Category Archives: Owiee!!
…..you’re minding your own business, when your dog decides to rip your arm off?
Does that just happen to me?
Well, she was unsuccessful in the aforementioned rippage, but only by a thread – no really, the surgeon said I’ve got a thread of tendon left. I imagine it there, hanging on by its little tendon-nails and screaming at me every time I move my right arm that it’s doing its best, that I am not making this easier and that..
…”I’m giving it all she’s got, Captain!”…
It might be the pain medication talking, though. I can never be sure.
So, um, yeah, I’m going to have to have THREE tendons in my rotator cuff repaired. Apparently, there are four tendons so one of the little guys escaped injury and is now trying to do the work of ALL THE TENDONS at once. This results in moments of blinding, excruciating pain. Followed by hours of agony. And the whole thing starts over again.
But, it only happens when I move, sneeze, breathe, you know the stuff we rarely do.
The surgeon said words like “mess” and “extensive” when describing the damage. I’ve torn those three tendons, the bicep tendon, and then there’s something wonky with my collarbone. He’s going to flay my shoulder, poke around a bit, attach things where they should be attached, clean out the debris that doesn’t need to be there, stitch me up and send me on my merry way.
He also said the anesthesiologist will insert a nerve-block catheter thingy (it’s a technical medical term, I’m very learned in these things now) to keep my shoulder/arm numb and pain-free for FIVE days post-op.
When he told me that part I nearly kissed him. However, since we’d just met I thought it’d be best if I waited until after he’d filleted me and fixed all that damage before moving to the next level of our burgeoning relationship. I’m telling you, though, there’s going to come a time when I kiss that boy for relieving me of all this pain.
Between now and then, though, there’s months of rehab/therapy, many days/nights of pain, gallons of tears, a mind-numbing amount of medical bills that (thank God) my insurance will mostly take care of, lots of whining on my part, and I hope to come out the other side with the world’s first arm worthy of a major-league rookie pitcher (of advanced years). You think I’m joking, but seriously kids I am setting the bar that high for me.
I have to. It’s the way I am, I have to push myself to do more, to do better, to go a little farther each time. It helps me focus on the task at hand, and the small victories are oh so sweet that way.
…and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful riiiiiiiiiiiiiip…
It started from this lovely dog, and ended with a trip…..to the doctor. (and now you’re humming the theme from ‘Gilligan’s Island’ and later today you’ll still be humming it and wondering why…and you’re welcome)
You see, in the one corner on a retractable leash of 16 feet, was my beloved GSD.
In the other, an armadillo. A live armadillo. Y’all there was a live armadillo in Texas. No, really, I can confirm.
The chaos when said dog sets her formidable sights and muscle onto retrieving the creature…excuse me…the live creature without warning the person holding the leash resulted in a resounding rip/tear as the leash/dog combo went from dead run to all stop. And, no, it wasn’t the leash or its braking mechanism that was the source of the tearing. It was my shoulder. Specifically, the subscapularis tendon and muscle.
I think Einstein created a formula for just such an event:
Force of Dog X Mass of Dog + Acceleration of Dog in Pursuit of Prey = HOLYMOTHEROFALLTHATISHOLYFUCKFUCKFUCK!!!!!PAIN!!!!!!!
Or something like that, it’s all very scientific.
I waited a couple of days, but when I realized my right arm was absolutely zero use I decided I might oughta see the doc. She manipulated my arm, making me cry and see stars at the same time….and I’m pretty sure I grabbed her leg and squeezed reaaallllly hard…before saying I needed an MRI and it was probably a rotator cuff tear.
The MRI confirmed it’s a tear.
Next week I see a surgeon, because of course I am one of those who will have to have surgery. Of course it’s a complete and utter tear, none of this partial tear shit for me, nope, when I tear something I go all the way.
There’ll be surgery and rehab and lots of whining on my part.
It’s a good thing that…my Mate is a mighty (sailin’) man, a Skipper brave and sure….
You’re welcome, again.
I can never go anywhere, or do anything, without it turning into an adventure; a story to hand down across the generations.
I just wanted to get my teeth cleaned.
Call me strange, but I like getting my teeth cleaned.
They always feel so….well…clean when the hygienist is done. And fresh.
So the other day I went for my semi-annual cleaning.
I was the only one in the place, and the sweet young lady who was going to clean my teeth and I chatted a little while before she started.
There’s a sequence of events to getting one’s teeth cleaned.
It’s routine, rote, the same every time.
Except when it isn’t.
The first tool used is something like a fine Dremel tip to scrape the crud off the surface of the tooth.
During this operation, the tip slipped and got stuck between my two front bottom teeth.
At first, no one panicked.
Then I looked up at the hygienist’s eyes, and got more than a little concerned by the look in them.
