Archive for the ‘Pain’ Category


Pain. Big, bad, pain.  I’ve had a steady headache since Black Friday, and this past Friday it evolved into an extremely painful headache. I went to the doctor yesterday and my suspicions were confirmed: I have a sinus infection. Usually when I have a sinus infection, I’m all stuffy and congested and runny nosed and all that fun stuff. This time, I just have a headache. The headache to end all headaches. The kind of headache Voldemort would curse you with, if he decided against avada kedavra. That kind of headache.

So the nurse gave me a steroid shot in the butt (I don’t know why they say hip, because they mean butt). And I have prescriptions for hydrocodone and antibiotics. And I’m sitting here on the verge of tears because it still hurts so badly.

Boo on head pain.


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This: I got the dang root canal started yesterday.  Dr. W. got me good and numbed, so I only felt a very little pain just a couple of times.  And it took hours for the numb to wear off, although the pain in the tooth started while the rest of my face was still so numb that I was drooling.  Last night was unpleasant, to say the least. I made scrambled eggs and toast for dinner (my smaller tummy ate a little egg and half a piece of toast), and I will confess to splurging on a slice of carrot cake, although I won’t be doing that again. I have to go back in a week or so so that they can make sure all of the infection is completely gone, and then he’ll finish it.  I bought the pilot episode for the Stargate series, so I put that on last night to try to take my mind off the misery.  Joe looked at me, and wanted to know if I was eating too much.  I said no, and asked why he thought that.  Apparently in my lack of comfort, I was kicking back and letting it all hang out.  And when I’m letting it all hang out, I resemble Buddha. So I guess I had that going on last night in addition to the pain in my mouth.

That: I was dreaming last night that in the course of 5 or 10 minutes, I ate all of the icing, the filling, and the top layer of a layer cake. Is it because I felt guilty over the slice of carrot cake I had last night? Because trust me when I tell you there is no way I could eat more than a smallish piece of cake, much less an entire layer and a gallon of frosting. And speaking of frosting, in the dream I commented to myself that I’d have been better off buying a can of frosting and eating it. Not only that, but in the dream I remember looking at all of the cakes, and almost picking up a small cake, but then bought the full size layer cake. Cuh-razy, no?

The Other: I’m wearing a dress today. I never wear dresses to work, and for good reason–our dress code is business casual, with emphasis on the casual. But I think my jeggings are in the wash, and the jeans I wore yesterday are so baggy they are having trouble staying up, and I got a really cute new dress so I figured what the hey.  Well, I always used to wear dresses that hit mid-shin, and this one is about knee-length. It’s a faux wrap dress, with shirring across the front, that makes me look as if I have a figure. I like that. And with Catherine making it acceptable once more to wear nylons, my legs look better than if I were going bare-legged. Which I wouldn’t, because my legs are white, white, white. I mean glow-in-the-dark white. White. Ghostly white. Pale, in fact, beyond the pale. Got it? Okay.  I’m also wearing a pair of heels I bought at Payless because all of my lovely gorgeous sexy heels are at the house and I haven’t been permitted yet to remove them, and don’t know if I will. So I’m feeling rather self conscious today. Every time I get up to go to the restroom or the break room for ice, I am vividly aware of my high heels and bare (except for nylons) legs. Honestly–I couldn’t tell you the last time I wore a dress this short. Maybe I was 12 or 13? It’s been a while. So I’ve got legs. And they’re rather shapely, despite being far larger than I want them to be. 

So there you have it. This, that, and the other (which is what my mom always said when we were out running errands when I was a kid, unless she said we were going hither, thither, and yon.  My mom is a wee titch poetic.)

You may now return to your regularly scheduled day. I hope it’s a good one.

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Itchy! Itchy! Itchy!

On Tuesday I called the dentist’s office. I was having a killer toothache, and needed an appointment. The appointment was scheduled for today (Thursday). I spent the rest of the day Tuesday massaging my incredibly tender gum.

On Wednesday I called the dentist’s office. I couldn’t wait until 4 p.m. Thursday afternoon, and they kindly got me an appointment that day.  I thought it was a tooth that had had a root canal, but I was wrong. When Dr. W. had filled it a year and a half ago, he said that it might require a root canal, but he was going to take the conservative approach.  There’s a lot of inflammation, and a lot of pain, obviously, and a root canal is going to take place.

He asked me whether I wanted him to try to drain the abscess then, or do a course of antibiotics and let it clear up that way. Because of the degree of pain I was experiencing, and how swollen it was, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to totally numb the area before draining it. I’ve mentioned here before how I have anxiety attacks surrounding dentistry–he’s the first dentist that I’ve been able to be at all relaxed with, which says a lot for his chairside manner.  So I said let’s do antibiotics and wait.

