Summer has always felt like the perfect season to escape into a good book. Back in grad school, I kept a growing stack of books by my bedside all year long—almost always gay fiction, mostly lighthearted romances or mysteries—waiting patiently for summer break when I wasn’t buried in academic reading. There’s something especially satisfying about choosing what you want to read and getting lost in a story just for fun. So I’m curious—what are you reading this summer? Do you pick lighthearted fiction, or dive into something more serious like history, biography, or true crime?
Ideally, this would be my look today… but since waistbands aggravate my back pain, it’s more like the second pic after the page jump. 😏
It’s been a tough week, and I have to admit I haven’t been able to sit at my desk long enough to pull together the male nude in art post I had planned. Between the limitations of my back and the haze of my current medication, it’s probably for the best—I’m not sure what I might’ve written while loopy on muscle relaxers anyway.
The back spasms seem to be easing up, thankfully, but the pain that shoots down my leg hasn’t let up. Walking remains difficult, and even standing still can feel like a small form of torture. I’ve got to brave the shower this morning—painful as it may be—because I have an errand to run early. After that, I fully intend to do as little as possible. Just rest, relax, and give my body a chance to heal.
Isabella has been mostly patient with me throughout all this. She’s even refrained—mostly—from walking or lying on the lower half of my body, which is a miracle in itself. Twice this week, she let me sleep until 5:00 a.m., and once until 5:30! Every cat I’ve ever had has seemed to sense when something was wrong, mentally or physically, and done their best—within the limits of feline behavior—to make things easier. She’s no exception.
Wishing all of you a restful and restorative weekend. Be kind to yourselves.
After three weeks of worsening right-sided lower back pain and sciatica, I followed up with my doctor yesterday morning. The pain radiates from my lower back through my glute and spirals down my leg to the top of my foot—sometimes feeling like fire in the lower leg. It’s particularly aggravated when I try to walk upright or wear anything that presses against my waist. Getting dressed is an ordeal, and some days I end up in the loosest, softest clothing possible—more accurately draped than worn—while I try to find a semi-comfortable position on the couch.
We also talked about some of the stranger symptoms I’ve been experiencing—odd sensory disturbances, like feeling a blanket over my legs when nothing is there. My physical exam pointed to probable nerve root involvement—likely L5, though L3 or L4 could also be affected. Thankfully, there were no red flags like muscle weakness or foot drop. The steroid I’ve been taking (dexamethasone) hasn’t helped much, though oxycodone gives me a few hours of temporary relief.
My treatment plan now includes continuing the steroid and anti-inflammatories, switching to Flexeril for muscle relaxation, and a higher dose of oxycodone for pain control. I’m staying on gabapentin and Tylenol as well. X-rays of my lumbar spine have been ordered, since the spine specialist won’t see me without them. We also discussed my upcoming liver MRI at UVM, but unfortunately, it can’t be modified to scan my lower back. The liver MRI is a specialized study to measure scarring and uses different protocols than spinal imaging. Plus, the hospital plans to bill for two separate MRIs—not just one. And since most spine MRIs aren’t ordered until symptoms persist beyond six weeks (I’m currently at week three), we’re holding off on that for now.
All of that was already weighing heavily on me when last night brought something new: a zing of pain so sharp it made me jump. I accidentally touched a spot on the top of my foot, and it felt like an electric shock—like the nerve pain was suddenly shooting outward from my body instead of into it. It was a strange, almost surreal sensation. That’s when the lower half of my leg started aching fiercely, from knee to foot. It felt like the pain was caught in a funnel cloud, swirling away and dragging my nerves with it.
I probably overdid it yesterday—between the doctor’s appointment, the pharmacy, and picking up some orders at Walmart and Kohl’s, I was on my feet more than I’ve been in a while. I thought I was pacing myself, but apparently my body had other plans.
Today I’m trying to rest again. It’s hard not to get discouraged, but at least I know I have a treatment plan in motion and a few more pieces of the puzzle. I just hope tonight brings a better kind of stillness.
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Have you ever experienced pain that felt… strange? Not just sharp or dull, but eerie—like your body was telling you something in a language you didn’t understand?
This morning I have a doctor’s appointment to figure out what’s going on with my back. Over the past several days, the pain has become much worse and nearly impossible to ignore.
