I’m Frank Martin, 68, recently retired after four decades running punch-press machines at the Glendale appliance plant.
All those years of twisting steel blanks left me with a lower back that feels like a rusty hinge: sharp jabs just to climb out of bed, a grinding ache when I sit, and an electric shooting pain down my hip if I bend the wrong way.
I’ve chugged down anti-inflam pills, slept on heating pads, and spent good money on three different elastic belts that promised “instant relief.”
Nothing held up.
The pain kept me from the things I looked forward to in retirement: hoisting my granddaughter onto my shoulders, tending to my vegetable garden, even the simple pleasure of a full night’s sleep.
Most afternoons I ended up in my recliner, watching life go by instead of living it.
Two months ago, I dragged myself to the community-center chess night and noticed my old line-partner, Warren, standing at the coffee urn: no stoop, no wince, looking a good three inches taller than I remembered.
Walt used to complain louder than anyone about back pain, so I asked what changed.
He grinned, patted a slim brace hidden under his flannel, and said, “It’s an amazing back brace – get one, Frank, it’ll give you your life back.”
I wasn’t sure it was going to fix my chronic back pain. But I was desperate and willing to try anything.