My MRI is scheduled for Monday afternoon, and I see a spine specialist on Friday.
I'm scared. I'm torn, because on the one hand, I don't want this. I don't want an MRI. I don't want a spine specialist. I want my body to miraculously heal itself. Of course, my only other option is hurting, because obviously my body doesn't want to heal.
The more people I talk to, the less optimistic I am about ever feeling normal again, and that's a crappy feeling. I don't want to feel like this the rest of my life, even if it does go in spurts of feeling good and then sometimes wishing for sweet death.
I want to be able to tie my shoes. I should be able to put on freaking pants without wincing. It's not unreasonable to want to be able to pick things up off the floor, or run, or put a load of laundry in the dryer pain-free. Is it?
Hell, I'm not even 25 years old yet.
I'm pretty sure that my first step with the specialist is going to be a steroid shot. Fun fact? My grandmother is allergic to cortisone. And when my mom got a cortisone shot for a bad rash, her heart stopped for 45 seconds. That scares me. Then there's the fact that a couple of the people I've talked to have said that it didn't even help them. At all.
So I'm feeling kind of freaked out. BoyWonder has been less than helpful, less than supportive. And I'm beginning to resent him for it. I try not to bitch about him too much, but the fact that he shows no concern about my condition is really pissing me off. And when I try to explain to him how I feel, he shrugs it off like I'm just complaining about nothing. And it's not nothing. It's going to become a serious issue if he doesn't start to at least acknowledge that I'm freaking out and I need some effing support. Even if it's just listening, and not calling for the cat or practicing part of a song on his banjo while I'm trying to talk.
And that's pretty much where I am right now. I'm freaked out. My family is freaked out for me. But my husband couldn't care less. It's a good place to be, no?
Oh, and I'm just going to put this out there, too, while I'm here and already whining. My father is in town. Now, he lives in Colorado, so it's not like he came down here on a whim. My grandma called to tell me we're invited to lunch tomorrow, but I have to work. My question/bitch here is this: if you're going to drive over 500 miles to visit, wouldn't you at least tell your children you're coming? I mean, I know I'm not a huge fan of him, but I would have made time to see him had he made any effort at all to contact me. I'd already booked my entire weekend. So that hurt my feelings, which is weird because I thought I was over letting him do that.
In a month or two, I'll probably get some crazy e-mail from him letting me know what a terrible person I am, and how I didn't come see him, and he'll neglect the part where no one told me until the day he was getting here. Then we'll be right back to where we were four years ago. Hooray.
Now, I'm going to go finish making cookies to take to work tomorrow. I figure, I'm here, I can eat cookies tonight, and then eat them all day tomorrow, since Dillons will be dead after noon or so.
So... Cookies. mmmmmmm.
No comments:
Post a Comment