It started as lower right back pain, but now it spirals downward in a strange, radiating pattern — wrapping around my thigh, then shooting straight down my leg all the way to my foot. Walking is tricky at best. I can take maybe two to four steps upright before the intense pain kicks in, or I can shuffle around stooped over at almost a 90-degree angle, which oddly makes the pain more manageable.
Sitting is out of the question. After just a few minutes in a chair, the pain flares and forces me to stand. The only position that gives me any real relief is lying on my couch with my lower legs slightly elevated. When the pain is at its worst, I’ve found a couple of stretches that help — either pulling my knee up to my chest or resting my ankle and gently stretching my bent leg downward.
Even getting dressed has become a bit of a challenge. Every waistband, seam, and bit of fabric seems to press exactly where it hurts most, making clothes feel more like punishment than comfort. So you can imagine how I’m “dressed” while lying here on the couch, trying to find the most comfortable position — let’s just say modesty has taken a back seat to relief.
I’m hoping the doctor can figure out what’s causing this and how to treat it. At this point, I just want to walk upright again without feeling like someone’s driving a hot poker into my back and leg.
I’ll update you all later when I know more.
Have any of you ever experienced something like this? How did you cope while waiting for answers?
UPDATE: After three weeks of worsening right-sided lower back pain and sciatica, I followed up with my doctor this morning. The pain radiates from my lower back through my glute and spirals down my leg to the top of my foot, sometimes feeling like fire in the lower leg. It gets worse when I try to walk upright or wear anything that puts pressure on my waist. There have also been some odd sensory issues, like feeling a blanket over me when there’s nothing there. My physical exam results point to likely nerve root involvement—probably L5, maybe L3 or L4—but thankfully, no red flags like weakness or foot drop. Dexamethasone (a steroid) hasn’t made much of a difference, but oxycodone gives me a few hours of relief.
The current treatment plan includes continuing with the steroid and anti-inflammatory meds, switching to a new muscle relaxer (Flexeril), and increasing my oxycodone for better pain control. I’m also staying on gabapentin and Tylenol. My doctor has ordered X-rays of my lumbar spine, which are required before the spine specialist will see me. We discussed the possibility of combining that with my upcoming liver MRI at UVM, but unfortunately that’s not possible. The liver MRI is highly specialized to measure the extent of scarring in my liver and uses different specifications than a spinal MRI. On top of that, the hospital intends to bill insurance for two separate MRIs, not one. Most MRIs for back pain aren’t done unless the problem lasts more than six weeks, and I’m currently at week three. So for now, we’re proceeding with the X-ray and spine referral, and I have a work note excusing me through next Monday. If things don’t improve, an MRI and physical therapy may be next.
The mountain held the town as in a shadow I saw so much before I slept there once: I noticed that I missed stars in the west, Where its black body cut into the sky. Near me it seemed: I felt it like a wall Behind which I was sheltered from a wind. And yet between the town and it I found, When I walked forth at dawn to see new things, Were fields, a river, and beyond, more fields. The river at the time was fallen away, And made a widespread brawl on cobble-stones; But the signs showed what it had done in spring; Good grass-land gullied out, and in the grass Ridges of sand, and driftwood stripped of bark. I crossed the river and swung round the mountain. And there I met a man who moved so slow With white-faced oxen in a heavy cart, It seemed no hand to stop him altogether. “What town is this?” I asked. “This? Lunenburg.” Then I was wrong: the town of my sojourn, Beyond the bridge, was not that of the mountain, But only felt at night its shadowy presence. “Where is your village? Very far from here?” “There is no village—only scattered farms. We were but sixty voters last election. We can’t in nature grow to many more: That thing takes all the room!” He moved his goad. The mountain stood there to be pointed at. Pasture ran up the side a little way, And then there was a wall of trees with trunks: After that only tops of trees, and cliffs Imperfectly concealed among the leaves. A dry ravine emerged from under boughs Into the pasture. “That looks like a path. Is that the way to reach the top from here?