I shall always remember Gordano Services, off the M5, as the place where I crippled my back yet again, and for my first (and last) taste of KFC.
Yes, the bad back is back. It's so boring to read about, to write about. But for once, it was quite unexpected, as I'd had a really good scan in May. Which showed that most of the prolapsed bit of the disc had dissipated, making it less likely to slip again because there wasn't much of it left - according to surgeon A. Turns out he was wrong.
We were on our way back from Cornwall - lovely as usual, but all you bastards who went in July used up all the good weather - and heading to Mum's place in Oxfordshire. In order to go to the Wilderness festival.
Logie was zooming around the double Burger King/KFC queue of shame like a mad thing, needing to run off car-cooped-up-ness and various be-quiet snacks, and he ran full pelt at me without even entering my peripherary vision. I had to reverse the top bit of my body, whilst not knocking him over, without falling over myself. (God, even the description of how it happened is boring. If only it could have been a surfing accident.)
Once we'd gingerly levered me back in the car, it was past 4pm, on a Friday, so I spent the next hour frantically ringing my spinal surgeon (on hols), BUPA and every other surgeon in London or Oxford that might be able to inject me ASAP to ease the pain. This exhaustive survey reveals that 90% of medical secretaries knock off early and put their phones on voicemail on Fridays in August.
We made it back with only one more stop, I think - can't remember, was too busy phoning and scrabbling in the secret, deep, innard pockets of my handbag for my emergency full-whack painkillers. But at some point on the journey I recall thinking that there are no five words more likely to strike fear into a toddler's parent on the motorway, when they are uttered just ten minutes after departing the last service station: "Daddy, I need another wee."
We'd just spent the previous weeks being overly enthusiastic about the sharing of such knowledge, or even the identifying of the feeling - "Well done for telling me! Okay, good boy, we'll go straight to the potty. Well done, you're so clever!"
This pronouncement from the back, before we'd barely managed to break the speed limit again, was met with a long pause, bright voices emanting from stony faces, and both of us saying "Really? Are you sure? Do you need a WEE WEE? You just did a wee wee. Are you sure?" Pause from the back. Then, without faltering, "I need a wee wee".
NB we shouldn't complain, because the poo panics are over, he is fully potty trained, and hasn't had an accident at all for three weeks. Okay, it took three weeks to master the poo thing, and by god they were longest weeks of my life, but I am very proud of him for getting it so quickly.
Anyway, I spent all of the Wilderness festival lying on my back in bed, in frigging agony. Hardly able to hobble to the loo even. Piercing pain, surprised gasps, pitiful whimpers.
Logie had a ball, dancing with pirates during the day, but Jon didn't get to see any of the bands in the evenings, including Noah and the Whale. Not fair.
I had it scanned, and injected with steroid again, a few days later. By a neurosurgeon, who works with surgeon A, an orthopaedic spinal surgeon. So we'll call the neuro guy surgeon B. Surgeon B was pretty appalled that I've been going through this pain for two years, and haven't had an operation to fix it yet.
He advocates the more drastic of the two options that have been previously discussed - fusing the two joints of my spine that are dodgy (the disc at L4/L5 is the main culprit, but the one beneath is also fairly ropey) rather than a microdiscectomy, which means just removing the bit of disc that protrudes out. Discs are like round bath sponges in between the vertebrae of your spine.
The former is a bigger deal, removing the discs and welding the joints together, but he believes that it won't put undue pressure on the discs above and below, and cause them to start disintegrating too - which is the common criticism of this op. He says that's a much-repeated myth. I wonder what surgeon A would say about that.
Surgon B also says that my recovery time would be much less than a microdiscectomy, it would be a complete solution to the problem, it wouldn't affect my long-term mobility and they could do either op through my back. Surgeon A had always maintained that a microdiscectomy would have to be done through my stomach, which was particularly off-putting to me til I was done having babies.