“I can get this.”, she said reassuringly. “Really, I can. I..can..do..this.”
She said all this as she was standing up, hunched over my mouth, pushing and pulling and hurting.
And because of the huge drill bit stuck in my teeth I couldn’t say anything.
After an hour..okay, probably a minute, but it felt like an hour – she finally dislodged the bit from my teeth.
I felt around with my tongue, relieved to not find a chip.
It still hurt for a while, and after she was all done she shook her head and muttered, “Never had that happen before.”
Of course not. I am, after all, me.
When it’s 4:00 in the morning and you’ve just managed to impale yourself with the business end of the syringe you use to give your cat his daily insulin shot, and your thumb is bleeding like Old Faithful and you’re alternating holding it with a tissue and wondering if you’ve just given yourself enough insulin to cause a diabetic coma in a non-diabetic (before realizing you stabbed yourself before you loaded the insulin in the syringe), you don’t spend a lot of time wondering what kind of bandage you’ve just yanked out of the package and slapped on your gushing wound.
It’s only later, when you are administering a very professional test in a very professional setting with very nervous potential employees – said potential almost entirely dependent upon their performance on this test – that you realize your thumb has a woody.
And you point it out.
To a room full of young men.
Not about the amazing Veet.
No, this is PSA is a warning to avoid the following while reading the reviews on the amazing Veet:
1. Do NOT drink and read…not even water.
2. Do NOT eat and read…you’ll thank me later.
3. Do NOT expect to still have your makeup intact afterwards – this applies to all genders who wear makeup.
4. DO have a paper bag handy for managing the hyperventilation caused by hysterical laughter.
That said, I present…testimonials on the amazing Veet.
…on my way to work Tuesday morning.
Only it wasn’t funny then.
Come to think of it, it’s not terribly funny now but you people are soooo demanding I’ll try to make it funny.
Let me preface the following by giving you a little backstory.
When I was one my mother was rear-ended with me in the car. This was pre-car seat days so I hit my head on the dash, causing my first whiplash injury.
Yes, I realize a blow to the head as an infant explains a lot of things about me, but I digress.
At 8, my mom, stepsister and I were rear-ended at a stoplight. The other driver was traveling at an estimated 50 mph at impact. I sustained a pinched nerve in my arm, a fractured lumbar, and my second whiplash injury.
As a teenager, I took it upon myself to care for an ailing stallion quarter horse. As his health improved he rewarded my efforts with a rousing rendition of “Trigger: The Bucking Bronco” one morning. I broke my nose, orbit bone, deeply bruised my lumbar (yes, same side), had road rash on my face and a severe concussion. Oh, yes..and whiplash number three.
All was quiet until I turned 30. One morning, on my way to take two of my kids to school, a driver ran a stop sign just as we were passing the intersection and t-boned the car. The kids were a little bumped and bruised and I had whiplash number four. I also sustained a lower back injury, and the next day was literally crawling around on hands and knees because the pain was so intense I couldn’t walk.
– This was also the first time I experienced intense anger at the incredible stupidity of
some most drivers, and as I raged at the at-fault driver he dropped his keys in the middle of the street and backed away to his car, hands raised in the air. Hell hath no fury like a woman whose children may be injured due to your stupidity, let me tell you –
A year and a half later, on the same street but at a different intersection, I was t-boned again. This time I was alone, and this time the at-fault driver tried to run.
I blocked his retreat with my car and waited for the police to come. When they got there he was less than cooperative and only gave them enough information to get out of there. As a result, there was a huge delay in getting my car fixed and in getting my fifth whiplash and second lower back strain treated.
*helluva backstory so far, right? and..it’s not over…*
Nearly twenty years pass and then one day, on the freeway, a lovely little Saturn Vue developed an irresistible attraction to the rear bumper of my car.
At 60 mph in the pouring rain.
Four complete rotations and one quarter mile later, my car came to a stop on the shoulder of the freeway. I have no idea how, but I didn’t hit anything/one else and no one hit me.
Second trip in an ambulance, strapped to a backboard, and whiplash number six on the books.
By this time my neck was holding together with prayer. An MRI revealed – facet syndrome, arthritis, three ruptured discs (inside, “jelly” gone), and moderate stenosis.
Go look up those terms if you don’t know what they mean, I’ll wait.
:stoops to pet cat and nearly shrieks from pain:
Back? Good, you are, I trust, quite versed in my numerous neck ailments now.
Yes, I had lost some mobility in both arms, but the surgeon said not to do anything about the damage – aside from controlling with pain medication – until I lost too much mobility to function. It’s a delicate operation and since my spinal stenosis means my chord is right *there* it will involve a neurosurgeon, too.
And, so, for the last two years I’d been maintaining status quo.
Until Tuesday morning.
I was completely stopped at a light on the south end of my little town, minding my own business.
