Chicken Ice

I had a doctor's appointment today. A visit to the pain specialist who had helped me two months ago very successfully and without to many meds. I was thinking of cancelling the follow-up since I was feeling so much better with regards to my back/sciatica/crookedness/dystonia...all exactly the same thing with various names depending on the location of discomfort and the doctor involved.

Anyway, I did not want to pay the "failure to show up" fee either. Usually that's pretty high. So...I drove contented to the office 45 minutes away.

"So you still have some pain?" asks the doctor.

"Sometimes."

"So it's not complete relief?" he probes.

"Not complete, but what in life is perfect?"

"I recommend another shot."

Now I am not one to shy away from needles - God knows I have had my share of spinal taps and I get iron infusions for hours at the cancer center at my local hospital all the time. I am the queen of kidney stones and get IVs at the ER several times a year, even if I don't get anything in the IV.

But...I didn't want another shot. I told the doctor so. He recommended again anyway, suggesting that the pain would be completely gone if I were to get one. This is the point where the smarter patient starts to hear equally faulty statements inside her head like, "This won't hurt at all."

In less than 10 minutes I found myself lying flat on my stomach with an 8 inch needle in my spine. Last time it hurt a tad, but within minutes I had very minimal discomfort from the procedure. Today? He did not numb me adequately and I could feel the jabbing of my vertebra the way I have in one of those many spinal taps or epidurals. Only with those procedures I am often given a heavy medication to make me think of sandy beaches and flying penguins. Today I got nothing but a fast talking humming doctor.

When it was all over I was told to go home.

I could barely walk across the room, drive home, or even cross the street to my house. I prayed - the entire 5 minutes or so it took me to walk the 20 feet from my car to my front door - I asked God not to let a car pass while I hobbled along.

I took a very slow walk to the top of the stairs, popped completely inadequate pain meds, and lay in front of the television in my bedroom (placed there against my loud better judgement), and yelled occasionally, "Mother of God, save me!"

I asked my sweetheart (who is a true cranky heart when he has to care for children alone on a hot summer day) if he could make me or get me an ice pack when he went for pizza. Because I was flat on my side (never again my back) then, he saw no reason to assume that his family might eat dinner.

"What are we going to do for dinner?" he asks me.

"There's ground turkey and BBQ sauce. You can make sloppy joes."

But he did not like this suggestion, crying that it was too hot, and so when his work from home day ended, he drove the block to the pizza shop to buy extra large pepperonis and cheeses with an order of hot wings. The place is very cheap, so that was my consolation.

I read lots of children's books to occupy my five year old, and I let my daughter watch some stupid "I woke up pregnant, but I don't how it happened," Lifetime movie with me. But mostly because I could not move over to reach the remote.

I got up every few minutes, hoping that movement would keep me from stiffening. But I have a strong sense that the lay flat for 4 hour rule that applies to spinal taps applies to this procedure as well. I could have called my doctor to demand stronger pain meds, but I have a feeling that this will all be gone tomorrow, and I can returned my three year overdue books to the library on a short walk tomorrow with the kids.

Since I am still waiting for the ice pack from my easily distracted husband, I hobbled for 10 minutes down the stairs to make my own pack. Realizing that I had no Ziplocs with which to zip my ice collection, and no ice because the trays had been emptied in my absence from the kitchen today and never refilled, I grabbed 3 lbs of iced-over chicken tenderloins and now have them thawing behind my back. They come in their own handy Ziploc and so I grossly wrapped them in a stained kitchen rag and every now and then I think how disgusting I have become today.

I am not allowed to shower for 24 hours and I smell like rotting jiggly chicken.

Thank you, husband.

Thank you, children for using the ice as hockey pucks and the empty trays as space ships...so says my five year old who has been dressed in an Iron Man suit all day while running up and down the stairs fighting evil spiders.

Tomorrow is a new day! Amen!