Hi all; after a particularly lousy night’s sleep Thursday I succumbed to my wife’s urgings and went to the doctor. I’ll get to that fun time in a moment. I have a wicked awesome lumbar sprain and a cocktail of drugs to treat said sprain that is strong enough to sedate Mine That Bird.
A muscle relaxer to curb the spasms that I had from my bum to my head (which was a particularly weird sensation), vicodin for the pain, and prescription strength ibuprofen as an anti-inflammatory.
I also had the fun of nine x-rays and scheduling 21 physical therapy appointments. AWESOME!!!
What does all this mean, loyal readers? Why, that when I do post entries I’m likely to spell every other word wrong and generally ramble on and on and on without getting to any substantial point. It’s not my fault, though – it’s the pills!
As for the Doctor, there I am, sitting in the examination room with him and he asks me what I have been doing to manage my pain thus far. I decided to be honest and tell him I’d been popping motrin like they were skittles (taste the rainbow) – and his response? He scolds me for taking more than I should have been taking. Did I need a scolding? Not right then I didn’t. Maybe he missed the tears in my eyes caused by all the pain, or how shallow my breath was because the muscles around my lungs were tightening up into my back, or maybe he overlooked how I couldn’t even stand or sit properly without grimacing.
Granted, he may have been having a bad day, but how about a little empathy pal – do you *really* think I wanted to fall down the stairs with my two month old child? Or how about this doozy – he asked me, ‘so just how many stairs did you fall down?’
Oh, right – so sorry, Doctor, I guess I failed to count them on the way down WHILE HOLDING MY CHILD TO PROTECT HER AS BEST I COULD! So I gave what I thought was a good approximation – 15 to 20, whatever is between one floor and the next.
And he retorts with, ‘There are usually only 13 steps per floor.’ If you KNOW that already, just put that down, dammit! Get to writing the prescription so I can maybe wipe my bunghole without groaning all the while!
Yarb!
So, from sunny Pennsylvania, I and my new best friend, Mr. Heating Pad, wish you nothing but good fortune!
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