The Olympic Park Binder: A Grandmother's Story

I gave the binder to my daughter last Tuesday.

Six years of planning. Sixty-four pages of trail maps, tide pool guides, Junior Ranger program printouts, campground reservations I never made, and photos from 1984 when Tom and I honeymooned at Olympic National Park.

I'd been promising Emma since she was five that I'd take her and her siblings to Olympic. "Grandma, when are we going to see the starfish?" she'd ask every time we FaceTimed.

"Soon, sweetheart. Soon."

Emma turned eleven last month. Her brothers, Jackson and Tyler, are nine and seven now. Little Maisie just turned five – the same age Emma was when I first made the promise.

"Soon" never came.

The binder that held six years of dreams and planning

Last Tuesday, I sat in Sarah's kitchen – my daughter's kitchen – with the binder between us. Sarah knew what it meant the moment she saw it.

"Mom, you don't have to—"

"I can't do it, Sarah. I thought I could. I kept thinking the pain would get better. But it's been three years and I can't... I can't even get down on the floor to play blocks with Maisie anymore."

I cried in my daughter's kitchen. I'm 62 years old and I cried because I can't take my grandchildren on a trip I've been planning since 2018.

This isn't a story about a vacation. This is about what chronic back pain takes from you when no one's watching.

How This Started (Or When I Stopped Being "Active Grandma Linda")

September 2021. I retired after 34 years teaching third grade at Beaver Acres Elementary in Beaverton, Oregon. The retirement party, the cake, the whole thing. I was 59. Tom was already retired from Intel. We had plans.

Big plans.

We were going to travel. Visit the grandkids more (they live in Seattle – only a 3-hour drive). I was finally going to take Emma, Jackson, Tyler, and eventually little Maisie to Olympic National Park, just like I'd been promising.

Spring 2022. Started feeling this dull ache in my lower back. Nothing dramatic. Just... there. I'd gardened my whole life. Figured I pulled something planting the tomatoes.

Summer 2022. The ache turned into pain. Real pain. Lower right back, shooting down my right leg sometimes. I went to my doctor in July.

"Sounds like sciatica. Let's try physical therapy."

Started PT in August 2022. Went twice a week for six months. Did every exercise they gave me. Bird-dogs. Bridges. Stretches. The whole program.

Cost: $1,680 in copays over 6 months
Result: Pain was maybe 20% better during the day. But mornings? Still woke up feeling like my back was made of broken glass.

February 2023. PT discharged me. "You've made good progress, Linda. Keep doing your home exercises."

But I wasn't better. I was just... managing.

The First Time I Had To Say No

Memorial Day Weekend 2023.

Sarah called. "Mom, the kids want to know if you and Dad want to come up for the long weekend. Maybe take them to the zoo?"

The Seattle Zoo. Walking. All day. With four kids.

Two years ago, I would've said yes immediately.

"I don't think I can do the zoo, honey. My back's been acting up. Maybe we could do something at your house instead?"

Emma got on the phone. "Grandma, are you still going to take us to see the starfish?"

"Yes, sweetheart. Absolutely. Maybe next summer when Grandma's back is better."

I heard the hesitation in my own voice. I don't think Emma did. But I did.

The Year of "Trying Everything"

Spring 2023 - Winter 2024. This is when I became one of those people. The ones who've "tried everything."

March 2023: Started seeing a chiropractor in Beaverton. Dr. Wilson. Nice guy. Went twice a week for eight months.

Cost: $2,880 (insurance didn't cover it)
Result: Felt AMAZING for about three days after each adjustment. Then it wore off. Every single time.

June 2023: My doctor recommended epidural steroid injections.

First injection: June 12, 2023. $1,400 after insurance.

I remember because it was the day before Emma's 10th birthday party. I thought "perfect timing – I'll be better for her party."

The injection worked for four weeks. FOUR WEEKS. Then the pain came back.

Second injection: September 2023. $1,400.
Third injection: December 2023. $1,400.

Each one worked for less time than the last.

Insurance denied a fourth injection in January 2024. "Patient has not shown lasting improvement."

$11,560 spent on treatments over three years

Total spent on injections: $4,200

July 2023: Bought a new mattress. Everyone said "you need better support."

