And you all thought I was coming out of the closet. Tsk, tsk.
Step on a crack, break an author's back. Which one of you was thinking of me while walking carelessly down the sidewalk?
I just added a new set of words to my vocabulary: compression fracture. These past couple weeks have SUCKED! Apparently, when you crack a vertebra or two, you not only get to feel the bone on bone grinding (a whole 'nother world of ouch), the muscles surrounding those bones start dancing until they just cinch up in a cramp or spaz out in, well, spasms.
There isn't even a good story to go along with the injury like, “Well, there I was, and there were three of 'em.” Or, “...I side stepped the charging rhino and fell into an abandoned mine shaft.”
Nope, I did this getting into a car. Apparently, my luxury sized butt was never meant to fit into a two seat sports car. Go figure. I didn't even feel all that bad at the time (compared to what came later) and it wasn't until I lost the ability to walk that I thought it might be more than a couple pulled/torn muscles. It's weird to look at your leg, command it to be stiff, and watch it disobey you by turning to jelly.
I am the first to admit that when it comes to things like colds or stomach ailments, I am a big ole wimp. Just ask Mrs. Splitter...she of eye rolling “Oh, cowboy up, mucus boy” fame...who is the one that hears all of my whining and requests that someone, other than me, get me a sammich. But actual physical pain and I are old friends and get along fairly well. Usually. This past fortnight (hah! I impressed myself there), pain has overstayed his welcome. He has driven off my other buddies like sleep and the ability to type on a keyboard without feeling burning knives being pushed slowly into my shoulder blades.
Pain took dignity away too. I am told I grunt and moan a lot without being conscious of it. The walker was probably the biggest blow to my ego, especially when I had to use it to get into the doctor's offices. Walkers are for old people and you could see the disdainful look they had on their faces when I entered the waiting room. Strangely, I found myself jealous of their walkers because they had really tricked out rigs with cup holders, steering wheels, and snazzy paint schemes. I didn't even get a cool walker. I do kinda look forward to the day when a cane will suffice because, let's face it, canes are classy and you can even buy ones that have a built-in flask. That's sophistication right there.
Now I know why old people wear slip on shoes and pants with elastic waist bands. If it hurts to tie your shoes, buy shoes without laces. I also know why old couples are so damned comfortable together. Once you have had to pull up your partner's pants a few times, independence is gone. Those things are logical and old people are wise. The special parking spaces are going to come in handy, too, when Christmas shopping season gets here so I have that to look forward to.
Now I just need to teach Mrs. Splitter that certain things go down one pant leg or the other and “splitting the difference” brings on a whole different type of pain. I do appreciate the help getting dressed, though. Love ya, Babe.
One would think that such discomforts and indignities would by mitigated by the blessing of pain medications. I am sorry to report that it just doesn't work that way. It seems that some of us are somewhat immune to the positive effects of those drugs. Plus, doctors don't seem to like prescribing them in sufficient dosages to actually take the edge off—something about the risk of addiction. I hear great things about modern pain management techniques but my experience so far has led me to believe that they are all a bunch of charlatans. Or teases.
Doctors just love to freak you out, too. Did you know that one cause of such spinal pain is a tumor caused by lung cancer pushing on the spinal column? I wish they hadn't given me just enough clue about that to send me to the interwebs to research it. I, of course, did that the day before I could get in for the X-Rays so it was a long night. The inability to sleep coupled with a wandering mind leads to serious thought about even the most unlikely scenarios. The good news is that after “no cancer,” any other diagnosis is cake.
Dogs are a great comfort to the infirm. Our chihuahua, Freddie (that would be Sammie's sister), has decided that during my recuperation, she will take on the responsibility of keeping my lap warm and my shirt free of crumbs. Seriously, she is normally more of a “mommy's dog” but now thinks her place is with me. That would be fine except that little dogs jump and she is under the impression that my groin makes a fine launch platform. Or she is just really sadistic and good at hiding it. Remind me to have her nails clipped when I can drive again.
Hey Comma Queen! Remember that time estimate I gave you on book three a couple weeks ago? That got shot to hell, sorry (again).
Anyway, waiting on the final radiological report on this end and actually feeling somewhat better, thanks for asking. As long as I don;t have to move, cough, sneeze, laugh, or burp, I really don't have that much pain right now. Hoping to be able to sleep in an actual bed in the next few days, but let's not get crazy.
Along with facial tattoos and 2500 situps per day, I discovered I have this in common with Mike Tyson: