A Saturday Snippet
Remember the Cold Shoulder? It finally started to move after I wrote about it, but it was still excruciating, so on Sunday evening I decided to splash out with some of my tax refund and get a professional massage. It was great. I’ve been to this masseuse, but it’s been years. She said all kinds of encouraging things like how even though I was having a “pain episode” right now, I seemed better aligned than I had when I went to her before, and my “tissue feels healthier.” Is that weird? Is it weirder that I felt encouraged about this? I didn’t feel surprised, though–the last time I went to her my life was considerably more fraught than it is now.
After the massage I went home feeling very relaxed, but Masseuse-Chick recommended that I keep heating and icing the shoulder. Two days later, the cramp was finally almost gone–and that was when I noticed that my right arm wasn’t working. I had decided to try to work out again, and I discovered that it was excessively difficult to get my arm over my head for jumping jacks. Which is just absurd, as I think you’ll agree. Jumping jacks? Come on!
I called Dr H and after asking me some diagnostic questions, the answers to which convinced him I had had a stroke, he commanded me to zip down to his office right away to get the arm checked. After actually looking at it and trying some physical (instead of simply verbal) diagnostic tests, he revised his diagnosis to a “pinched nerve.” Apparently it was the nerve to my right tricep, such that the tricep was genuinely out of commission.
I’m pretty sure Masseuse-Chick would have taken exception to this treatment, and I myself prefer to avoid drugs where possible, but I’ve never had a pinched nerve before and I was discovering it was almost unbearable, so I actually went and filled the prescription for Prednisone which Dr H wrote out for me. My Paul was in a meeting all day so he didn’t know about any of this medical drama until he got home. When I told him what I was taking, he said, “Oh great. That stuff makes you blow up like a balloon!”
He is not wrong.
I’ve been eating more healthily lately, so I actually don’t weigh as much as I have in the last few months, but suddenly my torso looks like an alien life-form attached itself to my midriff. Forget about curves. It’s like I ate one of my Paul’s beloved pillows and, cartoonlike, I suddenly look like one.
I thought maybe I could go 1980’s East German Olympian, but instead? It appears I will be precisely the shape of an egg (with limbs) for Easter. Then you can dress me up in any one of my colourful dresses and call me Fabergé.