In short, my back hurts. Not typical low-back, I-must-have-wrenched-something hurts - no, just a feeling since Friday that someone cruel is knuckling me right next to my shoulder blade. Sounds minor, right? But it has brought me to my knees. When the advice nurse asked me to rate the pain, I said, "Well, if childbirth is a 10, this is 9 1/2." And it just won't go away.
The house is a mess, thanks for asking.
As I said, this started Friday, so I dosed myself with lots of Motrin and managed to go on our mini-camping trip to the beach anyway. I held it together until Monday evening, at which point Larry had the fun job of packing up the camper in the dark so we could get me home to some medical care. (Major marriage points for Larry, right?) By that point, the Motrin had ripped my stomach apart to the point that I thought I was having a gall bladder attack. That is, when my hypochondriacal self wasn't considering the possibility of liver cancer or massive heart attack. So, you see, gall bladder was the GOOD option.
It's none of those. It's not a pulmonary embolism, either, or lung cancer. They checked for all that in the 2 doctor visits I have had since Monday. It's just some sort of screwed-up muscle which has me popping narcotics all night just to be able to sleep and leaves me whining all day on the couch until it's time for me to take the narcotics again. ALL DAY.
|My new BFF's - Flexeril, Percocet, and Mobic. We're inseparable.|
Last I checked, the kids were eating ice cream for meals. I'm okay with that, because drugs.
And, because why not kick a gal when she's down, my metal allergy - which has been dormant for years - seems to be flaring up and making me react to the fabric-covered underwire in my bra. As anyone who has read this particular post knows, I NEED MY UNDERWIRE.
So, yeah, that was my week. How was yours?