Oh, seriously. Three days in a row, I'm complaining. And it's not the only time in the last week or two either. I much prefer to tell happy stories, but my story-telling mechanisms are on the fritz right now. Somewhere in the last day of belly cramps, I must have twirled myself into an unwise knot. I pulled a muscle in my low back, enough to send me to the secret stash of post-surgical pain remedies. I had a precious few muscle relaxants left from last February's recovery, and I went digging through a bin of expired antihistamines and unwanted statins to find them. I tried cutting one in half, in the hopes that it would be enough, but it wasn't up to the challenge. So now I've had the second one and the pain has dulled almost a third as much as my senses have.
I forced myself to run errands before slipping into my jammies and indulging in Flexeril. I discovered I was capable of lifting a gallon of paint from the shopping cart to the car, but that was the absolute limit of my abilities. I had to have store employees lift a bag of dog food for me twice, in the aisle and into my car. No way I was going to try to move it into the house. I felt so helpless, needing help to lift 30 pounds.
So now I find myself with my faculties swirling, fluctuating, failing. If I'm still, my low back doesn't spasm. But no amount of stillness keeps my head from swimming. I'm writing early so that I can spend the rest of the night with old episodes of Dr Who and a great muscle relaxant buzz. I have just enough brain power left to attach my early morning jealous cat face picture, before I zip out of consciousness. Whee....
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