Off the Grid...kind of....Part I

7 + 1/2 min. read

It’s been a while. This is the longest unplanned hiatus to date that I’ve taken from this blog.

The readers that occasionally pass by these pages might not have requested an update but I feel I owe you one.

Let’s just say 2025 has got off to a fairly dramatic start.

One early February morning, I find myself in hospital screaming blue murder from debilitating pain. It began in my lower back but by then, is radiating throughout my whole body.

Rewind to mid-2022. I start feeling pangs on a regular basis on the lower left-side of my back.  I assume it’s a psycho-somatic reaction to a period of prolonged anxiety.  Unable to ignore the pain any longer, I see my GP about it. Before referring me to physio, she suggests I apply Chinese tiger balm to the affected area and prescribes some special exercises. It seems to do the trick. The back pain will return periodically, usually during moments of intense stress, but my GP’s solution continues to be effective.

Until it isn’t.

From late 2024, despite religiously adhering to the regime, the pain does not alleviate. Worse still, it’s spread down to my left leg, close to the calf. It starts encroaching on my everyday life, impeding my movements at the gym. Sneezing induces sharp shocks of pain. Sleeping has also become more difficult. The discomfort from trying to turn in bed wakes me up. I get leg cramps during the night and I’m limping in the mornings. I try to book an immediate appointment with my GP but she’s on maternity leave at that time.

Desperate and not knowing much about back specialists, I go online. The Belgian site dedicated to medical problems of all kinds keeps bringing up osteopath information. I book a session with one based only a stone’s throw away from my flat - and, more importantly - available that same week.

Image courtesy of Nightingale Home Nurse

After I explain my symptoms, to my horror, the osteopath asks me to strip down to my (unmatching) underwear. I’m not even allowed to keep on my tights. Completely unprepared, despite my doubts, I submit to his instructions. I’ll find out later via Google and/or word of mouth that whilst getting undressed for the osteopath is not uncommon, it’s not essential. He should have also offered me a blanket for discretion, and the fact that it's the middle of winter.

Thank goodness, I’ve showered earlier that afternoon and my bikini line is up to date. The osteopath has me contorted in positions that would make the proverbial blush. I feel no man I’m not married to should see me in such a state. He seems almost dismissive about my prudishness; as if I’m overreacting. Surely it's pretty typical. He keeps insisting that I relax.

I’m mortified, I reply.

That’s a big word, he condescends.

And very apt, I retort.

I ask if he’s gay (not the first time I’ve done this in a medical context). No relief there. …But we’re all asexual during examinations…he jokes inappropriately.  

The mini-ordeal lasts for the best part of an hour, during which the osteopath claims I have a 'misaligned pelvis'. This theory makes sense at the time.

At last, properly taking note of my extreme discomfort, he let’s me re-dress. I’m still in pain at the end of the appointment.  That’s normal, he reassures, give it up to 48 hours.

Two weeks later and rather than seeing an improvement, the osteopath seems to have aggravated the situation. Peine perdue. All that humiliation for nothing. Plus 60 euros that I couldn’t really spare down the drain, with negligible assistance from my health insurance. I make an appointment to go back to the same osteopath, figuring he should finish what he started. Then again, I’m afraid he’ll make it worse.

Meanwhile, having herself recovered from a herniated disc a few years ago, my sis is upset with me for seeing an osteopath in the first place. She reckons it’s quack-science.

Go to an orthopaedist, she orders via video call.

Don’t they just take care of feet? I ask, revealing my level of ignorance.

I cancel the appointment with the osteopath and book to see an orthopaedist close to my university campus ASAP.

(c) Annie Spratt

The evening before that appointment, I’m due to host another dinner party. I’m nervous for a variety of reasons. I have a dicey relationship with one particular guest. My invitation is supposed to be an olive branch. My back pain is also playing up again. I’m worried I might have to cancel. Fortunately, it calms down enough not to interfere with my hosting plans. All goes well. I don’t mention anything to my guests.

That evening, I’m awoken in the middle of the night, partially by pain and partially to check I turned off the heating in the living room. I bend down and feel something pop. The pain is so acute I let out an involuntary yelp. It’s around half-past 3am. I’m scared about waking up my neighbours. I bend down again to retrieve something from the floor. Another bad move.

For the best part of the next hour, I negotiate unsuccessfully with my body. The otherwise strong painkillers that I've started taking more regularly (prompted by the osteopath) have no effect whatsoever. I cannot find any sustainable position in which my body is not in unbearable pain. I drag myself into the shower, hoping the hot water will offer some reprieve. I’m trying to avoid going to the nearby hospital at all costs. It would involve me getting dressed, finding my Belgian residency card, dragging myself to the door to let the paramedics in...and unlike the NHS, it's not free. I have hospitalisation insurance courtesy of The University but I have no idea how this works in Belgium. Thank God, up until now I've not needed to know.

