|Nothing two weeks of rest wouldn't cure....
||[Oct. 18th, 2011|02:21 pm]
This post comes to you courtesy of “The Joint formerly known as My Good Knee”. |
Imagine a most foul, yet inventive stream of expletives. With a fair smattering of artful alliteration.
I went to the doctor’s yesterday and if you know me, you know it has to be truly worrisome or otherwise unbearable. They always want to overmedicate me, or overtest me OR completely dismiss my concerns. All of which just cheese me off, and keep me from going the next time.
X-rays have cleared me of any bone/cartilage issues, which is cool. But this afternoon is an ortho w/MRI. I’m hoping for just a strain/sprain, a knee brace and I’m on my way. It does feel slightly better today, when at rest or when stepping very carefully and small-ly in a very forward with no twisting manner.
Of course, now the rest of my body is killing me, because walking carefully and small-ly is completely alien to me, so my calf feels shredded, I’ve woken up my sciatic nerve, and my other knee is feeling overburdened.
I DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR THIS RIGHT NOW. One more weekend of faire, Scary Perry, and then the massive cleaning of the Augean Stables that by then my house will most certainly be. Then Carolina. THEN I can rest. Ish.
But what’s really paining me is the attention.
I know it’s a reflex. I know people mean well, but seriously, I just managed to forget for a few blessed moments all of the hurt. And YOU had to say “You’re limping.”
And while I’ve got a little comedy bit built around “What? I am? Holy cow, I totally hadn’t noticed”…let’s face it, it’s not that funny. And by the end of the day I have a brain tumor built by “No expletive, Sherlock. Thanks for reminding me that it HURTS.” Because that’s what happens – a stark reminder that once again, I have a problem. One that I can’t fix.
At least at Virginia, I can stand up on the stage in the morning and say “Yes, I’m limping. I actually noticed. It’s because it freaking HURTS. Mention it and I might just kill you.” I can’t do that at work. So it’s been two days of questions and answers and what happened and…aaaaugh.
Because it’s the attention that’s killing me. I am either the worst sick person in the world, or the best, depending on your need to nurture. Like a cat, I’m just going to crawl under a bush and either get over or die, but no one should LOOK at me until it’s decided. Okay, I guess I’m a little bit better than that. You can check in on me twice a day to make sure I have fluids, medications, reading material and other essentials. Otherwise, unless I call you, please let me just curl up in my private world of miserable. Actually that twice a day is me trying to be mindful of your need to show you care. Seriously, slide that stuff under the door and pretend I don’t exist. That would make me happy.
I’m a little better at being a nurse than a patient. A little. I would check on you THREE times a day.