Sciatica

Sciatica

 

I can trace the course of my sciatic nerve,

draw its position beneath the skin with felt-tip,

black and fuzzy-edged, or maybe

red, for pain.

 

From its emergence at its source, nudging me

into awareness of its eventual destination,

it loops merrily around my hip, circumnavigating my right buttock:

a right pain in the arse.

 

It descends to the thigh, briefly halting to draw attention

to the exact spot where muscle is at its most sensitive

and negotiates the knee.

What indulgence it finds here choosing between the direct route

to ultimate discomfort, or playful experimentation

of alternative pathways!

 

Then on down to the calf, exquisitely delineating a diagram

worthy of a medical textbook, now here, now there,

reminding me of the just-remembered miracle of a pain-free limb.

Then with unerring accuracy, it seizes upon my once damaged heel,

treating it to a parody of numbness, numb that is, whilst still allowing

the possibility of pain, of jangling nerve endings, of pins and needles

and a multiplicity of other sharp metallic objects, inserted

and jiggled-about-a-bit.

 

Nerve-glides, advises Nick by e-mail,

who has survived the symptoms,

stretches and ice says our OT son, who has it too.

Try an osteopath, says Helen, daily on the phone, we all see one.

Eat these, says the doc, impossibly young to be prescribing strong meds,

and eat these too, to counteract the side-effects of the first lot.

 

I inspect the leg, yet again, for reassurance: it looks ok,

or as ok as it ever does, flabby in parts, white and hairy,

bearing scars of past thorns and grazes, coloured delicately

in a choice shade of varicose vein.

 

One thing I do know: sitting at the computer

writing poetry about it, does it no good at all.

Time to return to bed, with hot water bottle and book.

 

(Published in Star Tips for Writers. July 2013).

 

Done