Went to Mattress Firm. Salesperson convinced me I needed their "orthopedic" model. Tempur-Pedic.

$3,400 mattress. Same morning pain.

Cost: $3,400
Result: I sleep... fine on it. But my morning pain is exactly the same.

October 2023: Started taking gabapentin. 300mg twice daily.

It helped during the day. Made me drowsy and foggy, but it helped.

But I still woke up at 4:30 AM every morning with pain shooting down my leg.

Total invested by end of 2023: $11,560

Pain level: Still 7-8/10 in the morning, 3-4/10 during the day if I took my medication and didn't do too much.

The Conversation I'll Never Forget

December 23, 2023.

Tom and I drove up to Seattle for Christmas. Three-hour drive. I took ibuprofen before we left. Brought my lumbar pillow. Had my travel knee pillow.

By the time we got to Sarah's house, I couldn't get out of the car.

Tom had to help me. I stood in Sarah's driveway, one hand on the car, one hand on my back, trying to straighten up.

Emma was watching from the window.

When I finally made it inside – took me 10 minutes to walk from the car to the front door – Emma ran up to me.

"Grandma! Grandma! Are we going to Olympic this summer? I'm old enough now! Mom said I'm old enough to do the long hikes!"

Sarah shot me a look. That "Mom, I'm sorry, I didn't know she was going to ask" look.

I knelt down. It took me 30 seconds to kneel. My knee hit the hardwood floor and pain shot up my back.

But I needed to be eye-level with Emma when I said it.

"Emma, sweetheart... Grandma's back is still hurting. We might need to wait a bit longer."

"How much longer?"

"I don't know, honey."

Her face. I still see her face.

Not mad. Not even disappointed, really.

Just... resigned.

Like she'd already known. Like she'd been expecting me to cancel.

That's when I realized: I'd become the grandma who makes promises she can't keep.

The Binder

I started the Olympic National Park binder in 2018 when Emma was five.

Tom and I had honeymooned there in August 1984 – 40 years ago this summer. We hiked Hoh Rainforest, saw the tide pools at Ruby Beach, watched the sunset at Hurricane Ridge.

I wanted to take the grandkids to all those places.

The binder had:

• Trail maps (easy hikes marked in green for little legs)
• Tide pool identification guides
• Junior Ranger program requirements
• Photos of Tom and me in 1984 (I was going to show Emma – "this was Grandma at the same trail you'll hike!")
• Campground information
• A whole page of "starfish facts" because Emma was obsessed with starfish

Every time the pain got bad, I'd look at the binder.

"Next summer. When I'm better."

The Morning I Gave Up

January 14, 2024.

Sarah's birthday. She turned 38. The kids made her breakfast (Tom supervised on FaceTime).

Sarah called me that afternoon.

"Mom, the kids want to know if we can start planning Olympic for this summer. Emma keeps asking. I told her we'd need to talk to you first."

I was sitting on my couch. I'd been awake since 4:45 AM when the pain woke me up. It was 2:00 PM and I'd spent most of the day trying to "loosen up" enough to function.

I looked at the binder on my coffee table.

And I knew.

I couldn't do it.

Not this summer. Maybe not ever.

I couldn't hike three miles on uneven terrain. I couldn't get down on my knees at tide pools to help Maisie find starfish. I couldn't lift Jackson when he got tired halfway through a trail.

I couldn't be the grandma I'd promised to be.

"Sarah, I... I don't think I can."

Silence on the other end.

"I want to. God, I want to. But I can barely make it through a trip to the grocery store. How am I going to hike the Hoh Rainforest?"

"Mom, we can do easier stuff. We don't have to—"

"I don't want to do 'easier stuff.' I wanted to show them the REAL Olympic. The one your dad and I fell in love with. The trails. The tide pools. Not the parking lot overlooks."

More silence.

"I have the binder," I said. "All the planning. Six years of research. Maybe... maybe you could take them someday. When they're older."

"Mom, they want to go with YOU."

I started crying.

I'm crying now, writing this.

What Changed (The Part Where I'm Not Sure Anyone Will Believe Me)

February 2024.

My follow-up appointment with Dr. Patterson, my primary care physician. She'd been managing my pain for two years.

