Being Fixed

So, despite being given the wonderful opportunity to elongate my story and flesh certain parts out, I have not written so much as a single sentence. With reason, not excuse. Since it ties into everything else going on, I will divulge.

Every day of the past 9-10 months has been painful. Some days are worse than others, and some days I don’t want to get out of bed at all. I can’t walk without limping, turn over in bed without pain, stand up and go, step off a curb or bus without extreme caution and more time than I should be allowed. Whatever. Through it all has been a constant stream of doctor’s appointments. They thought they found the answer and didn’t. Then, they would find something else while looking for the issue and forget about the main problem. I had physical therapy, X-rays, and an MRI.

Then we have the story of the orthopedic physician’s assistant who had the unmitigated gall to call me up, babbling about marrow problems and leukemia when she really had no business doing so. I had a series of blood tests and they seemed to clear me of anything like it, I have an appointment with a hematologist to check what the issue really is, but that doesn’t matter for our purposes today.

I mentioned before that writing is difficult for me because it is hard to sit up on my bed on my laptop and all that nonsense. On Friday night, I developed a debilitating pain in my left shoulder. Lifting a water bottle was painful. Typing at work was awful. Finally, I had my first appointment with a chiropractor yesterday. We went through everything, X-rays, my MRI, I got a massage, and then the chiropractor tried to kill me. I compared him to the dentist in Little Shop of Horrors.

Maybe I should have made that joke after he adjusted my neck rather than before. *cackle*

In all honesty, he was great. I’ve never been adjusted like that before, so it was a new experience. He’s actually pretty good looking, so it was odd to have him fold me over and essentially lay on top of me, jerking around. My body made sounds I’m sure were inhuman. If I didn’t have the X-rays to prove otherwise, I would say that I was slowly turning into the Predator and he was trying to kill the transformation by warping me like a 5 year old with one of those annoyingly complicated Transformers. My back popped, my shoulders popped, my spine popped, and then my neck popped. Everything he wanted to happen did.

And you know what? I could walk without pain. My shoulder felt better. He did warn me not to overdo it, not to strain myself, not to think that I’m magically cured after a couple of pops and go cartwheeling around. And this morning I can walk better, but there’s pain. My shoulder was bad again, but better than it was. Sitting is easier. My posture is still terrible, but I’m working on it. It’s a step, and I know my body had been messed up for so long that I will have to continue it for a bit before it’s better, but it’s a start.

And I can work. I can get up and walk without having to wait a few minutes for my body to adjust. I can sit up. I can write. So, I’m going to go now and work on elongating those exceptions, to respond to my editor, to do something other than just lie around and hurt. So, enough self-pity, right? I’m ready to move on with writing, with moving, with living, really.

~ by Darren Endymion on March 26, 2015.

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