I remember how I felt on that night. It was February of 2020 and we sat as a family around our kitchen table playing a board game. A knock on the back door sparked in my mind a memory that a thoughtful church member was coming by to deliver a Valentine’s Day present for my wife, Jodi… her favorite smoked salmon dip from Trader Joe’s.
I quickly jumped up from the table and made a beeline for the back door. In my haste I made a quick jump down the three steps into our game room and as my feet hit the floor my legs gave out from under me. I caught myself on the arm of our couch and was able to pull myself together enough to make it to the back door in order to receive the precious delivery. But something in my mind was triggered. Something wasn’t right.
I had been experiencing back pain for a while. Previously, I had suffered a fungal infection in my lower back that had damaged some of the bone there, so I had assumed that this was just residual pain. But now this seemed different. Something caused me to begin to worry.
Over the next few days the pain continued. I could find some relief when I would lay flat on the floor so my family lovingly accommodated me. We would spend evenings in our game room in front of the fire watching television so I could lay on the floor in relative comfort. Then one night, after another episode of leg weakness while playing catch with my eldest daughter, I looked back at my wife and finally admitted.
“Jodi, I’m scared.”
I made a phone call to Vanderbilt shortly thereafter. They were concerned, but agreed with me that it was likely just an exacerbated injury from my previous infection, and since the COVID-19 pandemic was beginning to reek havoc on our nation, my case was simply not critical enough to merit a visit to an MRI machine. I was left to treat my back with pain medicine, stretching, and rest.
And then, three months later, with no improvement my family loaded up in the car to head to Nashville for an MRI, and news that our lives would be forever changed.
Jeremy Powell 