I walked in defeated. Exhausted.

"Linda, we've tried physical therapy, chiropractic, injections, medication. Your MRI shows L4-L5 disc degeneration, but nothing that screams 'surgery.' Your daytime pain responds to treatment, but mornings are still terrible."

She paused.

"Can I ask you something? When you sleep, how do you sleep?"

"What do you mean?"

"What position? On your back? Your side?"

"My side. Always my side. Can't sleep on my back – never could."

Dr. Patterson explaining overnight spinal compression

She leaned forward.

"Linda, I went to a conference last month. There was a presentation on sleep positioning and chronic lower back pain. The speaker talked about something I'd never really considered: what happens to your spine for 8 hours while you're sleeping."

She pulled out a diagram. Drew it for me right there.

"When you sleep on your side, there's a gap between your waist and the mattress. See? Your shoulder touches, your hip touches, but your waist – where your L4-L5 is – doesn't touch. Gravity pulls your spine down into that gap. For eight hours."

"Your physical therapy is working during the day. Your adjustments are helping. But for eight hours every night, you're compressing your spine in exactly the place that's already damaged."

"That's why you wake up in more pain than you went to bed with."

It was like someone had turned on a light in a room I'd been stumbling around in for three years.

"So what do I do?"

"There's a medical-grade lumbar support device. It's called NightAlign. Designed originally for post-surgical patients in Canada. You wear it around your waist during sleep – it fills that gap, keeps your spine aligned."

She wrote it down for me. Not a prescription – they don't need prescriptions. Just the name.

"It's about $70. Has a 60-day guarantee. Linda, I'm not saying this will fix everything. But if we're not addressing what happens while you sleep, we're only treating half the problem."

I'd spent $11,560 on treatments.

What was $70 more?

The First Week (I'm Not Going To Lie)

Ordered it that night. Arrived three days later.

February 18, 2024 - About to try something new

February 18, 2024. First night.

The wraparound strap felt weird. Not painful. Just... different. I'd never worn anything to bed besides pajamas.

Woke up at 5:30 AM instead of 4:30 AM.

Pain was 6/10 instead of 8/10.

I got out of bed in 12 minutes instead of 20.

I called Tom from the kitchen (he was still asleep). "Tom. Tom wake up. I slept an extra hour."

Day 5: Woke up at 6:00 AM. Pain 5/10. Out of bed in 8 minutes.

Day 7: Made it through a full week. Morning pain averaging 5-6/10 instead of 7-8/10.

I called Dr. Patterson.

"It's working. I don't know why. I don't know how. But I'm sleeping longer and my morning pain is better."

Week Three (The Moment I Called Sarah)

March 10, 2024.

Woke up at 6:45 AM.

Pain was 4/10.

Got out of bed in 5 minutes.

By 9:00 AM, I was at 2/10 pain. Took my gabapentin (still on it, but Dr. Patterson and I were talking about reducing the dose).

I made a decision.

Called Sarah.

"Hey, Mom, what's up?"

"I want to talk to Emma."

"Um, okay? Is everything alright?"

"Just... put Emma on."

Emma picked up. "Hi Grandma!"

"Emma, I know I've said this before. I know you probably don't believe me. But I want you to listen carefully."

"I'm going to take you to Olympic National Park this summer. You, Jackson, Tyler, and Maisie. We're going to see the starfish. I promise."

Silence.

"Grandma... are you sure?"

"I'm sure, sweetheart. Start getting excited."

The Trip That Finally Happened

July 22-26, 2024.

Tom and I drove to Seattle. Picked up the kids. Drove to Olympic.

We stayed at a cabin near Port Angeles.

Day 1: Hurricane Ridge. Easy trails. Maisie needed to be carried part of the way. I carried her. My back held up.

Day 2: Hoh Rainforest. We did the Hall of Mosses trail. 0.8 miles. Emma and I walked together. She held my hand.

Day 3: Ruby Beach tide pools.

This is the day I'll remember forever.

Low tide was at 2:00 PM. Perfect timing.

We walked down to the tide pools. I had my NightAlign in my backpack (I'd been using it every night of the trip). I'd woken up at 7:00 AM that morning with minimal pain.