— Not for this morning, but some other time: I must be getting back to breakfast now.” “I don’t advise your trying from this side. There is no proper path, but those that have Been up, I understand, have climbed from Ladd’s. That’s five miles back. You can’t mistake the place: They logged it there last winter some way up. I’d take you, but I’m bound the other way.” “You’ve never climbed it?” “I’ve been on the sides Deer-hunting and trout-fishing. There’s a brook That starts up on it somewhere—I’ve heard say Right on the top, tip-top—a curious thing. But what would interest you about the brook, It’s always cold in summer, warm in winter. One of the great sights going is to see It steam in winter like an ox’s breath, Until the bushes all along its banks Are inch-deep with the frosty spines and bristles— You know the kind. Then let the sun shine on it!” “There ought to be a view around the world From such a mountain—if it isn’t wooded Clear to the top.” I saw through leafy screens Great granite terraces in sun and shadow, Shelves one could rest a knee on getting up— With depths behind him sheer a hundred feet; Or turn and sit on and look out and down, With little ferns in crevices at his elbow. “As to that I can’t say. But there’s the spring, Right on the summit, almost like a fountain. That ought to be worth seeing.” “If it’s there. You never saw it?” “I guess there’s no doubt About its being there. I never saw it. It may not be right on the very top: It wouldn’t have to be a long way down To have some head of water from above, And a good distance down might not be noticed By anyone who’d come a long way up. One time I asked a fellow climbing it To look and tell me later how it was.” “What did he say?” “He said there was a lake Somewhere in Ireland on a mountain top.” “But a lake’s different. What about the spring?” “He never got up high enough to see. That’s why I don’t advise your trying this side. He tried this side. I’ve always meant to go And look myself, but you know how it is: It doesn’t seem so much to climb a mountain You’ve worked around the foot of all your life. What would I do? Go in my overalls, With a big stick, the same as when the cows Haven’t come down to the bars at milking time? Or with a shotgun for a stray black bear? ‘Twouldn’t seem real to climb for climbing it.” “I shouldn’t climb it if I didn’t want to— Not for the sake of climbing. What’s its name?” “We call it Hor: I don’t know if that’s right.” “Can one walk around it? Would it be too far?” “You can drive round and keep in Lunenburg, But it’s as much as ever you can do, The boundary lines keep in so close to it. Hor is the township, and the township’s Hor— And a few houses sprinkled round the foot, Like boulders broken off the upper cliff, Rolled out a little farther than the rest.” “Warm in December, cold in June, you say?” “I don’t suppose the water’s changed at all. You and I know enough to know it’s warm Compared with cold, and cold compared with warm. But all the fun’s in how you say a thing.” “You’ve lived here all your life?” “Ever since Hor Was no bigger than a—” What, I did not hear. He drew the oxen toward him with light touches Of his slim goad on nose and offside flank, Gave them their marching orders and was moving.
About the Poem
Since I had the chance to visit Lake Willoughby this past weekend, I thought it would be fitting to look at one of Robert Frost’s lesser-known but evocative poems, The Mountain. The poem mentions Mount Hor — one of the two dramatic mountains that rise on either side of Lake Willoughby in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. Having seen the lake and the mountains in person now, I feel even more connected to the scene Frost describes.
Frost’s speaker begins by describing the imposing presence of the mountain over the town, how it casts a shadow and seems to shelter him. There’s awe in the way the mountain “holds” the town — almost like a guardian — yet it also looms, cutting out stars from view. When the speaker climbs the mountain in search of its supposed secret, he discovers that the mountain doesn’t really do anything except stand there. There is no magical spring at its summit, no hidden source of the river — water comes from elsewhere.
This poem has always struck me as a quiet meditation on human expectations versus reality. We often assume that something as grand as a mountain must contain secrets or power. But the truth is simpler — the mountain’s presence itself is its gift. It doesn’t need to justify its existence with hidden springs or mystical origins.
Standing along the shores of Lake Willoughby, looking up at Mount Hor and its neighbor Mount Pisgah rising sharply from the water’s edge, I thought of Frost’s insight: sometimes, beauty and meaning are not about what a place gives us, but about what it is.
Have you ever visited a place that made you feel that way — where its presence alone was enough?
About the Poet
Robert Frost (1874–1963) was one of America’s most celebrated poets, renowned for his depictions of rural life, his mastery of conversational language, and his profound observations on nature and human experience. Though he was born in California, Frost’s literary identity is deeply tied to New England, where he lived for much of his life.
Vermont, in particular, features prominently in his work. He lived for many years in Shaftsbury, Vermont, and his poetry captures the landscapes, seasons, and rhythms of New England life — its mountains, woods, fields, and quiet towns. Poems like The Mountain reflect his sensitivity to the Vermont landscape and his ability to see both its grandeur and its simplicity.
Joe
The Closet Professor 