It started with a car. Doesn’t it always?
Yash, an old friend from high school, called out of the blue. The kind of friend you speak to once a decade, yet somehow, it still feels like last Tuesday when you shared a samosa and an Algebra test answer sheet.
He sounded worried.
“Listen, it’s about my husband. He’s… he’s down. Like, literally. Flat. On. His. Back.”
Now, I’ve been around the spinal block a few times—three surgeries, decades of misbehaving muscles, and more MRIs than birthday cakes. So when someone says “back pain,” I don’t picture a clean orthopedic chart. I picture chaos. Tight glutes. Stubborn hamstrings. A hip flexor that acts like it pays rent on your lumbar vertebrae.
Still, I asked the obvious: “What happened?”
Apparently, her husband—let’s call him The Patient Formerly Known As Upright—had made the fatal mistake of trying to get into his beloved low-slung vintage Mercedes. You know the type. More “car” than “couch,” and closer to the ground than your average yoga mat.
Something about the entry angle did him in. There was no pop, no crack, no Hollywood-style injury. Just a slow, sinking realization that standing up might never be an option again.
The Disc That Wasn’t
Panic ensued. A visit to the ER followed.
Doctors were suspicious of a herniated disc. They suggested imaging and muttered about surgery. Pain was a 9 out of 10. Movement was impossible. The man couldn’t stand up straight and shuffled like a tragic question mark.
But I wasn’t worried. I’ve danced with this beast before.
“This sounds like a flare-up,” I said calmly. “Probably the posterior chain revolting from years of neglect.”
Yash was quiet.
I could practically hear him lying in bed, wondering if he’d ever see verticality again. So I did what any back pain veteran would do: I sent a care package—Advil, Advil PM, and a pep talk.
Heat, Painkillers, and Perseverance
Day one: he couldn’t move. Not from bed to bathroom. Not from despair to hope. Just… stuck.
I got on the phone with him.
“You need to walk,” I said.
“I can’t.”
“You must.”
“I can’t even stand up straight.”
“That’s the thing with back pain,” I told him. “It lies to you. It feels like standing will make it worse, but sitting still is the devil in orthopedic disguise.”
We compromised. He walked from one end of the room to the other. Bent like a croissant. But still. Walking.
By day two, he started using a heating pad—the unsung hero of spinal diplomacy. The pain softened. He continued walking inside the apartment like a man training for a marathon in a shoebox.
Day by Day, Inch by Inch
By day three, he ventured outside. Carefully. Cautiously. Still hunched. But he made it down the block.
Each walk loosened his lower back. Each heat session soothed the spasms. The Advil helped. But really, it was movement—and faith—that did the heavy lifting.
By day five, he was back to his old self. Smiling. Upright. Resurrected.
By day ten, you wouldn’t have guessed he’d been mistaken for Quasimodo just a week earlier.
What’s the Lesson Here?
Back pain can feel catastrophic. It hijacks your confidence, your sleep, your ability to do basic things—like put on socks or smile at small children.
But it lies.
Most of the time, it’s not a disc or doom—it’s a muscular rebellion. A cocktail of tight hip flexors, stiff glutes, and a sedentary lifestyle that finally says, “Enough.”
And most of the time, the answer isn’t surgery.
It’s walking. Heat. Anti-inflammatories. Gentle encouragement. And knowing that this episode—like the last forty I’ve survived—will pass.
So if your back ever betrays you, remember Yash’s husband. Remember the Mercedes.
And above all?
Remember to walk.