It's hard, isn't it, when doctors disagree? Though B was keen to stress he is friends with A, and they work together a lot of the time, he was clearly of a very different mindset. But both are convincing, when making their pitches.
So I go back to B for my follow-up on Tuesday - where I'll be reporting that it has eased the pain significantly, but not as much as I'd hoped. But I'll suggest, or rather, reluctantly agree, to go and see a hip surgeon as well. Because my hip has been playing up again for the last couple of months, giving me left leg pain and a numb big toe, and I'm sure we'll all agree we want a complete picture of what's going on with my crappy body before I have major surgery.
Then I'll probably have to go back to surgeon A, to let him put out his stall again. Then everyone says I should get a third opinion.
(I wonder if David Cameron is going through the same dilemma - his recently reported back problems sound similar. We have so much in common.)
So it's just as well that Felix is starting nursery next month, as I'm going to need to spend a bit of time having yet more hospital appointments. I feel so guilty about Felix starting nursery, two days a week, aged six months, it's ridiculous.
But we wanted him to go to the same place as Logie (cheaper than getting a nanny, unless we took Logie out of nursery entirely), and they only do intakes in September and January now. And back in the dark days when he wasn't sleeping through, and I was ratty and wits' end all the time, I went for September.
Now it feels like a hideously undeserved luxury, when I don't actually have a job to go back to, no new income to pay for it - and when he is so cute and fun that I could start doing more interesting things with him. Plus I wish they'd stop pointing out that he's the youngest by far at nursery.
This week I really indulged myself in that guilt. Felix has had a couple of short settling-in sessions, lots of our friends are still on holiday, so it has been quite a boring, lonely existence, being at home with (or rather, partly without) the boys.
I have spent all their lunchtime sleeps writing 8 zillion thank-you cards for Felix's christening presents. Disgracefully, over a month late. And even though I was sure I'd resolved to write them in the order that their names appeared on my list, I'm pretty sure that I've written a few twice. It's been such a drawn-out process, but as I was writing Uncle David's, and proclaiming yet again 'what good taste' they have in boys' clothes, I had an awful feeling of deja vu. Whoops. Sorry.
So I came over all mea culpa, I miss my boys, I should be enjoying Felix's baby days and taking him to music classes and making pottery casts of his footprints and batches of sweet potato puree. Oh woe is me, was I, on Monday and Tuesday. I'm such a bad mother, I don't know what to do with myself without them, there are no decent part-time jobs out there, I'll get precious few lucrative freelance commissions, it's so lonely being at home without adult company.
On Wednesday, I had both the boys all day, and halfway through it Jon texted to ask if he was allowed to go for a beer with a friend that evening. To which I snidely replied that he should have phrased it, do you mind doing bathtime and bedtime on your own. Felix was particularly pukey (his reflux seems to be worse, or rather, he only really seems to have it, in hot weather these days). He did one quite good one down my front, which went inside my bra, and travelled round the underwiring with impressive ingenuity.
Logie did one of his special tantrums when we got home from our morning playdate. They always happen when there's nowhere within 100 yards of our house to park. I manage to get him out of the car, put the rucksack on my back, my handbag on my shoulder, extract Felix from his carseat (no wonder I have a bad back), then Logie flips and refuses to walk, lies down on the pavement, usually near something particularly revolting, there's no shade, Felix isn't wearing a hat or any suncream, we're on the wrong side of the road so I can't just walk to the house, and I long long long for one of my neighbours to coincidentally arrive home and help.
So by the end of Wednesday, I'd had to have a gin and tonic at 6pm, and was extremely batey. Woe is me, it's such hard work, I haven't sat down all day, I smell of puke, I've got to put another wash on, read 78 stories to Logie, then cook supper for my husband who is late, and has been having a nice time drinking with his friends. Gosh, life's unfair.
All this while being aware that I complain about both situations, complete opposites, and manage to feel guilty and hard done by about both. And I was entirely convincing on both occasions. Sounds like I need a third opinion on that as well.
