Story written by: Michael Schrecker
There was a 4" inch rusty, serrated knife lodged into my back, right by the kidney. The doctor just stared at me like I was a fucking junky looking for their next fix.
That's the only way I can describe the recurring back issues I have. And every single doctor just assumed I was there for the drugs. That is really awful and quite unfortunate.
I was running from a lot in 2015, both mentally and physically. I was smoking cigarettes again, for absolutely no reason, and bourbon was getting the best of me. I had made some really, really bad decisions throughout the fall season leading up to this. But I’ll spare those details for now and just let you know my bright idea to move past it: doing mud runs.
I had done a couple of these in the past, but this was different. This was a smoke screen. I trained to escape and forget, not to make the podium.
I trained like a maniac. Like I was gearing up to be an extra on 300. I got up early and ran, stopping every mile to do some burpees and then continue on. I built endurance and strength, and was able to complete the Trifecta.
THIS IS SPARTA!
I never ran another one, though. But, the damage was done. I just didn’t know it yet. And, I also did not look like an extra from 300 like I had imagined.
Still having a void to fill, and being in what I thought was decent shape, I moved on to sprint triathlons.
Swim. Bike. Run.
There wasn’t any mud to trek through, or ropes to climb. No more filling empty 5-gallon buckets full of gravel and carrying them up a hill. It was just water, road, and rubber. Easy breezy. The only thing being that I hadn’t ever really swam before and didn’t own a road bike. Semantics, right?
Enter craigslist and the MLK Pool.
I did not expect to enjoy swimming as much as I did. I really loved it. The bike, meh. I put it back on craigslist where I found it shortly after completing my first, which was also my last triathlon.
I finished third place in my age group during that race. Sure, there were only 4 people in my age group but that’s not important. The guy who came in fourth kicked over the trophy table and stormed off. Yikes.
I got a sweet coffee mug with the race logo and a big No. 3 on it. Pretty damn impressive for a guy who had never swam or biked a race ever.
The next morning, after having a cup of Joe in my new shiny mug, I went out for a little recovery jog around the hood. Nothing fancy. Just two miles out and back. Easy.
The out part was easy; but back, eh, not so good.
I slammed down on my right heel, just like I had done hundreds of times before; however, it turns out my body was not a fan of all the heel slamming and deciding to check me, and wreck me.
“Here, how does this knife feel in your kidney?,” Michael.
I buckled over having no clue what just happened. I knew something was wrong.
I made it home and told Lori (my ride or die, wife, side kick, partner in crime) what had happened. She helped me get situated after a hot shower with a heating pad and a blanket to rest. I woke up the next morning a little sore. It was a Sunday. I was relieved.
My brother came over that day to watch football like we normally do. It was Steelers v Broncos when I began to sweat. It turns out that the knife that my body had used to shank me with yesterday was back, and this time the blade felt longer, sharper, and twisted when it went into my back.
I dropped to my knees. I couldn’t stand up. The Broncos were losing. FML.
The Emergency room was a joke. They loaded me full of stuff and sent me on my way. This was the start of my 8-year tour of seeing doctors around town. It was full of jackasses making guesses and suggestions about my bulging disc at my L5 S1.
Epidurals > MRI > Epidurals > MRI
There were gaps of time where I felt better, and believed the “treatment” was working. But my body kept the knife close by.
I’d feel good and go for a run (because I am stubborn). Boom. Knife to the kidney. Repeat. I am a fucking idiot. You’d think I’d learn.
My brain did come up with the bright idea that maybe if I focused on swimming and removed running from the equation I could talk my body into dropping the knife. It was after this revelation that my relationship with lap swimming took root.
Bingo. This is 40.
Never once do I dread going to the pool. It just puts me in a good mood. I love it. I love everything about it.
I met a few older guys down there once I really committed. Alex the lifeguard, the friendliest older man who greeted me every day with a smile while also motioning he’d cut my head off if I got in before 7.
Jay had relocated here with his wife several years ago. He is older than me, but damn young at heart. We bonded over early morning football conversations. It’s really easy to become friends with a Dallas Cowboys fan, especially when they just wanna be seen as people too.
He also has two sons who went on to play some college football. When we met, my son Charlie had just started playing 7on7 and really focusing on football. He was gonna be in High School next year and it was exciting to see his love for the sport grow. Jay would ask about his weekend games, I would happily provide updates.
I love to talk. A lot. Maybe too much. Or maybe I just have a lot to fucking say. Just smile and nod, ok?
Life was good. I had taken the stress off my back by realizing I am not 23 anymore. We had become friends. It had put down the knife.
The summer of ‘24 was staring me down.
My daughter, Ella, was killing it at SOA (Creative Arts High School in Charleston) with dance. She was also hyper focused on the theater world, specifically stage management. She had some ridiculously high GPA, a great job, friends; she was officially set in motion for greatness.
My son, Charlie, was about to “graduate” middle school and play JV ball. And, my wife. Well, we were crushing life too.
Charlie's graduation ceremony from middle school was long. Like, a full on graduation in a high school gym. I do not recall this being a thing in ‘91 when I moved up to high school. Here I was though. Crammed into a bleacher seat, legs folded and tucked in under me so they weren’t digging into the person in front of me.
People slammed on either side making core rotation all but impossible. I had to sit with my body facing forward, right around the top of the key. I was staring at a free throw line for those of you who know about sports.
The stage was far left. So, I had to twist my body left, while sitting up straight. I had to look back right to see these young adults walking to their seats and then one by one, watch them walk from the back of the gym to the front. Over and over.
