Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

28 February 2012

Misery Loves Nothing

Even though mentally I'm like 15 years old, my body dropped off the bandwagon some time ago and is careening rapidly towards the dreaded 5-0.  (That's half a friggin' century, in case you didn't know.)  In just under 10 months, I will be *gag* 50.



Oh, GOD.

scared scary bird birds animal
I know, right?!!

Anyway, all these mysterious aches and pains keep creeping up on me and I spend a lot of time gimping around complaining.

(And getting zero sympathy from Dan.)

We have conversations that go like this:

Me:  *hobbling around like I'm 100 years old*

Dan:  *looking annoyed*  "What's wrong with you?"

Me:  "My back is killing me..."

Dan:  *taking it personally*  "Again?"

(Remember the time he stayed home from work because he was sore from playing baseball?  Exactly.)

After a few days of cataloging all of my grievances, I check WebMD and determine that I am, indeed, dying.

Then it goes away and is replaced by a different pain.

It's like my body can't decide how most effectively to kill me.

Meanwhile, last week, as you all know, I had an epic fall on the ice.  (If you missed it, you can catch up on my most recent bout of humiliation here.  Or not... no pressure.)

I was battered and bruised and in so much pain that I contemplated riding a Fatty Scooter through Walmart when I did my grocery shopping.  (I didn't.  The thought was fleeting and tempered with the fear that I would probably be the first person ever to crash into a shelf and be buried under falling cases of toilet paper or feminine hygiene products or with my luck, Preparation H, at which time I would die and eventually appear on Curious & Unusual Deaths, and my family would have to enter the Witness Protection Program and have their names changed, because of the shame brought upon their name by my fat and reckless clumsiness.  And hemorrhoids.)

Eventually, the pain dissipated, and even though my bruises have remained colorful and I spend what is most likely wayyyyy too much time checking out the blossoming hematoma on my hip (I'm waiting for a blood clot to break loose and enter my brain, killing me rapidly, most likely while I'm on the toilet) I have managed to recover relatively unscathed.

Until this morning.

God only know what I did during the 20 minutes of sleep I got last night, but it was apparently a doozy.

I woke up at 4:30-ish and decided to get up to pee.  (I always get up to pee.  If I wake up, I get up and pee.  I figure as long as I'm awake, right?  No? Just me?  Really?  Hmmm.)  I pushed Maisy and Javi out of the way, laid a pillow over Dan's face to muffle his snoring, swung my legs over the side of the bed and nearly passed out from the pain.



It literally felt like someone was stabbing me in the left buttcheek with an icepick.

The pain radiated down my leg AND up my back.

I gasped and clutched at my hip, trying to stand up.

Oh god... OH GOD...

I suddenly knew what it was.

Sciatica.  THE HEART BREAK OF SCIATICA.  (Or is it psoriasis that's heartbreaking?  I don't remember.)



I had my first experience with sciatica last year, during which time I came to the intelligent conclusion that I had a rare case of buttcheek cancer.  The pain was excruciating.  When I eventually dragged my sorry ass to the doctor (literally), I already had my Living Will in place and was ready to call the family together to say my final good-byes, in what would be an Academy Award winning deathbed scene.

Dear Sarah Bernhardt,

I laugh in the face of your famous death bed scenes.

Ha haaa!

Let me show you how it's done.



When the doctor assured me it was sciatica and not a tumor, I was somewhat relieved.  Until she told me it was probably going to recur randomly.

Son of a BITCH.

Of COURSE when I get something terminal, it's something that won't kill me.  It'll just make me miserable FOR THE REST OF MY WHAT I'M SURE WILL BE AN EXTREMELY LONG AND AGONIZING LIFE.

Thank you, Karma!!  THANK YOU!

(Yes, I realize I'm bitching because sciatica won't kill me.  Don't expect me to make sense, mmkay?  My blog, my way.)


As I sit here in agony (which I am... this shit hurts) I decided to look for the goddamn silver lining.

In my head I'm thinking "Fuck la doublure d'argent!"  

(That's French for "fuck the silver lining!"  I wrote it in French because I wanted to say "Pardon my French" and actually have it be French.)

But a little ray of sunshine I am, so here are the things I am thankful for:

I am horribly thankful that none of these people are me.

Is this a dude?  I can't decide.


It's the little things, really.