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We Need Pamphlets

You know how some people walk around parking lots, malls, and the like giving out cards that say “I’m deaf and dumb, please help”?  Sometimes those cards have little American flag pins attached to them, so if you give the person money you get something in exchange and the person doesn’t feel like a beggar, more like a street salesperson.

I think we, and by ‘we’ I mean all of us who suffer from a chronic pain condition, need to have pamphlets made up with all of this information on it:

http://www.wikihow.com/Understand-Someone-With-Chronic-Pain?utm_content=8036904&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook

That way whenever we meet someone new, or have to remind friends, coworkers, and family of our daily struggles we can just hand them a pamphlet.

No one feels guilty, no one has to make embarrassing excuses for why they can’t ____________________ (fill in the blank), no one has to say anything.

Just hand them a pamphlet.

In fact, I might just get a full-body tattoo…wait, that would be weird.  “So, how are you?” would be met with me lifting my shirt and pointing…and then the asker might think I’m pregnant and pat my belly, or worse stand there reading my belly.

Not to mention how painful a tattoo of that size would be, and I already have enough pain in my life.  Honestly, that’s why I wanted to get the pamphlets made in the first place.

Nevermind on the tat.

But someone get on the pamphlet project, will you?

Thanks.

There Must Be Cookies

You know how you are always seeing the “Come to the Dark Side, We Have Cookies” meme?

Okay, maybe I’m the only one always seeing it, but back in the day it was the cat’s pajamas..or something.

Anyway, it’s true.

You see my once only-bad back apparently couldn’t hold out against the cookie temptation and went completely evil a week ago last Sunday.

And here you thought I was just lazy about updating my blog.

But, no…I was battling the forces of EVIL in my spine.

I was cooking dinner, I stepped back one step and was frozen in place.  I could not move in any direction without pain that is what I imagine a lightning bolt shooting down your spine, through your ass, and into your legs feels like.

Not that I would know about lightning bolts, nor do I wish to learn, but it’s a white hot thing and so was this pain.

White. Hot. Exquisite (my word for pain that’s a 12 on a scale of 1-10).

The only ‘comfortable’ (and I use that term verrrrry loosely) position, was standing up with the top half of me bent over and resting on something…anything.

And walking? Fugeddaboudit!  I looked like the old man from Laugh-In, the one Ruth Buzzi was always smacking with her purse…ummm…anyone remember that?  Sigh….I’m old.

Anywho…I dragged my ass to the doctor on Monday, and had an MRI on Tuesday, and the bottom line is this.

My spine is fecked-up..totally FUBAR’d, screwed…in other words…a mess.

A hot mess.

A hot, painful mess of facet syndrome, ruptured discs (4), stenosis, arthritis, etc.

The doctor told me to take the week off (which I did and could get used to), and gave me assorted drugs to take to relieve pain and inflammation (again, I could get used to) and so slowly but surely as the week wore on I felt a little better.

Then, I drove to work this morning.

Forty miles.  Forty painful miles.

And sat at a desk all day.  After the first hour, the pain was excruciating…even with the delightful pain medication I was given.  Of course, one can only take so much of that and function.  I’d like to measure dosage in ‘handfuls’, but cannot find those instructions anywhere.

Go figure.

Injections have been suggested, but since 2001 I’ve had eight of those with zero results.  So, thanks but no thanks.

I am waiting for someone to mention the “S” word soon, and not it’s not “S” as in Sam Winchester, because I’d be all yessssssssssssssssssssssss to that even though I prefer Dean, but hey if Sam is offered then Sam I’ll take.

No, “S” as in surgery.

This too, is not an option.

Dontchewwannaknowwhy?

It’s because of the relatively low success rate, relatively high failure rate, and all that lies in between.  If I’m going to have  a fecked back, then fine I’ll deal with it.  I don’t want some knife-happy surgeon trying to ‘fix’ me.

No, I’m not gonna go there.

Unless, of course, there’s cookies.