Her back is like a stress scoreboard. And she’s not winning

I think the title of the book, “The Body Keeps the Score,” is a brilliant statement on its own.

Because, yeah, the body sure does.

That book is on my to-read stack, so I can’t dive into Dr. Van der Kolk’s research about how trauma rewires our bodies and brains, and how to heal. I’m fully aware of the mind-body connection, even on smaller scales.

Which brings me to my lower back, a spot that seems to be where all of life’s “thousand paper cuts” land.

I have noticed a pattern. My back tends to wonk out when I’m stressed and doing extra stuff. Prepping for travel is often a common scenario, as it was for the most recent case. I’m a caregiver these days. So right now, a persnickety, orderly life is out the window.

Yet I don’t like to leave my house flirting with squalor while I’m away. I end up running between packing and swatting dust bunnies when I should be accomplishing all tasks at a slower pace.

This is when my back says, “Zoink, hello! It’s once again time to walk like ol’ Beverly Hillbilly Jed Clampett. Score: Stress, 1. Denise, 0. Have fun with that mop and to-do list!”

Even though a troublesome back is painful and aggravating and always untimely, I do have some entertaining stories. (Denise, 5. Stress, 0.) One of my favorite chapters I would call “The Grape.”

Eleven years ago, I was taking my youngest to a college freshman pre-move-in weekend event.

He had to be there around noon, but the campus was a six-plus-hour drive away. An aggravating predawn departure was the only option. At that age he wasn’t an early riser or a seasoned interstate driver, so I insisted on taking the wheel. Just before we left, zoink, my back went out.

It was a painful drive I’ll never forget, but I did it. At rest stops, my son’s jaw dropped when he saw me walk. I explained to him who Jed Clampett was, so at the very least maybe one day he would get extra points in a trivia game.

I dropped him off at campus and headed to my hotel. Unfortunately, I had an overnight duffel — no spinner wheels — so I was forced to improvise a painful transport. Even carrying a bag of potato chips would have felt like I was hauling a kettlebell.

I found one of those crazy brass arched luggage carts in the lobby and wheeled it to the parking lot. I slid the lonely little bag straight from my car hatchback and dropped it down to the vast cart surface. A weird look for a little bag. I endured stares at the check in desk, but this was the only way. Pain is the mother of invention.

I had packed some snacks for the trip, as one does, including a bunch of grapes. Turns out they’re a nice diversion when one is suffering with every sneeze, head turn, step or motionless wall stare. Other parents of freshmen I knew, who were fellow back pain alumni, texted me to check on my well-being. I sent them a picture of a grape I accidentally dropped on the floor with the caption, “Welp, this grape is staying there.”

That’s how bad it was. I could not bend down to pick up a lone grape. I still think about that little green orb, and how it represented a rock bottom experience of my body keeping the score.

For this recent go-round, I was a little wiser. I felt a few warning shot zings, a little Mr. Clampett stiffness, and I knew to slow down. I stretched my memory back to the yoga class I dropped out of and I tried a few poses each day. It was time to give up perfection and befriend a few dust bunnies.

I managed to win that stress battle, because I have finally learned my back is vigilant referee.

Reach Denise Snodell at stripmalltree@gmail.com.