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Archive for July, 2006

|| July 2, 2006 || 7:08 pm || Comments (2) ||

Mathias-speak and ungodly pain

This week ‘pancakes’ has stood for ‘yes’ while ‘waffles’ has been substituted for ‘no’.

By Tuesday I had already had a bait of that nonsense and told Mathias so: “Mathias, you are making me very, very stabby with the pancakes and waffles business.”

I’m all for fanning the flames of creativity, but not at the risk of speeding up my ride down the flume of insanity.

I know Ye Few Remaining Muffinasses are accustomed to my getting distracted by realtime things and wandering off with a perplexed look on my face, but this past two weeks’ worth of absence is with good reason: I have been in unreasonable amounts of pain.

Now me, I’m a tough ole broad, chew on leather for breakfast, birthed m’babies natcherl, yadda-yadda. I can handle your typical pains. Hell, ever since last year’s accident, I live with it in my right leg and ankle on a mostly-daily basis. You don’t curl up and whine; you get on with your get-on and do what you do to enjoy life. So I hurt a little…I’m no longer bedridden, and I call that a good trade.

HOWEVER, focused pain of an “Hey, that feels like an ice pick stabbing me over and over and even sometimes digging around a little on the downstroke” nature on a daily basis is an entirely different matter. This most especially applies if it’s in another quadrant of the body altogether. Two pains? Two parts of the body? Varying intensities? I CALL FOUL, MISTER.

I’d been living with a horrible stabbing sensation in my left rear shoulder, numbness and tingling underneath the left arm and radiating to my index and pinky fingers for about a week when I got a diagnosis: Thoracic Outlet Syndrome. I think a more fitting title would be “DAMNIT, OUCH.” and told my doctor so. I’ve been suffering with it for nigh on two weeks now, and it is getting better (oh so sloowwwwwlyyyy), but it precludes me from doing lots of things that I like to do. Hell, I don’t miss work unless I’m dying, and the other day I cut out an hour early. This was so I could come home, vomit twice, and sleep for thirteen-and-a-half hours straight through without a twitch. Maxim thought he had a corpse in his bed, for ham and hell, because I did not stir nor seek out the warmth of his side the whole time.

The long and the short of that very fancy-sounding diagnosis is this: In my case, some shit in my upper body got fucked. A rib head pulled out of place. In response, muscles recoiled or knotted or tensed or did a jig and clamped down on my brachial plexus. This resulted in much wailing and gnashing of de teefs. I don’t know what I did to deserve this condition, and I can’t recall that I did anything especially crazy at the gym to merit my bones and tissues turning on me in such a fashion. I have decided, however, not to hate them and try to destroy them out of spite. I’m trying to roll with it and be presentably human despite the grinding pain. Really, though, I hate the whole fucking human race and I want to die, die, die!!

I’ve spoken to a couple of other people who’ve had this. They say it took an average of two weeks to a month to heal from. They also said it was the kind of pain that could make even a sane, healthy person suicidal.

Yep. That about sums it up.

I’ve thought about it before, but it’s been thrown into sharp relief over the past ten to twelve days….I know that there are people in the world who live with horrendous, exhausting pain every single day of their lives. My God, I feel for those individuals; I don’t see how they do it. I don’t think I’m of the mettle to be one them.

So that’s why I’ve not posted nor answered e-mails for nigh on two weeks. In closing, YOWCH, mothereffers.