My name is Susan Matthews. I’m 63 years old, a wife, and a grandmother of two.
Six months ago, I felt like my life had been stolen by back pain.
I couldn’t sleep more than an hour at a time. Getting out of bed took twenty minutes of slow, painful stretching. And the worst part?
I couldn’t pick up my grandkids anymore — something that used to bring me pure joy.
That Tuesday morning in February, I sat across from Dr. Patel, clutching the armrest of the chair so tightly my knuckles turned white.
The sciatica shooting down my right leg had become unbearable. I was exhausted, desperate, and praying for real help.
“I’m going to refer you to physiotherapy,” Dr. Patel said, typing into her computer.
Finally, I thought. Some relief might be on the horizon.
“When can I start?” I asked hopefully.
She paused, looked up, and gave me the kind of sympathetic expression doctors use when they know the answer will crush you.
“The current waiting list is… 9 months, I’m afraid.”
Nine. Months.
My heart sank. My voice cracked as I whispered: “How am I supposed to live like this for 9 more months?”
Dr. Patel slid a prescription across the desk — co-codamol. “Take two, three times daily. And try to stay active.”
I left that appointment with nothing but another bottle of pills. More waiting. More suffering.