MysteryShrink Shorts
Overdosing on Back Braces
“Good afternoon,” I said from the podium a couple of days ago. “My name is Barbara and I’m a back-brace addict.”
I didn’t start out as an all-out back brace fiend. Neither of my parents had an unhealthy attachment to medical devices—though my brother, while homebound after back surgery, did show a suspiciously intense relationship with a food dehydrator. My obsession began small. Having experienced the occasional streak of mild pain while reaching for the remote, I fell for the promises in one of those commercials claiming that with my new brace, I’d be able to leap tall buildings and carry in the groceries. The narrator even suggested that my insurance might pay for the magical device. Right there, I should have ditched the idea. Even my favorite bouncing-ball-fetcher would have changed the channel with the suggestion that my insurance company was waiting in the wings with a check.
But the best-fetcher dog was asleep and I bought into the man’s offer. If the pain had stayed at a low point, if I could walk without screaming, perhaps I could stayed with the occasional reliance on that rubber strip. But isn’t that what they all say in those church basement meetings? Anyway, no worries, I told myself–I don’t have an addictive personality.
After a while, of course, as my back degenerated–the cheapo strip of rubber was on 24/7 and any hint of withdrawal sent me in to a childish tirade. Yes, the back brace monkey was on my back. Soon I possessed braces for all occasions. Military grade devices that doubled as bullet-proof vests. Stunning rubber sashes with red and purple constrictive bands so lovely that I was, for the first time in my life, accused of possessing fashion sense. I had one that allowed food to reach my digestive system and one with side pulleys that give me the same waistline I had in the fifth grade. I could blame my ‘dealer’ for allowing me to go this far, but I’m pretty sure Amazon has a whole legal team to defeat claims made by the sort of junkie I’d become.
Okay. A couple of days ago, I admitted my life was out of control. So, what now? I did what I suggest to clients. I sought help. First I called up to Kansas City and sought the advice of my physical therapist brother. He asked me to describe what was going on and I launched into how I’d found this great way to ease my back pain, but that I’d seemed to have hit a plateau. Also I’d lost my appetite and had to pant when talking and my toes were looking a bit like blueberries.
The phone was silent for a moment or two, then my sweet younger brother flipped into one of those ‘tough love’ freaks. He demanded I remove at least one of my braces as, clearly, my brain was not receiving enough oxygen. He commented that if I continued to attempt to manage serious back pain with my current routine, when I finally did let go, my body would instantly and permanently morph into a life-sized garden gnome—which were illegal in most states.
So yesterday I stood before the neurosurgeon expecting a diagnosis. He said: “Let’s see, your face is a Christmas blend of red and green and yet this is February. Your words come out like each phrase is your last. You have the posture of a Roman soldier and your waistline tells me you are auditioning for the role of Scarlett O’Hara in “Gone with the Wind.”
Sometimes my brother forgets that the younger sib is never supposed to provide excellent advice. 