Emma found a purple starfish in a tidal pool.

"Grandma! Grandma look! It's SO BIG!"

I got down on my knees.

It took me 10 seconds to kneel. Not 30 seconds like Christmas 2023. Ten seconds.

I knelt next to Emma. Showed her how to gently touch the starfish's arm. Told her about when Tom and I found starfish in this exact spot in 1984.

Maisie came running over.

"Gamma! Gamma down! Me down too!"

I knelt there for 20 minutes.

I knelt on rocks, next to tide pools, with my four grandchildren, for 20 minutes.

And when I stood up, I stood up in 15 seconds.

The pain was there. It's always there. I'm 62 with L4-L5 degeneration. It's not going away.

But it was manageable. 3/10 maybe.

And I was present. With my grandchildren. At the place I'd been promising to take them for six years.

What I Learned (And Why I'm Writing This)

I'm not a medical expert. I'm a retired third-grade teacher from Beaverton, Oregon.

But I spent three years and $11,560 trying to fix my back pain.

Physical therapy worked during the day.
Chiropractic worked for a few days.
Injections worked temporarily.
Gabapentin controlled symptoms.
New mattress was... fine.

But none of them addressed what happened for 8 hours while I slept.

Dr. Patterson's conference presentation changed everything: "You're treating 16 hours of the day. What about the other 8?"

A $70 wraparound lumbar support – NightAlign – did what $11,560 in other treatments couldn't do alone.

It didn't cure me. I still have L4-L5 degeneration. I still take gabapentin (though I reduced my dose by half). I still do my PT exercises.

But I sleep through most nights now. I wake up at 6:30 or 7:00 instead of 4:30. My morning pain is 3-4/10 instead of 8/10. I can get out of bed in 5-10 minutes.

And I took my grandchildren to Olympic National Park.

The Photo I Can't Stop Looking At

Ruby Beach, July 2024. The trip that almost didn't happen.

Sarah took this photo on Day 3. Ruby Beach.

It's me, kneeling next to Emma and Maisie at a tide pool. Tom's in the background with the boys.

Emma's pointing at the starfish. Maisie's got her hands in the water. I'm smiling.

I'm kneeling. And smiling.

In July 2024, that was impossible.

In March 2024, I gave away my Olympic planning binder because I thought I'd never make this trip.

In February 2024, I tried one more thing.

To The Person Reading This Who Relates

If you've tried everything.

If your daytime pain is manageable but your mornings are brutal.

If you're a side sleeper who wakes up at 4 or 5 AM in agony.

If you've spent thousands on treatments that help during the day but don't last overnight.

If you've made promises to people you love that you don't know if you can keep anymore.

Ask your doctor about sleep positioning.

Not because I'm selling anything – I'm not.

Not because this is medical advice – it's not. I'm just a grandma sharing her story.

But because for three years, every doctor, physical therapist, and chiropractor I saw focused on what I did while I was awake.

No one asked what happened to my spine for 8 hours while I slept.

Dr. Patterson showed me the research. The gap between your waist and mattress when you're side sleeping. The compression. The biomechanics.

It made sense.

And a $70 device with a 60-day money-back guarantee seemed worth trying.

It was worth trying.

The Binder Is Back

I got the Olympic National Park binder back from Sarah in August.

She brought it when they visited for Emma's 11th birthday.

"Mom, you don't need this anymore. You've done it."

"I'm not done yet, Sarah. Emma asked me last week if we could go back to Olympic next summer and visit the Sol Duc Falls. I need to start planning."

The binder is on my coffee table again.

But now it has new pages.

Photos from July 2024. Emma and the starfish. Jackson climbing on driftwood. Tyler collecting shells. Maisie's first s'more at the campfire.

And a small note I wrote to myself on the inside cover:

"It was always worth trying one more thing. - Linda, February 2024"

If you want to read about NightAlign (the lumbar support I mentioned), here's their website:

I paid full price for mine. I'm not sponsored. This is just my story.

But if you're where I was in February 2024 – if you've tried everything and you're about to give up on something you love – maybe it's worth trying one more thing.

I almost didn't.

I'm so glad I did.

— Linda Morrison
Beaverton, Oregon
Posted: March 3, 2025