Just when you think you’re cruising along in life and nearly everything seems to be going swimmingly, the universe begs to differ. In its infinite wisdom it whispers, “I’ll fix your wagon,” because we all know that things can’t go as planned forever. The universe always has the final say. And it doesn’t seem to matter how optimistic or spiritual or hopeful one is. Eventually, the tide turns—for the worse. At least for me that’s how it usually goes.
Case in point: The dehumidifier in our basement needed to be emptied. So, I emptied it. Like a normal person. On a Sunday afternoon. But my lower back never got the message that this was part of my regular routine. Something I considered to be ridiculously simple. Something that I have accomplished without incident seemingly forever. But this time was different. Somehow, I was asking too much of my back to complete the task without any drama.
Reader, there was plenty of drama.
At first, I felt a slight twinge. Then the reality set in that I had done something horrible to my back. Correction: Something horribly stupid. Apparently, I was lifting the brunt of the weight with my back—and not with my legs. I then replaced the reservoir in the dehumidifier and scooped the litter box, all the while trying (and failing) to bend over like someone who wasn’t in excruciating pain. I then hobbled to the stairs—the ones that looked impossible to scale in my current condition. God bless railings.
For the next five days (and counting), I planted myself on the couch in agony with a heating pad and/or ice wedged behind me while I watched entirely too much tennis and baseball, envious of the way the athletes on the screen could move. By contrast, I shuffled around the house like an old man—much like Tim Conway did in his hilarious skits—every step a new adventure, the epitome of the term “slow.”
It’s easy to take a body that works the way it’s supposed to for granted. You don’t really think about doing something as basic as bending over to pick a piece of lint off the floor—until you can’t. By then, it qualifies as pure, unadulterated frustration. Honestly, this past week I’ve been staring at the pieces of lint on the floor as if they were mocking me, obsessed with their existence and completely disgusted with myself because I can’t pick the cussed things up. And I keep dropping stuff while the mere thought of retrieving said stuff makes me wince. Never mind the notion of sneezing. That pain is off the charts.
As a result, I have had to rely on my husband to do practically EVERYTHING for me. He picks up the remote when I drop it. He brings me celery lovingly stuffed with tuna. He stands behind me as I attempt to navigate the stairs. For the love of God, HE PUTS MY SOCKS ON. Of course, he does it wrong because the words on the socks aren’t perfectly aligned with my toes, so I make him fix them by suggesting that he pretends for a moment to suffer from OCD (related to symmetry) like me. So far, I have been successful.
In a nutshell, I have been virtually incapacitated, and popping Tylenol around the clock. If nothing else, this experience has given me a new appreciation for what people who are debilitated for whatever reason go through on a daily basis. My husband, for instance, has been dealing with pain and discomfort for more than a decade—mostly associated with neuropathy and arthritis, not to mention his hip and back surgeries and all that that has entailed. I try not to lose my patience as quickly with his slower pace and attempt to understand that perhaps the universe fixed his wagon, too.
Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (recuperating). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.
Copyright 2026 Melinda L. Wentzel