Excited to watch my son grab his “diploma” and give middle school the proverbial middle finger in the rear view. Also, equally excited to get out of that damn gym. We took pictures, had dinner, spent some time talking to a few parents and some of Charlie's closest buds.
Despite the sardine-can setup I was lucky enough to experience for several hours, it was a great night.
Until I woke up that night to a familiar, yet new pain. My body had finally gotten rid of that fucking knife. It had been upgraded to what I assume would be illegal in most countries. It resembles Excalibur, the giant sword stuck in the stone.
Aside from the pain, I woke up devastated. I mean, absolutely crushed. I hadn’t seen a doctor in several years for my back. I had seen this movie before. Same shit, different year. Doctors with no real solutions other than epidurals and PT.
An MRI confirmed what I already feared was true: the bulge had returned. This time, it tapped L4 & L5 and invited them to join the party.
Herniated. Blown Out. Fucked.
Despite that last paragraph, I stayed positive. I kept on keeping on while riding the roller coaster of pain I experienced. But the pool was the one place where nothing ever hurt. Where I saw familiar faces, and met new ones, including some idiot that was flirting with Alex’s 7 a.m. rule.
The last thing you want at MLK is to be on Alex’s bad side. I like to think that I saved this guy's life. Clearly a Charleston transplant. Long beard, whimsical hair, rubber birkenstocks and maybe a Billy Strings shirt on, if I recall.
“Alex will cut your dick off if you get in the pool before 7. Those maniacs finishing up are Masters swimmers and they have the pool until then, no exceptions. I’m Michael,” I said with an outreached fist.
“Greenberry,” the bearded person said.
“Greenberry? That’s your name? Your real name?”
“Yep,” he replied.
“Well that’s fucking Rad.”
We chatted. Small talk. Pool deck talk. Surface level stuff. We both had tattoos, and since both were in the chlorinated water so much, I knew we shared a passion for dried skin.
We should probably be friends.
Greenberry and I went on like that for a while during the summer of ‘25. During a locker room conversation he mentioned that he was heading to California. I had just read the lineup for Dead & Co’s celebration in San Francisco so made a random “Heading to see the Dead?” To which he looked up confused and said, “Yeah, you're into the Dead?”
I think I shocked him when I asked and confirmed that I was in fact into the Dead. This also confirmed that I knew a thing or two about jam band culture. I told him I was interested to hear how Shakedown would be. I had seen that they had made a dedicated shake down spot on the festival map, bringing the parking lot pregame tradition inside the venue.
Why party out there with your $10 12-pack when you can buy one beer in here for $11?
He confirmed: I’ll report back
I show up to the pool happy. All the time. Now, I was a little happier because I had another person to chat with. Maybe someone that I had a little more in common with. Someone that could add to the distraction of the growing pain of the herniated disc in my lower back.
He learned my road days revolved around Widespread Panic, more importantly the lingering lead that was the soundtrack. I learned he loved Panic too, but not “real” Panic. He was late to the party, never saw Mikey.
I still to this day laugh at people when they say, “Last night was the best Panic show ever.”
It wasn’t bro, I promise.
This guy was cool though. Openly recognized that he knew it was different without Mikey leading things. He just unfortunately was late to the show and never saw it live. Sucks for him, but he made a damn devoted effort with new, Jimmy lead Panic.
Rock on, bro. Schools is still dropping bombs, which is enough for me to buy a ticket when they are in town.
Cut back to my back. After a glowing referral to a doctor, I was introduced to Platelet Rich Plasma (PRP) injections. It was sold to me as an alternative to an epidural, or more importantly, having surgery. Out of pocket. To the tune of a-lot-of-money.
It had to work.
It didn’t.
I really thought it was going to be PRP, walking, and pool life. I was honestly OK with that. But the PRP never really took. After the grace period of healing, things just kept sliding, and sliding.
What next? How about doctor #8.
Right down the street from my house. I had driven past their practice for over a decade and never noticed it. But, I thought, “Fuck it.” I called and got an appointment and fast tracked an MRI.
This doctor was great. He was frustrated with what I had been through for 8 years and just cut to the chase.
“You’ve got a herniated disc and while epidurals may help, they aren’t gonna make this thing go away. Let’s try one and see if you get any relief,” he said. So, I tried again. It did nothing. I mean, to the point where I felt zero relief and could barely stand.
Being upright sent daggers down both of my legs within about 60 seconds of standing. I tried to swim, but my pool joy was being drowned. The only good part was seeing my pool friends. Everything else was bad. I could barely walk.
“You need surgery,” the Doc told me.
Fade to black. No pool.
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About the Author:
Michael Schrecker
Bio: Charleston native. More specifically, Hanahan. My first concert was Vanilla Ice at the King Street Palace, but the one that changed everything was Widespread Panic at the House of Blues in Myrtle Beach in 1997. Before that, I was all heavy music. Korn. Limp Bizkit. Pantera. Panic opened a different door, and I've been walking through it ever since.
I met my wife in 1999, married her in 2003, and spent a year living in Colorado before finding our way back home. Along the way came Red Rocks, road trips to Vegas, camping trips, and plenty of nights at the Mishawaka outside Fort Collins. Some of my favorite memories started with no plan beyond seeing where the road went.
I earned a degree in graphic design and somehow turned it into a career in marketing. Over the years, I've had the chance to work on everything from corporate brands to the occasional concert poster, logo, or t-shirt.
These days, you'll usually find me with my wife and kids, working on the house, watching football, playing bass or standing somewhere near a soundboard.
Reach out: michael@responsiblewook.com
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