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dr_pretentiousThe upshot is, there's an end in sight, which there hasn't been since January.
Yesterday, I went in to see my Wonderful Doctor--not the one who ordered me off the pain meds--and said, "O Wonderful Doctor, I've been ordered off the pain meds by the Well-Intentioned Specialist, and now I can't walk. I can't go on like this. Something must be done."
"You, off your pain meds? What was she thinking?" said my Wonderful Doctor, and her indignation on my behalf is one of the reasons she's the Wonderful one.
After my long attempt to summarize an obscure study I hadn't read but had had described to me by the Well-Intentioned Specialist, my Wonderful Doctor said, "I'll call her up and we'll sort this out." That would be another reason she's the Wonderful one.
"Anyhow, it's been almost a year since I injured myself, and it's getting worse. I know the risks of cortisone injections are kind of scary..." Or at least, that's what I kept hearing from the doctors who were filling in for her while she was in Louisiana. The way I could tell things were finally starting to suck less in Katrina-land back in late September? The Red Cross laid claim to my Wonderful Doctor.
"Actually," said the Wonderful Doctor, "it's not the risks that make us hesitate. The shots just hurt like a motherfucker." Yes, she actually said 'motherfucker.'
So I said, "Is one week of hurts-like-a-motherfucker worse than 11 more months of compromised mobility? I'm not afraid of pain. I'm afraid of not being able to function." Yes,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
twoeleven, that would be my martyrdom complex.
"No," said the Wonderful Doctor. "It wouldn't."
So she handled the referral, and I have an appointment for a cortisone injection for the 22nd.
This means that, unless I can snag somebody else's cancellation earlier, I'll be limping through Thanksgiving with the in-laws in hurts-like-a-motherfucker mode, but I'm past caring. My father-in-law, upon hearing that I could barely walk, nonetheless was appalled that I would inconvenience the family on Thanksgiving. "Couldn't you put it off another week?" he asked. Why no. No, in point of fact, I couldn't.
And then, there's the bizarre good news I hadn't been expecting. When I stopped being able to walk for exercise, I took up biking, which involves the feet but puts very little weight on them. As a result of taking up cycling, my resting heart rate is now 30bpm lower than it was before I got injured. I hadn't been keeping track of my resting heart rate, but when the nurse told me what it was, I said, "That can't be right." And then when it was, we checked my chart to see what it used to be. My resting heart rate is 65 bpm now. Nobody would guess it, to look at me. So there's my silver lining.
Yesterday, I went in to see my Wonderful Doctor--not the one who ordered me off the pain meds--and said, "O Wonderful Doctor, I've been ordered off the pain meds by the Well-Intentioned Specialist, and now I can't walk. I can't go on like this. Something must be done."
"You, off your pain meds? What was she thinking?" said my Wonderful Doctor, and her indignation on my behalf is one of the reasons she's the Wonderful one.
After my long attempt to summarize an obscure study I hadn't read but had had described to me by the Well-Intentioned Specialist, my Wonderful Doctor said, "I'll call her up and we'll sort this out." That would be another reason she's the Wonderful one.
"Anyhow, it's been almost a year since I injured myself, and it's getting worse. I know the risks of cortisone injections are kind of scary..." Or at least, that's what I kept hearing from the doctors who were filling in for her while she was in Louisiana. The way I could tell things were finally starting to suck less in Katrina-land back in late September? The Red Cross laid claim to my Wonderful Doctor.
"Actually," said the Wonderful Doctor, "it's not the risks that make us hesitate. The shots just hurt like a motherfucker." Yes, she actually said 'motherfucker.'
So I said, "Is one week of hurts-like-a-motherfucker worse than 11 more months of compromised mobility? I'm not afraid of pain. I'm afraid of not being able to function." Yes,
twoeleven, that would be my martyrdom complex."No," said the Wonderful Doctor. "It wouldn't."
So she handled the referral, and I have an appointment for a cortisone injection for the 22nd.
This means that, unless I can snag somebody else's cancellation earlier, I'll be limping through Thanksgiving with the in-laws in hurts-like-a-motherfucker mode, but I'm past caring. My father-in-law, upon hearing that I could barely walk, nonetheless was appalled that I would inconvenience the family on Thanksgiving. "Couldn't you put it off another week?" he asked. Why no. No, in point of fact, I couldn't.
And then, there's the bizarre good news I hadn't been expecting. When I stopped being able to walk for exercise, I took up biking, which involves the feet but puts very little weight on them. As a result of taking up cycling, my resting heart rate is now 30bpm lower than it was before I got injured. I hadn't been keeping track of my resting heart rate, but when the nurse told me what it was, I said, "That can't be right." And then when it was, we checked my chart to see what it used to be. My resting heart rate is 65 bpm now. Nobody would guess it, to look at me. So there's my silver lining.