I tell myself that I just have to make it through the night and until the orthopaedist appointment at midday.

My body screams 'no'.

I call the ambulance. By the time they arrive around 5am, the pain is so bad, I can’t walk to the van. I can’t even put on my coat, in spite of the cold. They bring the stretcher round to the front of my building. It’s too painful to lie down. The paramedics reluctantly allow me to remain on all fours - the least excruciating position. Unable to strap me in, they beg me to hold tight. One of them teases that I resemble a woman in labour.

I’m tempted to immediately ask for morphine but fear the hospital staff will presume I’m a junkie, faking the pain for a fix. I needn’t bother. They end up pumping me full of it anyway. A nurse pops me some valium at some point to relax my muscles (something I wish they had done earlier).

(c) Sardar Faizan

The needle from the IV digs into my right hand as I continue to be on all fours. I’m still in too much agony to lie down. It takes hours for the pain relief to kick in properly. The nurses tell me there’s not much they can do in the meanwhile or thereafter.

From the moment of the ambulance' arrival, I'm repeatedly asked similar questions by various health professionals. Fortunately, despite the pain - or maybe because of it, since it forces me to slow down - my French is clear and fluid. I've never been more grateful to have a level of fluency in one of the country's official languages. I hear words thrown around like ‘sciatica’ and ‘herniated disc’.

I don’t know if I’ll ever experience the blessing of motherhood. I nevertheless pray that if I do, the process of giving birth doesn’t test my tolerance for pain to the extent of that early morning. Now in a private hospital room, I scream with abandon, interspersed with growling invectives aimed at the Almighty- and the occasional song of worship. 

When the painkillers finally take effect, I fall into fitful sleep with funky dreams. After I awake, I'm served a humble breakfast by a cheery nurse, only too glad to fetch me hot chocolate instead of coffee or tea.

A friendly young doctor prescribes diverse medication to alleviate the pain, including more valium. My mind drifts straightaway to celebrities who have become addicted to legal drugs and/or died from accidentally overdosing on painkillers.

The young doc also prescribes some physio sessions and recommends I see a sports physician at some point. I tell him about my orthopaedist appointment at noon. That’s the next best thing, he agrees. By the time I'm discharged, I’ve been in hospital around six hours.

In the meantime I’ve texted my supervisor, my mum and close friend, Karin to let them know where I am. I leave hospital in time to make my providentially-scheduled midday orthopaedist appointment. He affirms the A&E doctor's advice and writes me a prescription for a MRI scan. The rest of the day is spent in a fog of painkillers. I’m barely coherent. I limp from that day onwards, and not just in the mornings. Walking up the stairs also feels odd.

After a speedily-obtained MRI -a small miracle in itself, I'm told - the images are made available within a few days. The report follows a week later. I can't make head nor tail of it in any language. Google is little help, with results ranging from the risk of quadraplegia to not much more than a momentary inconvenience. I go back to the same orthopaedist to translate the report. Whilst acknowledging my condition has improved, he's clinical and more prone to speak about grim outcomes. I leave the appointment demoralised and a tad bewildered.

(c) Annie Spratt

Mercifully, I have a follow-up appointment with my brilliant physiotherapist, Simone, later that week. She's based at my main gym. Nearly half my age, Simone is confident, full of pep and very competent. Where the doctors tend to go overboard, either prescribing too much physio in one week or, in the orthopaedist's case, being full of gloom, hers is a level-headed and pragmatic voice.

Simone interprets the MRI results for me again but in plainer language. It turns out that I did have a herniated disc and some general wear and tear at the base of my spine. Very common symptoms she says, and nothing insurmountable. Simone commends me for the progress I've made so far and for staying active the whole time. She massages the affected area and tweaks my already light exercise regime. Her prognosis is far sunnier than the orthopaedist's. I just need to be patient, although not for too long, Simone reassures.

My brush with severe back pain will also lead me to discover how common it is. Family members and acquaintances share similar stories of which I was hitherto unaware.

Several weeks later, I’m well on the road to recovery. I walk up the stairs pretty much normally again. I’ve been off analgesics for several weeks. Thank God. The pills were not only pricey but knocked me out. I was constantly making a toss-up between distracting pain or constant fatigue.

There are still tell-tale signs, however. I’m not yet able to run properly and I avoid weights classes. I’ve limited my gym visits to a maximum of three - rather than four - per week whilst I await my return to full capacity.  The limp, whilst diminished, hasn’t yet totally disappeared. I have had a recent relapse that makes it more pronounced on occasion.

Nevertheless, I remain hopeful.

Part II