Good writing is like panning for gold. Writers have to shake the pan, rewrite and edit, shake, edit, shake, edit, until the dirt is gone and all that's left are gold nuggets. I hope I have shaken this story enough. Polite acknowledgement was my response when my mother and others would say: "My back is bothering me; I have to go to bed." "I can't walk." "I couldn't get back to sleep because of the shooting pain down my leg." "I can't take the pain medication." My gift of experience started in Palm Springs last January. Mike and I had spent a luxurious week-- he played golf, I walked in the bright sun along rows of voluminous flowers modeling their bright colors around purple cabbages. I blissfully sighed at the Santa Rosa Mountains circling the resort. After my walks, I swam in glistening water and read poolside On our last day, soon to board the plane back, I realized I did not have the most important object I own: my graduated bi-focal round Harry Potter/architect glasses that connect me to the world. I told Mike, I'll be right back. I hailed the shuttle van, banging on the window and wildly shaking my hands. "I can't find my glasses! Could you please take me back to the car rental place?" my plea more of a demand than a question. I jumped on the passenger riser and crunch went my back and knee, the one with the torn meniscus. After several conversations with Avis employees at the car rental terminal, a man with a big smile (sans a few teeth) walked up and handed me my glasses case. I hugged this stranger who had just saved my life and insisted he take my $10 bill. I found Mike and exuberantly gave him the good news. "You're limping," he said. "Yes, I irritated my bad knee, but I have my glasses!" In less than an hour I could not walk. Oh great, I thought, another knee operation. As Mike pushed me around the airport in a wheelchair, fellow travelers glanced at me as if I was a piece of furniture. That was twelve weeks ago. TWELVE weeks. That's 84 days of pain and no exercise. Our dog Aussie wonders why we don't take our daily 2-mile walks around the lake. Until recently I couldn't even walk across a Target store without shooting pain down my leg. Being one who tries to fix things, I tried yoga which felt good at the time but tortured me later. I frantically went from knee doctor, to massage therapist, to physical therapist, to second massage therapist, to osteopath, to third massage therapist, to back doctor, to fourth massage therapist, to second physical therapist....well, you get the idea. I finally had to accept a terrible unacceptable: I can't fix this! I failed as my own self-help professional. You mean I have to be still? Now I am limiting myself to one noted back doctor, a terrific physical therapist, and my fabulous husband who makes me laugh as he dons his chef hat and cleans up the kitchen. He doesn't show it, but he must be bored with the pain checks ad nauseum. I de-populated my calendar and declared that I no longer can be everything to everybody. Since the pain medications make me feel weird and frankly don't work that well, red wine has proven to be the best pain killer. Do you know what happens to a 59-year-old body who drinks red wine, eats chocolate (for the endorphins), and can't exercise or bend at the waist? She becomes summa cum laude sumo wrestler! I am getting better; it started once I got out of the way. I've learned about 'degenerative disc disease' and 'spinal stenosis.' My MRI is saved in My Documents as if I could read it. I no longer judge people attached to sour faces. Now I know the back story. My deep-felt sympathies to all who share it. Lolly Anderson | 
