Sciatica or Cancer?

Is it sciatica or cancer? This is typically the question that haunts me.

For almost two months now, I've been weighing the probability of each, relying on best inferences to confirm the former. This empirical hunch comes replete with Internet searches, some well-placed stretches and two Advil with dinner.

Does the pain run up and down the leg, or stay put in the hip bone, in which case, it occurs to me, it might just be osteopenia, or even a full blown case of osteoporosis. My doctor brother reminds me that osteoporosis comes without pain, so it seems that statistical input best be eliminated from my data. Then of course there's the old tried and true, if it doesn't get worse it's probably not the "Big C."

Yes, I know, that's why we have health insurance. But spending a half-day waiting to pass through some cold, echoing MRI chamber with my heart pounding might be avoided with a bit of waiting it out and some red wine. Did I mention my appetite is just fine?

My mostly healthy 87-year-old father is about to have a new aortic valve put in. My brother and sister fly down to West Palm Beach and find him breathing through a nasal cannula, his oxygen level registering at an alarmingly low 84 percent.

"The hospital's pulse oximeter was broken," my brother tells me. "When they brought in a different machine, he was a normal 96 percent."

He still has arterial stenosis, still needs the operation, but it is just a reminder—the system isn't foolproof.

What's next? The all-important consult-with-a-best-friend phase of deductive reasoning.

"Rona, what do you think?"

"Sciatica."

"Really, you think?"

"Yes. Like last year's biopsy... nothing. My train's here."

A few days later, I'm in the pasta aisle at the supermarket when I run into a neighbor. We go through the usual niceties, the somewhat awkward formalities, when I figure why not further my research and bring up my sore leg and hip.

"Oh, I've had it," she enthuses. "It runs behind the leg and under the butt."

We move on to her painful foot, and the sharp, shooting pain below her knee. I'm thinking her shoes look too tight, but decide it best not to get too personal, too soon. Still, who knew we had so much in common? 

The pain continues, but ever so perceptively less. The stretches do seem to help.

"If you hold up the opposite leg," my brother asks, "does it hurt the hurting leg?"

"Yes!" I scream.

"Might be sciatica," he says. "Just wait and see."