Hauling Stuff, Feeling the Pain

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I’ve been hauling a lot of stuff around the last few weeks. My brothers and I cleared out a storage unit that held boxes of photo albums and the last of our late parents’ possessions. We at last tackled the emotional task of dividing up those items. That meant I also had to move the stuff I had stored in the same unit to a smaller space.

I am not being imprecise by calling it stuff. Much of it defies more specific categorization. It is stuff I am loath to part with because it might come in handy some day, but don’t have space for at the house. A couple of old doors that someday I plan to make into funky tables. Wrought-iron ornamental gates bought at auction. You know, stuff.

Take the lumber I have been rat-holing for more than a dozen years. I wrote a couple of columns back then about woodworking and the joys of planing rough-cut walnut or red-oak, watching as the beauty of the wood appeared after several passes through the machine. Soon, several folks called offering to sell me trailer loads of lumber stored in their barns for pittances.

I ended up with a lifetime’s worth of high-quality hardwood lumber that I have now moved a half dozen times. This last time, I hauled two trailer loads out of storage and into my brother-in-law’s barn in Kellyville. He kindly offered a barn stall where the lumber will be safely out of the elements. I brought several planks home for a project I’m about to commence building, once it gets a bit warmer.

I manhandled the lumber onto the trailer and out to the country. My brother-in-law was there to help unload the first time, but not the second, which contained my prize piece of black walnut. It is four inches thick, a foot wide and 10 feet long. I keep waiting for the perfect place to turn it into possibly a fireplace mantel in the house where we will live forever. Haven’t found that house yet, I’m afraid. I managed to drag the monster piece off the trailer and into the stall but not without some serious grunting and imprecations.

Driving home, I was feeling pretty good about myself, a bit sore but thinking, rather pridefully, “Not bad for 57 years old, hauling heavy stuff like that around.” The next weekend I continued emptying the old storage unit by moving a couple dozen plastic bins of Christmas decorations to the new unit. Nothing nearly as heavy as the lumber. I figured I could finish cleaning out the unit by late afternoon.

After the first load, I hopped in my little SUV and realized my back was beginning to hurt. I shrugged it off, figuring it would work itself out. I made another load, becoming increasingly aware that the pain was spreading, that I could barely turn around to check for traffic. By the time I got home I was hardly able to get out of the vehicle and was uttering pain-induced groans.

It is humbling how quickly one can be transformed from a reasonably fit fellow used to climbing ladders, hefting boxes and hammering nails into a quivering blob of jangled nerve endings barely able to walk — and not even know how it happened! Of course, it was Saturday, and the doctor’s office was closed. My Beautiful Mystery Companion was empathetic but also at a loss as to what to do. I swallowed some out-of-date pain medicine and spent a restless night on the couch, since its harder surface felt better than the soft bed. Plus, I knew I would be up and down all night.

By Sunday morning, the only tolerable position was standing up against the wall, which is how I spent a few hours reading the New York Times. The dogs found this confusing; they thought this meant we were about to go for a walk and kept going to the door, tails wagging. The pain kept getting worse, so finally I gave up and had my BMC drive me to the emergency room. That was the only place I was going to get some decent drugs.

Ten days later I am operating at about 75 percent capacity. We have become a two heating-pad family. My BMC has long used one for aches and pains, so I bought my own, which has become a constant companion as I perch before the computer screen. I am back to walking again, though I haven’t gotten up the gumption to resume workouts on the Bow-Flex. I’ve quit taking pain medicine, since the muscle relaxers were messing up my speech. I made the mistake of taking one before going on public radio to help out with the spring pledge drive. I don’t know if anyone but me noticed my inability to say “Red River Radio” without tripping over my tongue — which is, as my BMC pointed out, a muscle, after all.

The most valuable lesson learned here was to be grateful for good health. I will never take my once pain-free back for granted again. Or any of those other middle-aged body parts starting to wear out despite my best efforts to keep them in good working order.

 

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