There is some risk in writing this column right now. I am under the influence of drugs, and honestly not certain of the outcome. So I hope for some grace as we explore the goodness of those who devote themselves to our physical well-being.

My daughter and her family recently moved from far away to actually quite near — a situation which I’m personally very delighted about. (I just ended a sentence in a preposition but I don’t care right now).

Of course, I helped with the move. What mother wouldn’t, right? Some of that assistance included carrying boxes; some of those boxes were probably heavier than I should have lifted. That’s hard to admit, because I like to believe I’m invincible. But my body knows otherwise and began sending me signals to cut it out. The first day my shoulder began to ache, I chased it away with one painkiller. The second day, it took two. On the morning of the third day I awoke to someone thrusting a knife into the fleshy part of my shoulder. Only, of course, no one was. It was just my body telling me, “I told you so.”

I couldn’t turn my head. I could barely breathe because deep breaths brought on the stabbing pain. So I carefully picked up my phone and tried calling my doctor. Only his office isn’t open at 6 a.m. The nerve. So I watched the minutes crawl by on my clock, wondering why the earth’s rotation had slowed. Finally at 8 a.m. I called again, got the answering machine and left a desperate message. I wondered if the nurse could tell I was dying because she probably deals with lots of people who think they’re dying, right?

The nurse finally called me back two hours later. I was still sitting there, not moving because it hurt too much. I explained my situation. She offered me a time slot in five days. I told her the pain would kill me in two. (I wasn’t kidding about the dying part). In her defense, she was very kind, but firm. As the keeper of the schedule, her hands were tied.

She recommended I go to Urgent Care. I wondered why I hadn’t thought of that. Then I realized people who are dying can’t be too harshly judged. So I slid clothes past the stabbing knife in my neck and, without looking to the right or the left, drove myself to Urgent Care.

Here I would like to say that the people at the Urgent Care clinic are some of the kindest angels on the planet. The receptionist smiled at me (which my scowl didn’t deserve) and asked how she could help me. I told her I couldn’t turn my head and was in so much pain I couldn’t describe it. She took my name, my birthdate and insurance info, then said, “Have a seat.” That was all. I slid onto a seat, still staring ahead, and waited.

But not for long. A nurse called my name, walked me into a room, asked a few questions, then said the doctor would be in soon. I sat on the uncomfortable table, staring straight ahead as discouraged, pain-driven tears squeezed out of my eyes.

The doctor came in, studied my tear-lined face and asked so kindly, “What’s happened?” I explained. He gently inspected my shoulder and reported my muscles there were so knotted up they were rock hard. He recommended injections of a painkilling, numbing, anti-inflammatory mix of something, and I said, “Please, go ahead.” He could have recommended he cut off my shoulder and I think I would have gone with it.

He expertly inserted a thin needle repeatedly into my neck and shoulder muscles while explaining what he was doing, assuring me I’d be alright. His kindness really got to me, made me cry some more. Almost immediately, I could feel my shoulder slightly relax. Thanks to those injections, plus a prescription of a muscle-relaxant that makes me drowsy and “acutely cognitively impaired” (an amusing understatement), I can now turn my head — carefully.

I take medical folks like that doctor for granted. I looked up his background. He’s an expert in multiple emergency fields. He and those like him put themselves in the right place at the right time for people like me — and you — who unexpectedly need their expert help. So this is my way of saying “thank you” to him and all you other compassionate people who devote your lives and careers to relieve our sudden suffering.

You really are angels.

D. Louise Brown lives in Layton. She writes a biweekly column for the Standard-Examiner.