I was 35 and half in January of 2004, past the age when men get to change the world. My back had never been fantastic. I had rowed crew, was swimming or lifting daily (often both) and regularly playing squash. After an unsuccessful first attempt at entrepreneurship I was getting back into trading bonds for a Wall Street house. This entailed a daily commute by car to and from Canary Wharf. By then I was already visiting my osteopath Kris, mainly to deal with a “psoas’ bursitis,” whatever that means, but the back was not entirely playing ball.
I can remember precisely when it all took a turn for the worse: my friend Kaspar was in town from Hong Kong and the only time he had to share was in the gym, so we did the treadmill side-by-side, talking and running for a half hour. Driving home I felt this massive discomfort in my back. When I got home, I found it very hard to climb out of my car, not some low-slung thing, but an entirely mundane VW Golf. But I thought nothing of it. Three days later, I suffered all the way on my flight to Salonika for a good friend’s wedding, attempted my customary party trick of Cossack dancing and then bang! (or, rather, crack!!) The most intense pain ever hit my lower back, like I had not experienced before.
“All sharp pain is muscular,” my dad (a pioneering heart surgeon) asserted, adding that God did not give me my back to row crew and play squash. This was a sign to get a normal life --of the kind I will never have again, but little did I know that then! All the way back from Salonica to London (via Athens, which is the wrong way) I stood. I only sat down for takeoff and landing, a figurative ice pick firmly lodged in my lower back.
A week later things were a bit better, but not loads. And then I locked myself in the spare bathroom of my grand but shoddily-kept apartment opposite the Brompton Oratory. The door was of the kind that opens inwards, so breaking it took me three hours and entailed hitting it hard off-center, in order to break its frame. By the time I was done, my fists and forearms were purple, my voice was gone from shouting for help and the police were just about arriving to tell me they had had me covered all along. I actually appreciated that enormously. Was fantastic to know. First time in my life I’d had warm feelings for the boys (and girl!) in blue.
My back, on the other hand, was now totally gone. Kaput.
Twelve years later, boy do I wish somebody had given me a copy of “Crooked” there and then. Needless to say, it had not been written yet. But when I saw it I ordered it immediately.
My first reaction when it arrived through the post was “WHAT???”
“Crooked: Outwitting the Back Pain Industry and Getting on the Road to Recovery” weighs 600 grams. That’s one-and-a-quarter pounds in imperial. WHAT ON EARTH? From my angle, the author’s credibility was destroyed.
I read in the Tube these days (driving to work is a total “no no” for me, obviously). I make a point of always standing, so I can keep my back busy. I cannot afford to hang on to 600 (count’em) grams of book. But the damage was done. I was now in possession of “Crooked,” so I resolved to read it.
I was richly rewarded.
First of all, I learned tons.
1. I’ve had two MRI’s: one back in the summer of 2004 and one more recently, in 2013, probably the all-time peak of my pain. The results were 100% consistent: the disc between my 4th and 5th lumbar vertebrae is herniated / prolapsed and the bits that stick out press hard on my nerves.
Consistent, for sure, but totally irrelevant, it turns out. Allow me to quote from page 46: “in 1990, in a study of sixty-seven patients who did not suffer from back pain, orthopedic surgeon and spine researcher Scott Boden showed that more than 90 percent had degenerated or bulging discs, while a third had herniated discs and a fifth showed evidence of spinal stenosis.”
I was beyond shocked to read this. But it’s true. As author Cathryn Jakobson Ramin explains in Chapter 3 (“Hazardous Images”) just because your spine looks bad in a picture, it does not mean you should have debilitating back pain. Ergo, fixing what’s wrong in the picture may not fix your back pain either! I NEVER KNEW THAT. Indeed, when my father took me to a neurosurgeon friend of his, the verdict I was given was “this is a matter of physiology; if we do not intervene, your pain is not going anywhere!” Perhaps and perhaps not, basically.
2. Here in the UK, meantime, I followed all the steps my hyper-generous employer was happy to pay for. I started with infinite amounts of non-steroidal anti-inflammatories. The little red pills of Voltarol were rhomboid in shape and I took them by the ton, as prescribed. They actually did not give me any relief, but what the heck, I would not dream of risking the counterfactual. Then, on July 14, we forced our boss Stan to take us to the Zuma private room to celebrate the decimation of his ancestors (Stan is noble) over copious amounts of Chassagne Montrachet and some even more expensive red, also from Burgundy. The morning of the 15th I somehow navigated the Golf to Canary Wharf, where I had a French linker auction to handle, only to wake up at noon, face-down, in a pool of my own drool. That was the last time I tried the Voltarol. And quitting it did not leave me in any less pain. Cathryn Jakobson Ramin claims that Vioxx and its cousins might briefly have given me more relief while they were still legal, and may even have shepherded me through the bond auction my colleagues had to cover, but this is the one bit in the book I’d liked her to have covered a bit more. Still, you get a decent tour of the anti-inflammatories.
