On a sad note, the final bloom fell off my Christmas cactus this week. It’s been blooming constantly since December third, trying to perk me up, and it was finally just worn out. I’m going to repot it as a reward as soon as I find a super-cute pot at Goodwill.
I’ve found a new Netflix addiction to replace Nip/Tuck, which I finished last week. I started watching that one just for the surgery scenes, but was quickly snagged by all the quirky patients and plot twists. Now I’m watching House, MD.
I laughed through nearly the entire first episode of House, since it so perfectly captures the dark humor necessary to work in the medical field. But then I became angry. Just because someone takes prescription pain medication for medically documented pain does not make them a drug addict. That’s like calling a diabetic a drug addict because they need to take insulin daily. I’m at a point in the series where I’m over being angry, though, and can go back to enjoying it. Just had to vent a bit.
While we’re on the topic of pain, I’ll mention that I did follow up with the pain management doc I was seeing to discuss having a nerve stimulator implanted. He expressed doubts that having the implant would diminish my pain at all, so I passed. He was also a bit shocked when I insisted I didn’t have any lower back pain on a regular basis. Once I saw his copy of my recent MRI I understood why.
I do not have a single lumbar vertebral disc that is not herniated. And I have moderate to severe stenosis at every single level. I guess I am probably having low back pain, but my neck pain is so much worse that I just don’t notice it. Since I’ve never haad spinal trauma, I’m only forty-seven, and I have no family history of spinal problems I wonder if this is some sort of never-before-identified syndrome. If so, I want it named after me, not some doctor. Ballard Syndrome has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Or perhaps something a bit more memorable for medical students . . . Jammie Girl Syndrome?
My short-tern memory loss seems to be getting worse, since I looked at my calendar for this week and saw “Lisa – walk” on Friday and had no idea what it meant or any memory of writing it there. I finally called Lisa and she asked me to come over on Friday and walk her dog with her. Those are the kind of things good friends do when someone is obviously losing their mind.
I had a really stellar moment earlier this week. I’d let the dogs out for a potty break, and Sam squatted first. Boss trotted over and lifted his leg right next to her, so I yelled out, “Don’t pee on your sister.” I looked up to see my neighbor (he of the perfectly-manicured lawn and perfectly-trained dog) looking at me and smiling. I fake-smiled and waved in return, pretending I didn’t care I was wearing my son’s basketball-print pajama pants and a bleach-splattered T-shirt I’d slept in at noon. Screw it. He probably has a perfect MRI, too.
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