plenty of other people that you don’t currently give a sh*t about either.

Probably not gonna include Bob Ross or Picasso at this point, though.

Write the book, sing the song, paint the picture.

And if you see Stephen around, tell him that he still owes me for the coffee and muffin that he never showed up for.

I’m pretty sure I have a jar of coins kicking around somewhere. I’m not sure if I know of anyone who doesn’t.

The value of saving each day is often overlooked. It shouldn’t be, no matter how small the amount. Here are a couple of cases in point.

My neighbor was a carpenter who put all of his spare change in a jar when he got home each night. When one jar would fill, he’d start another. Every year, he took his family of five on vacation for a week solely using each dollar that those coins added up to.

In high school, we’d grab rides home from each other and toss a dollar or two into the center console of our friend’s car for gas money. A few dollars didn’t get anyone very far, but a few people in the carpool could fill the tank every few days.

Some understand early on that smaller amounts can equate to larger amounts.

I recall hearing the story about when my Mom and her siblings were younger. They’d occasionally get some extra spending money from the aunts, uncles, and family friends that regularly came around to visit. In particular, one of her brothers had it figured out. While everyone else was asking for fifty cents or a dollar, he’d simply ask someone if they had any spare change. This technique led to people basically reaching into their pockets, grabbing most of the jangly content, and handing him the bounty, which almost always yielded him a higher payout than the rest.

Coin shortage

Over the past few years, the number of stores that have presumably never taken anything outside of a credit card for payment which also display a sign near the cash register that reads, “National Coin Shortage, Exact Change Only” is baffling to me. According to the Federal Reserve, “There is currently an adequate overall amount of coins in the economy.”

It seems that the issue is like everything else that got interrupted in the past few years. The proverbial ball needs to get rolling again. Those coins need to come out of the jars and back into the cash drawers. Once that happens, pocket holes will likewise be able to be blamed for losing lunch money again.

The big payout

When it comes to money, I’m not much of a gambler. I can just as quickly throw away my cash on something else. Believe me, I waste plenty of it. It’s something that I constantly work on. Sure, I’d like to win Powerball. I mean, let’s face it, who wouldn’t? The trouble is, I don’t buy tickets until it gets close to the billion-dollar mark. A mere couple-hundred million or less just isn’t worth my few bucks, or whatever a ticket costs these days.

I’m a writer, but I’m also a musician. One of my side gigs is writing music for film and television. I’ve done it for the past 10 years. It’s not the most glamorous avenue in the industry, but the pennies add up, quite substantially. Each placement is completely different. It could be $1.78 for a single airing of a television show in Norway that has 30 seconds of my music in it. It could also be a $40 per day payout for 20 seconds of music on a daytime talk show that runs every weekday year after year.

It’s a numbers game.

I write what I want and send it off to the music libraries that I’ve had the best success with over the years. It’s simple, more music equals more royalties. Sure, I could chase the five and ten thousand dollar upfront “lottery” payout emails looking for a very specific niche’ track. The thing is, those same emails are sent out to hundreds of other music producers. There’s absolutely no guarantee that my music will be chosen, but there is usually a guarantee that I’ve just submitted it to that library exclusively. This means that if it’s not chosen, I can’t send it anywhere else. It could quite possibly just sit there and never make any money for me, or it’ll make the same amount as anything else that I’ve written that brings in pennies. I focus on the pennies. The odds of me getting to the higher dollar amounts with this method are much more concrete and attainable.

Convenience store owner mindset

The U.S. Department of the Interior published a bulletin showing the Convenience Item and Fuel Markup Percentages as they related to 2021. Selling items in a convenience store is also a numbers game. Consistently selling the same items each day is how the pennies add up.

How many of us can recall or still have that same corner store that we regularly make a quick run to for bread, milk, or those weekly lottery tickets? How long have they been around? Are the store owners what we consider “rich” by today’s standards? I personally can’t attest to that. Do they seem to make enough money to stay in business and earn a living? It seems so.

Even your portfolio knows

According to The Motley Fool, the stock market has returned an average of 10% per year over the past 50 years. It seems that even in investing, the goal is, in a sense, to focus on the pennies, or rather, smaller and more consistent percentage gains. Of course, some investments offer higher returns. However, it comes back to the lottery ticket mentality. It’s a gamble.

Think about it

Do you consistently focus on and collect the pennies, saving for an annual retreat, a gift for yourself or someone else, or for a more secure rise to the financial top? Or, are you a “no risk, no reward” kind of person and go all in? Sometimes, it can come down to a balance between the two. Regardless, it’s important not to forget that the small stuff adds up, even the spare change. The bottom line is that it all counts. The almighty dollar can be earned, or saved, by remembering what adds up to it.

Disclaimer: This article is for informational purposes only. It is not intended to be investment or financial advice. Seek a duly licensed professional for investment or financial advice.