3. Apart for Voltarol, BUPA sorted me out with twice-weekly manipulation of my spine by a physical therapist. This entailed the two of us wearing the same wide leather belt, me leaning over at various angles and him (an older, unprofessionally effeminate, bald man with semifocals) messing with my lower back, and pressing his finger against different places near my spine while I was leaning, for fifteen to twenty minutes at a time.
After some twenty sessions of this charade, he told me that we were done trying this “manipulation” and the next thing he had in store for me was an injection of steroids into a hollow part of my spine. I was given the leaflets, we made the appointment and…
…well, I did not go. Don’t want to dwell too much on why I didn’t, but the thought of this fellow sticking a needle up my, erm coccyx, did not appeal.
Well, who woulda thunk, but Cathryn Jakobson Ramin has him covered too: Chapter 4 is all about jockeys, it’s called “Needle Jockeys” and it explains in gory detail that these injections do absolutely nothing at all in the medium term, let alone the long term. Oh, and if the injection goes wrong, you could be paralyzed for life, or you could die. For all the wrong reasons, it looks like I dodged a bullet there. Just imagine my therapist had been some type of female bombshell…
4. So I gave up on handling my back myself and left it to my father and brother. My father is, as mentioned above, one of the world’s pioneers in heart surgery. My brother may never become a household name, but he teaches heart surgery at Harvard, so he also knows a thing or two about cutting people up. Daddy accompanied me to my visit with my future surgeon (a friend and colleague of his), booked my appointment, told me how to prepare, the whole nine yards.
A week before my operation, daddy called: “Now listen, Athan, son: as your father I must tell you that you should not be operated on. Ninety times out of a hundred, you’ll get your life back. Nine, you’ll do another five operations and live in and out of hospitals for the rest of your life. And one, they’ll snap the wrong wire. I strongly advise you to get accustomed to the pain.”
An hour later, in what was clearly a coordinated effort, the phone rang again. This time it was my brother George: “Ela, Athan. You’re getting operated in a week’s time, right? I’ve called to say good luck, but in reality you just shouldn’t do it. Doctors never have them. I’ve worked at MGH, at Yale New Haven, at Mt. Sinai, at Cornell and at St. Elizabeth’s and I’ve never met a doctor who had one of these. So I asked around a bit. These things are for patients only. Do as you like, but you’re making a mistake. It’s your bad luck. You have a bad back. Don’t make it worse.”
So the whole thing had been a setup, basically. They had played me. Maybe the neurosurgeon had been in it too, I’ll never find out. But I cancelled.
Cathryn Jakobson Ramin has both my father and my brother covered, though. In chapter 5, “The Gold Standard,” she provides the full detail on the statistical results of lumbar spinal fusion surgery. If only they were as rosy as the stats my father gave me! In practice, the operation simply DOES NOT WORK.
The book moves on to discredit three more approaches, on which I do not have any personal angles, but I found her description of the path I nearly took so accurate and so convincing, that Chapter 6 “Google your Spine Surgery” on minimally invasive keyhole spinal surgery and Chapter 7 “Replacement Parts” on vertebral implants are also a total must-read.
Chapter 8 on “Opioid Wars” is the best chapter of the book and worth the price of purchase alone. It’s probably the chapter my friend Jonathan Cohn would like you to read first. (Oh, yeah, that’s why I bought the book, btw. I saw Jon’s endorsement and I thought “what the heck, it must be worth reading.”) Until I read this, I always thought the Sacklers were patrons of the arts. I can still hear the tour guides at Harvard telling the impressionable tourists that the tiling of the Sackler Museum picks up the hues of the roof of Memorial Hall. Now I just think of them as the white collar drug dealers that they are. Start with chapter 8!
From there onward the book goes all crunchy for my macho taste. But that’s just my taste, and if you want to hear about fifteen different types of “back whisperers” and “posture mavens,” if you think your options are limited to pilates and yoga (Pilates was originally Greek, btw, not German, tsk tsk!) then you’re in for a treat: Cathryn Jakobson Ramin gives you the full Grand Tour of all the exercise regimes ever invented for people to deal with their back. It really is all here and if it’s not here, then it’s on her website, which you must visit.
So there you have it: this is not my kind of book at all, but it’s one of the best books I’ve read. If you have a bad back, you can’t afford not to read it.