A few weeks ago, I tweaked my back putting weights on the rack at the gym. When things didn’t get any better after a week of rest, ice and ibuprofen, I decided to go to the orthopedist.
After sharing my medical history and the details of my injury with the nurse, I sat in the exam room goofing around on my phone waiting for the doctor. The next knock at the door wasn’t a physician, however, but a technician.
“Come across the hall for an X-ray,” she said.
“Oh good,” I should have thought. “They can get to the bottom of what’s wrong.”
Instead, I felt a pang of dread.
