GIVE ME A BREAK by Rhonda Fisher

This back of mine, the one that is supposed to carry the burden of a lifetime, has been beaten, battered and broken. So many doctors, the kind who use scalpels, saws, cadaver bone, pins, plates, and screws; and then, there are the doctors who use psychotropics, muscle relaxers, and talk therapy to erase the memories my back's muscles have had to carry through childhood abandonment, starvation, betrayal, loss, and two divorces. Physical Therapists have tried to coax my unrully and unwilling back to sit up, to walk a straight line and maybe even to lift 10 pounds. My back has flunked out of physical therapy at all the clinics in town; I'm going to have to drive 30 miles to find another one. I'll probably get pulled over for speeding. It would be hysterical if the officer asks me to walk a straight line or to stand on one leg and touch my nose with my opposite hand. This back doesn't want to cooperate when I try to dress it up. Most of the time, it stays in pjs until right before my daughter gets off the bus from school. I'm mortified if the mailman or UPS guy shows up unexpectedly. I yell "just a minute" as I try to get a pair of shorts on--it's one foot in, fall over and hit the dresser, push off and complain "come on give me a break, oh yeah, I forgot, you already did," get the other leg through, hobble while pulling on a shirt--and then finally, I get there and I'm sure you can guess what comes next. After all this I still want to keep my back. I know I have more pain and suffering to bear. I also now know that I can let others lighten that load through their love for me. Some day I will lie down for the last time and my back will sleep the eternal slumber.