"Welcome to the club", my husband said, after he managed to carry me to a bed without throwing his back out. I couldn't walk. He fed me Ibuprofen every two hours, handed me his back-belt on the second day, taught me how to move onto and off the couch, and in general monitored my recovery. Today I feel better, except a little older.
Since I have been a couch potato all week, I will have to overcome my fears and "get back on the ball", so to speak. I think the ball was only indirectly at fault - it was more that I couldn't handle my new strength and moved with too much new-found vigor.
Nothing like the danger of throwing my back out again, to remember to keep moving slowly and with awareness like a Buddhists practicing Vipassana walking meditation.

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