He prescribed antibiotics. And because of the pain, he also prescribed hydrocodone. Now, if I’m taking hydrocodone by itself, it works just fine. It’ll help relieve the pain, perhaps give me a little sleep. However, when combined with antibiotics, hydrocodone makes me agonizingly, painfully itchy. It usually takes a few doses before the itchiness sets in, so I was okay last night. I woke up at 4 a.m. in acute pain, and took a pain pill. I called my boss to let her know I wasn’t able to drive first thing this morning, so I would be a couple of hours late.

I got to work around 9, and took another pain pill. And the itching began.  I keep brushing my hair because the bristles scratch my scalp. I’ve been using my purple plastic ruler to try to scratch my back. I’ve been scratching my arms.  I’ve been wriggling trying to scratch the part of my back I can’t get at with the ruler. I’ve been surreptitiously scratching my legs and my ankles and my feet and my butt.

And I’m sleepy. He must have given me a fairly large dosage of the hydrocodone, because it doesn’t usually knock me out this hard with just one pill.

Oh, and my boobs are itching. Try sneakily scratching your boobs without anyone noticing.

Ay yi yi yi yi! I’m here till 5:30 or 6:30 (if I can stand it till 6:30), and it’s going to be a long, sleepy, itchy afternoon in Faithville.

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Today started like any other workday.  I punched the snooze button on my phone, read my email, checked my favourite comic strips, threw on some clothes, grabbed my handbag and headed out the door.

Alas, it only went downhill from there. By the time I got to my car, my back was hurting so much that I could barely move. I hobbled back into the house and lay down, back muscles screaming at the top of their lungs. I called my boss and told her I was going to be late. I hollered for Joe to come help me. He put some icy hot on my back, brought me some Gatorade and Tylenol (because he thinks every back spasm is due to dehydration).

After a couple of hours, it let up enough that I was able to fall asleep a little bit, but not enough for me to go to work. I was able to get in to see the doctor, and after she ruled out shingles (huh?), prescribed muscle relaxers and pain medicine and ice and said I can go back to work on Monday.

So I’m laying in bed watching World War II documentaries between sleeping bouts.  Not how I wanted to spend my week.

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On the mend, sorta

Okay, there’s really no sorta to it. I am on the mend. I’m just in agony.  I’ve been taking the steroids and antihistamine as prescribed, and taking baths in Aveeno colloidal oatmeal, and the rash is much less red than it has been the last couple of days. But I do still have bumps all over, from head to toe. Last night I started counting the number of bumps on my right forearm, and gave up when I got to 60. And I’m supposed to be spending the day at Clover’s house. Unfortunately, I hurt far too much to go anywhere. So Joe’s taking all the food and heading that way, and I’ll be lying in bed reading.

I wish you all a very happy Independence Day!

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How does one twist one’s ankle without being aware of it?  This is not a rhetorical question. At some point between 4:15 and 5:00 yesterday afternoon, I twisted my ankle and didn’t notice it. All I noticed was that it suddenly really hurt to put any weight on that foot, and the ankle was starting to swell and throb painfully.

Beside the annoyance of the pain, it was frustrating because I had plans to get some things done around the house. Instead I sat on the sofa with my foot propped on a chair and an ice bag propped on top of my ankle.

I know, I know, best-laid plans and all that. It’s just that it’s a very inconvenient time for them to go a-gleying.

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A Day To Remember

In July of 2000, after years of crying every month when the faint stain of blood on my underclothing told me my hopes were dashed once more, after years of spending so much money on pregnancy tests that I should have invested in the companies, after years of hoping against hope every month when my cycle ran long, I finally did an IVF procedure. I just about choked when I wrote out the check to the doctor’s office–I’ve never held that much money in my hand before. But I did it with perfect faith. I KNEW it was going to work. I never had the slightest, least, tiniest doubt that it would work.

And even when I cried upon coming out of anesthesia after the egg retrieval, learning they’d only gotten 3 viable eggs, I still had perfect faith that it would work. I knew, you see, that I was going to have twins. And all we needed was two embryos.

They did the ICSI fertilization. One egg died. But there were still two. My twins were still alive. And then came the day of the embryo transfer. I drank gallons of water, and my doctor finally concluded that my bladder was the size of a peanut, and performed the transfer. I watched, entranced, on the screen as the two tiny bundles of cells that were my children were shot up into my womb. And I rejoiced.

For the half an hour I remained in that small procedure room, it was a holy room. A temple. A sacred place where I felt the presence of my forebears and my progeny, all together in a circle of love.

Tad and Ellie lived in my womb for a week. I never got to see them grow, never got to hold them in my arms, never got to wipe up their tears, never got to be called Mama or Mother or Mommy or whatever they would have come up with. I never got to change their diapers or see their faces on Christmas morning or watch my husband hold them and exult in the joy of fatherhood.

In a few months now, they would have be 7 years old. They would have been in school, they’d have had sleepovers with their friends.

I will always miss them. I never ever will stop thinking about them.

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