BAM!! No, wait..it was more like BAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!, I’d been hit from behind.
It wasn’t a particular hard hit, he was probably not going over 20 mph, but it was enough to tighten the seat belt (and leave a small bruise), take my breath away and snap my neck in the familiar forward/back motion of classic whiplash.
Holymotherofgawdwhatthehell?! Was my first thought.
I looked up in my rearview mirror and pointed to a parking lot next to us. No need to tie up other commuters, so we pulled in.
This is our conversation:
Me: What happened?
Asshat: I looked down to do my breathalyzer, and when I looked up I hit you.
Me: Breathalyzer? Like inhaler or like drunk?
Asshat: Drunk. But, I’m not drunk.
:waits while the first part of this exchange soaks in:
With me still? Good.
Me: I’m calling the police, don’t you dare try to leave.
Asshat: I’m not. Why do we have to involve the police? Can’t we just exchange information?
Me: (crying from pain as it began to settle over my neck and lower back)NO!
Me: Because I am hurt, that’s why.
Asshat: How is that possible. I barely hit you.
(at this point the dispatcher is on the line and I’m giving her details. Asshat is continuing to argue with me)
Asshat: (backing away from car) I’m going to get my *stuff*?
Me: Stuff? Oh hell no, bring me your keys. Right. Effin’.Now.
(apparently I looked pretty damned intimidating, because he came back with keys in hand)
Asshat: (now standing outside my window, talking to his wife on the phone) Yeah, go on without me…she says her neck is broken. I dunno, I barely tapped her.
Me: Bullshit (and the dispatcher told me not to argue with him)
Me: (to dispatcher) Oh I’m not going to, I’ve got the mother-lover’s keys. (then rolled up my window and locked my door)
Asshat: (louder now, so I could hear him through my closed window) Look, I stopped a safe distance behind you and just took my foot off the brake. I hardly touched you.
Me: (nothing, I ignored him as I saw the cops and ambulance pull up)
Over the next few minutes the paramedics checked me out and not wanting to go to the ER I signed a release and they admonished me to get checked out. I told the gorgeous young man – and really, is it a pre-requisite that all paramedics be just dropdead gorgeous or what? – sadly, this is not my first rodeo and I will get checked out…I was going anyway as I was pretty sure I had bronchitis…and then I coughed and a fresh spasm of pain shot through my neck and back.
Then the police officer came over to me and here is our conversation.
Police: Do you have his keys?
Police: He says you “snatched” them from him.
Me: (chuckling) Right. I’ve not even gotten out of the car yet. He gave me his keys when I demanded them.
Police: Why did you think you should take them?
Me: In-car breathalyzer, protestations of calling y’all and telling me he was getting his *stuff*…two and two in my book.
Police: (grinning) Well, you shouldn’t have done that.
Me: Maybe not, but if he’d of run I’d of chased his ass.
Police: Bad idea.
Me: I didn’t say it was a *good* idea, but I know me.
Police: (chuckling) Yes, and apparently you can be quite intimidating.
Me: Damn straight.
I finally got out of my car and headed to the back to see the damage.
There was none.
I couldn’t see a thing.
The front of Asshat’s car was slightly wrinkled and his license plate looked pretty smashed.
I looked at Asshat and he at me.
Me: Wow. To look at it, you’d never know you hit me.
Asshat: See. That’s what I was saying before.
I finished getting all of the information from the policeman, thanked him and apologized again for scaring the little man, and went home.
I went to see my doctor later in the morning and she confirmed two things – I have bronchitis and whiplash number seven. Lower back is torqued again, too. Orders to stay home a couple of days, load up on the pain meds and a new ‘script for muscle relaxers, later I was finally home…and hurting.
Back home I inspected my car and found a small dent in the bumper, some scratches and a bent tailpipe. It’s almost like Asshat’s car went under mine slightly. Makes sense as his front end was low to the ground and my back end is higher than most cars’ front ends.
I spent two hours on the phone with my insurance company and his, and am going later today to get the car inspected for damage.
I’m in soooo much pain, it’s like a haze in front of me and I’m slogging through one foot at a time.
See, told you it wasn’t a funny story.
And, now I feel like I owe you something…
A horse walks into a bar and the bartender says, “Why the long face?”
I’ll be here all week, or at least until the surplus tank I ordered to use as my personal car gets here.
Really, it’s the only practical solution.
UPDATE: So, on Wednesday I took my car to the at-fault driver’s insurance carrier’s *recommended* shop for an eval. When I got into the car that morning I had fully two inches of water in the floorboard of the passenger’s side. We’d had a monsoon blow through the night before. Further inspection revealed that my passenger door is bowed outward, and the right side of my car where the trunk lid meets the side panel is pushed down.
If you know anything about cars and bodies, then you know that *may* mean frame damage…and that’s a death knell for a car this old.
