When one is 43, sometimes your back goes out. At least, that’s what happened to me 3 days after I turned 43.

The aching soreness. No side with which to rest or seek comfort. The burning of the muscles or whatever those have morphed into at this age. Sleepless nights, new pillows, couch exploration, Epsom salt baths, pain relievers, wine (yeah, the #2 pain reliever, sometimes #1 – ok, I’m lying, it’s always #1). Then, in the middle of the night when you have found no side with which to lay that is either not sore on your back or your hip, your mind goes to the dark place. You start trying to figure out where your kidneys and spleen are. Trying to identify and pinpoint where the direct pain is coming from and what disease is directly correlated to it. So the pain that you’ve been feeling physically you’ve now added to your mental to do list too. Great. Once you’ve picked one or two illnesses, then your mind goes to the next thing that’s been tormenting you. Did the kids eat enough dinner tonight? Was my “what?” too snarky? Did they notice? I wonder why I’m the only one that remembers that Tuesday’s garbage day. That goes on until I either stop myself from the torture because now my depression is worse than my back pain or I just fall asleep from mental exhaustion.

You awake in more pain than the last time you were awake from sheer stiffness. There is no way to move your body that won’t cause an “ahh” or “ooh” – and these sounds can never be mistaken for the good ahhs and oohs. As you roll yourself out of your perceived to be better sleeping conditions which failed, you use your hands on your knees to support your body weight up. Standing straight was easier for cro magnon. You shuffle your sorry ass to the bathroom hoping that will offer you some relief since you’ve been drinking water endlessly because you’ve been stranded and trying to take care of yourself since your midnight diagnosis. Getting down to the toilet and getting up from it, utterly painful and pitiful. All the noises of discomfort, the shrieks from the sharp pain. Emptying the bladder helped a little. This last discomfort, however, will be nothing compared to the next Olympic sport of bending down to brush your teeth. Oofah. Whichever muscle is the biggest dick is the one that sends you to grasp the counter like there’s an earthquake. You brush fast. With the pain still echoing through every step, you opt for an Epsom salt bath, you’ve heard those work…

Nice warm water, the temperature of hell if you’re a woman, plenty of the “salts” and the rest of your energy to lower yourself in this hot salty tub of hope. The soak itself is exactly as expected, if you have jets they get turned on with visions of those powerful bastards working those kinks right out and you rising out of that tub baptized with no pain and a great appreciation for independent mobility again. But before you exit, there’s one more thing…

A child that enters (a little one) offering to brush your hair, like you do when they are being bathed. Offering to wash you, splash you, join you, talk your ear off or just watch you. This always makes me reflect on the reality of what my muscles have morphed into as they stare at you like a whale at the aquarium trip you took with the school last fall.

Let’s add insult to injury.

In your bag of bath tricks is a small mesh bag containing menthol crystals used only so far in the shower as a steam to combat colds and coughs. Your little one dangles the bag over the bath and asks if they can put some in the tub with you, the little square tag whipping around touting “muscle relaxer”… It’s almost empty, it’s menthol, how could it hurt? The initial menthol scent is strong, therapeutic and spa-like. The jets are fast tracking their properties and you start to feel the tingle. It’s similar to the feeling of washing yourself in peppermint castile soap, you feel cold, in all of your crevices. Before I knew it the sound of the jacuzzi jets turned to a sizzle and almost simultaneously as I heard the new noise did my body start to feel that familiar cold, except, like, a lot. Wow, my once burning hot water now felt like a flu like chill and as the jets agitated the menthol, the menthol agitated my skin. My arms, then my inner thighs, my shins. The more I tried to wait it out, hoping it would dissipate, the more it intensified. I had to empty the tub, so I pulled the stopper up. I envisioned the drain sucking down the water, the menthol and with it, my pain. IT.TOOK.FOREVER. Halfway through I had to get the washcloth to start washing off my new pain. The water went down, the soap cleansed me while the menthol froze me. Crouched in a half full tub with the burning sensation left in my inner thighs and underarms I clutched the side of the tub patiently waiting for the rest of that menthol crystalline hellfire to go south, where it belongs. I proceeded to scrub my tub with a brush and cleanser that’s always stashed on the side for post children bath time. I scrubbed this time, like some people eat during a contest, like some run for their lives, like others pray for loved ones. I scrubbed away the once enjoyable spa-like smell, which has now replaced with fear of pain by peppermint.

Luckily, the initial warmth of the tub water, movement from the trauma and distraction from the original ailment has now loosened my back up to a point where I don’t need a pulley system to heave my ass out of the tub. As I dry off I find myself speaking out loud (the little one hightailed it out of there when I started asking the ceiling why this was happening). I’m asking why something so natural could be so evil. My body was still cold despite being fully dry and wrapped in a large plush towel, the dull burning finally starting to die down. My back, temporarily at ease, my nerves shot from the trauma of that mesh bag’s punishment. I put my winter pajamas on to combat the chill and leave the bathroom that did me no favors on this day. I wonder if the next bath I take will have remnants of that spicy feeling, I can’t relive that again. I have PTMD. Post traumatic menthol disorder.

Written by Lauren Busacca

Lauren Busacca is a NJ transplant living in SC with her husband, 3 kids and 2 dogs navigating her way through marriage, parenting, life and all the in-between.