Children, you are very little
And your bones are very brittle
If you would grow great and stately
You must try to walk sedately.
— Robert Louis Stevenson
Even though I received, in 2012, a diagnosis of dangerous osteoporosis of the spine, I was skeptical. What’s a little wing-bone pain anyway? Once home, I stripped to the waist, picked up my hand mirror, and took a critical look at my spine. I saw a hump—a hump, for God’s sake—where my right wing bone should have been. Clothed once more, I saw how my purple T-shirt folded between my clavicle and right shoulder. And to think I’d blamed poor factory seamstresses for how my clothes hung. The mirror did not lie. Neither did the test.
My internet use quadrupled as I squinted over photos of crooked spines, dowager’s humps, Fosamax studies, and bones porous as Swiss cheese. Click, click. Osteoporosis causes over a million fractures every year. Click. Nearly half of women over 50 will have a fracture due to osteoporosis. Click. Fosamax, the most common osteoporosis drug has side effects. My fear turned to anger. All those jogging and walking miles I’ve put in, all those calcium and vitamin D pills? My spine could snap like the Thanksgiving wishbone we fought over as children.
While the diagnosis, at first, had caused me little concern, deformity terrified me. What if I turned out like that lady, the one with the huge hump on her right side, the one who shuffles along with her grubby Shih-Tzu? One morning I stopped to watch her. Does she see that driver turning? How does she wash her dog or sleep at night? Osteoporosis was at work in both of us, snapping bones, curling them, slyly healing them in place.
I turned to Yoga for Osteoporosis by Loren Fishman and Ellen Saltonstall. Under the authors’ specific directions, (always use the support of a wall or chair) I began an hour-long daily regimen of isometric lifts, turns, and stretches meant to strengthen muscle, bone, and balance. Days have blend into months and months into five years. The hump is gone. I have regained the inch and a half of height loss. My blouses no longer bunch near my clavicle. At times the accomplishment makes me proud, even smug, but other times I wonder why I fear my body’s inevitable decay.
I don’t plan to schedule another bone density test. At seventy-four years of age, cracking up isn’t worth the worry. Each day I lift and stretch, push and pull my old bones. True, my spine could curl me in half. My thin shell could crack wide open. Who knows, though, maybe a soft, winged creature will emerge.