“Mum, I have a pain in my left leg,” I said as an innocent 15-year-old boy. “You’re growing up, boy!” said my mother – and, naive as I was, I believed her.
Two weeks went by and I still had problems with my leg, so it was time to go and see the doctor. Once there, I was referred directly to a physiotherapist. After the therapist had asked me some questions, she said that I probably had a hernia. I then had an MRI scan.
Days passed, then finally I got a message from the radiology department. There was no turning back when I heard the grim news: “We have discovered a hernia at L5-S1 level, so you can commence manual therapy.” I can hear you thinking, “Wow, and you were 15 years old?” Anyway, surgery? That was the last thing I thought of. I was looking for an alternative way to get rid of my hernia.
A year’s physiotherapy, no success. Mensendieck therapy, no success. Getting fit, no success. Lying flat, no success. Acupuncture, no success. Manual therapy, no success. Nerve block, no success. And there I was, five years later, having achieved nothing. Getting up in pain and feeling cranky every day, limping, restricted in all my activities and – last but certainly not least – the horrible painkillers I swallowed each day. Enough: I wanted an answer. And there it was, after five years: Iprenburg.
I had the surgery, and two hours after the operation I was walking around as though nothing had happened! You may think, “What? That’s a joke, right?” No, no joke. The pain was gone! Did I feel any pain during surgery? No, but I did spend two hours talking to the anaesthetist. What did we talk about? I’ve no idea – apparently anything and everything. It was all bad, but what a great team! You know what I call the period after my surgery? The Renaissance. I’m reborn!