Feck, feck and feck.
Anyway, my suspicions about just how/where the asshat hit me were confirmed by the estimator. He went under the car on the right side, bent the tailpipe, muffler and bumper on that side. And, as I also suspected the impact was well over 20 mph, more like 30 mph.
Hopefully a thorough frame inspection will reveal no damage and the door and trunk lid can be repaired by re-hanging.
I seriously doubt, given my luck, that it’ll be that simple but I’m hoping I’m wrong here.
Feck, feck, feck.
I have a double ear and sinus infection.
I don’t feel funny.
I feel drunk, only drunk’s more fun.
I apologize for my unfunny-ness.
Here, have some kittens. And, I don’t mean like kitten-stew, I mean here look at kittens while I go try to remove the ice-pick wielding ninja from my ears/sinuses.
I decided to write a little about the searches that bring you wacky folks to my site.
That is, if a search brought you here.
If you just stumbled in, on your own, well then feel free to poke around the site and enjoy yourself.
If you like what you read invite your friends. If you don’t like what you read invite your enemies.
The single term that drives people here seems to be “t-rex”. Although, it has many iterations, like “t-rex short arms”, “I’m a t-rex head”, and the like.
I must admit that I was stopped in my tracks by this search string, though:
“t rex ding a push up enema”
I..just…umm…I reeeeeeeallly don’t want to know why someone would search such a thing.
But, I can speculate – in my own twisted way.
The obvious, of course, is that someone’s t-rex is constipated and doing (or “ding” if you prefer) push-ups hasn’t helped.
Or…during the administering of an enema, the t-rex in question started doing push-ups.
Or…someone used a t-rex as an enema. This would clearly fall under the I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing category..if I had one. It would also hurt like hell, and I seriously doubt it would yield the desired result, unless having a dinosaur shoved up your ass is your idea of fun…or works better than a traditional enema. Either way I don’t want to know any of the details.
I don’t think this t-rex approves of your searches.
I have never met a dentist who wasn’t a little bit off.
Some are a lot bit off, not just a little.
And some are batshit crazy.
I blame it on the nitrous hits they get whenever administering to the patients. It’s a proximity high that over time just creates a permanent crazy spot on their brains and it affects some more than others.
Or, they’re just crazy.
One of those.
My loyalty to a dentist only extends as far as my insurance coverage. If he/she doesn’t accept my insurance then I’m forced to break up with him/her. I’ve yet to have one call me crying at one in the morning begging me to come back, but since these are dentists we’re talking about I wouldn’t be surprised.
My current dentist is a little younger than me and he’s one of the nuttier ones I’ve encountered.
But, in a good way.
Last week I went in for a routine cleaning and Dr. Goofy was dancing across the hall when I got there. He was also dressed in an extremely loud Hawaiian print shirt and was singing some song I didn’t recognize right away.
In other words, a normal day in his office.
The hygienist was new, to me, but she was very normal and very nice. Apparently, you don’t get the nitrous when you get your teeth cleaned…unless you ask and it didn’t occur to me…so that may explain her normalness.
When I was finishing up a young girl – maybe 17 years old – was sitting in the chair across from me. Her mother was there and the girl kept going on and on about how scared she was.
“Will it hurt?” she asked.
“Well, maybe a little at first”, her mom replied.
The dentist’s assistant came over and the girl asked the same question of her. She got the same answer.
Then, Dr. Goofy showed up.
“Will it hurt?”
“Oh, yes…it will hurt…a lot!” he said, grinning evilly.
The girl started to get up; panicked by Dr. Goofy’s response, but her mother and the assistant assured her he was just kidding.
I stifled a giggle myself, and then I saw “it”.
If you’ve ever had Novocain or epinephrine to numb your mouth you know what “it” is.
It looks like a medieval torture device, but is in fact a simple syringe used to administer the numbing meds.
He came up over her head with it and into her field of vision.
“Out in the West Texas town of El Paso…” Dr. Goofy began to croon…”I fell in love with a Mexican girl.”
The girl sat back in the chair, with the *help* of her mom and the assistant. She stared at Dr. Goofy.
“Nighttime would find me in Rosa’s cantina”
“Music would play and Feleena would whirl” The girl’s mother and the assistant now joined in and sang more of the song, and by the time they finished the first chorus the girl had gotten three shots and hadn’t flinched a bit.
Like I said, most dentists are crazy, but this one is definitely crazy in a good way.
Next time I have to get those shots I’m going to insist he sing “El Paso” to me, too.
Hello, I’m Dr. Goofy. First, I shall stab you with this loooooooooong needle, many times. Later, I will use this drill to create large holes in your teeth and fill them with possibly-toxic chemicals. Afterwards, you shall pay me for all of this. MUWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!