30 Aug 2011 Comments Off
…do I really LOOK like a drug addicted maniac?
Let’s start at the beginning. Last week The Husband and I set out on our planned Home Renovation campaign that involved a lot of painting, sanding, cleaning, washing and (occasionally) yelling at each other. On our very first day I went down the stairs, slipped on a hidden puddle of paint, and fell down.
I only fell maybe three steps. Not far AT all, especially seeing as they are carpeted and I am well padded. Unfortunately the one step hit my left shoulder at exactly the wrong angle and knocked it out. The “()£*)(“*()*£” thing.
The pain is, I have to tell you, extraordinary. I screamed. No, wait. I fucking screamed. I didn’t bear down with stoic composure. I didn’t gracefully bite my lip and whisper to my husband for help. No, what I did was this…
As I hit the second step and felt the bugger pop out I screamed (and this was punctuated by the bonk thunk of my ass hitting subsequent steps) “AAAAMBUUUULAAAANCE!!!!”
The Husband went, “Oh no, not again“
It wasn’t a heartless remark, it was one filled with utter fear for me, knowing how agonising it can be. Off he ran to get the phone. I sat at the bottom of the stairs, holding onto my left arm as tightly as I could while sweat POURED off my face. When the nice paramedic arrived I stuck my arm at him and gasped, “Morphine!”
Ok, OK, I know this doesn’t look good. I do. But if you have ever dislocated anything you will know how completely painful it is. Apparently (I have no way of confirming this short of empirical testing, which I don’t plan to do any time soon) it is more painful than a break. I also have zero pain threshold and cannot cope with pain.
So morphine and entonox were, literally, my only lifeline. Last time my shoulder stayed out for around 6.5 hours as the A&E was busy. A real bugger when you realise that it takes about 10 mins to put me under and whack it back in.
Luckily for me, the arm swacked back in as I stood up to get in the ambulance. We didn’t know at the time, it took a VERY confused X-Ray technician for us to realise that the agonising pop that happened when I stood up was actually my arm returning to sender.
However, while I was there (and I must point out that my hair is still growing out of the short haircut and looks AWFUL and I have put on a ton of weight and I was wearing clothes covered in paint) a nice doctor sort of rushed me through the system so I wouldn’t have to wait six hours again.
I was beyond grateful until I suddenly realised, two days later, that maybe he wanted the scary bag lady out of there as I was scaring the elderly? Or I was his charity case for the day.
This was reinforced today when I went to the hospital for my check-up and, after vaguely poking at me and making me lift my arm, the guy goes, “It is very badly bruised and torn, don’t do anything for another 2-3 weeks.”
Fine. Frustrating, but I can live with that. However, when I asked him for pain relief he said, “No more for you, take paracetamol” like I was some kind of drug addicted freak.
To be fair, he didn’t know I spend all day in front of my desk typing as I work from home and have no choice BUT to work. STILL! Do I LOOK like a bloody codeine addict?
I think, perhaps, I need to get this mad mop of hair and this diet sorted out before someone hands me a trolley and 6 cats and tells me to get on with the mad cackling…
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