Amazing Zippered Woman

As I might have mentioned in recent posts, I’ve been having a situation with my lower back. Well, we still don’t have a satisfactory resolution, but we might have discovered what is actually causing the problem. The shot series was a failure, although I really enjoyed all the attention and the fact that I was ordered to “take it easy” every day that I had an injection. I also invented a post-injection pain reliever that I think could revolutionize pain management. It’s actually quite simple - vodka in your ice bag.

  Next my spine doc ordered some flex-extension xrays - very interesting, slightly erotic poses taken while wearing a sexy “gown” that ties in the back. It was these pics that ultimately provided a huge clue. I have a broken screw (from a previous surgery) wandering around in my back. I truly have “a screw loose.” Dr. Brad has referred me to Barrow Neurological Center, but they are taking their sweet time deciding whether or not they are willing to take me as a patient. What a crock of BS. What happened to that oath all doctors take? I suspect that they spotted the “T” word (transplant) on my records and don’t want to risk it. I’m becoming more and more convinced that neuro surgeons are ego-driven, sadistic assholes who will only see patients who have guaranteed successful outcomes. I’m going to wait two more days and then I’m going to write letters to everyone I can think of. I also intend to trash Barrows on every Rate-a-Doc website I can find. This ain’t my first rodeo. I didn’t acquire all these zippers without learning a thing or two along the way.  Thanks for letting me vent.

Until this elusive screw is located or relocated, I’ve been taking VICODIN to help with the pain. A thousand mgs. of Vicki (my pet name for my new friend) certainly makes my pain more tolerable and my attitude much improved.  The pharmacist warned that Vicki might make me a little fuzzy and muddled.  Quite the contrary!  Let me give you an example.  I’ve always suspected that there is a panther living under my dining-room table, but what I did not realize is that said panther runs around the house in the middle of the night wearing my underwear. I bet you aren’t aware that my neighbor’s entire back yard folds up to reveal a training stage for Irish Step Dancers. And I have proof.  Muddled indeed.  Just look who has invited me to be his date to a White House event honoring FOX NEWS…

Lush Limpball. Oh I mean Blush Flimpaw. What do I mean?

What should I wear? How about that gown I wore for the xrays.  Maybe I’ll tie it in front. Wink. Wink. 

 

 

 

As part of the ongoing campaign to break my spirit, the spine doctor has prescribed six weeks of  PHYSICAL THERAPY. (PT)  On the day of the first session, I marched (actually limped)  into the facility with tons of confidence and a very positive attitude.  The first order of business was filling out reams of  required forms - (1) complete health histories of almost every human I’ve ever known and even some non-humans  (2) all available information on every medication, legal and otherwise, that I’ve  taken during my lifetime  (3) dates and descriptions of all surgeries I’ve ever had - including toenailectomies  (4) lengthy questionnaires about my eating, drinking and bowel habits  (5) many questions about my political and religious affiliations  (5)  and lastly, a checklist of coupons I would like to receive in the mail.  Then the eight-year old behind the desk made copies of everything in my purse including snotty Kleenex. 

Finally, I was ushered into the back room and introduced to Phylissia Prunegate, my personal therapist.  We exchanged a few pleasantries and I answered about 1,ooo questions - the same questions I had just  answered on those forms.  Maybe Phylissia can’t read.  Before I knew what was happening, my body was thrown face-down on a table.  I was told to close my eyes.  She then began to stab at me with a red- hot fireplace poker, all the time saying, “Does this hurt?  Does this hurt?” over and over.  Hell yes, it hurt!  After about twenty minutes, she flung me into the air and flipped me over onto my back.  At this point she grabbed my right leg and somehow wrapped it over her shoulder and around her neck.  As she pushed on my knee I heard her say, “Can’t you just feel that tightness leaving your body?”  I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was on the verge of feeling urine leaving my body.  And the torture continued…

These pictures will give you an idea of some of the other contraptions that were used to ease my pain.

These were placed on my wrists and ankles to make sure I stayed for the whole session.

This was placed around my neck to insure cooperation.

The straight jacket was very attractive.

I was able to sneak this photo of the director of the facility. He writes an individual torture exercise plan for each patient.

I know the question on every one’s mind is whether or not the PT is helping the AZW.  Well …. I’d have to say it is helping.  I no longer need to crawl from the couch to the bathroom.  I can roll instead.

I must begin with an apology.  It seems like an inordinate number of my recent posts have dealt with grotesque procedures being perpetrated upon my body.  But you must understand.  If one truly strives to be bionic, one must be willing to constantly “have stuff done.”  These atrocities are simply stepping stones which must be endured to maintain my superb physical plant.  If my incident descriptions are too graphic or just plain boring, fire off a comment and I’ll stop with the blood and guts. I’m more than capable of fabricating stories about reading trashy novels and eating bonbons while Tom Selleck gives me a massage - naked. 

Last week it was stainless steel pipes in my eyes.  And this week it’s liquid lightning shot into my ass.  After several weeks of intense, excruciating, horrible, gut-wrenching lower back pain and sciatic pangs that knocked me out of bed, I finally agreed to a series of three steroid injections administered directly into my spinal region.  I haven’t wanted to go on-and-on about  this latest physical crisis because I fear that my DEAR READERS will begin to think that I’m a pathetic hypochondriac, or worse, making up symptoms to get out of doing the ironing or shelling those peas that were recently harvested, or painting the garage.

I opted for no general anesthetic to minimize my time in recovery so Tom could at least make an appearance at his office.  (After all, weekly surgeries are ginormously expensive.)  This decision proved to be a BIG MISTAKE.  The doctor assured me that I would be fine with just localized numbing shots.  His promised numbness was a bold-faced lie.  There I am on this skinny table, on my stomach, with sizable portions of my body hanging off on both sides.  Nurse Nita rolled the elastic waistband of my yoga pants down and my tee shirt up. All I could think about was the huge, globular fat roll that was created as a result of all this rolling up and down of my apparel.  For the several minutes that Dr. Backburn spent preparing my ”sight” (my butt is now a “sight,”)  I continued to fixate on this tremendous tube of whale blubber as it slowly began to fill the entire room. I’ve never felt so exposed.  It didn’t help that all the nurses in the surgery suite had bodies that hinted at night jobs as exotic dancers.

Finally HE said, “Are you ready?”  Without even waiting to hear my answer, HE began to mutilate my left butt cheek with at least 12,000 jabs using a needle as big around as my arm. HE proudly announced that these tiny little pokes would more than take care of all the external pain.  I wanted to ask about internal pain, but never has the chance.  HE next rammed what looked like a garden hose into my spinal region and dispensed several gallons of yellowish crud that was the consistency of Karo Syrup.  Suddenly a blinding pain shot down my left leg and blew my foot off.  I heard it hit the wall.  At this point I think I might have died for a few seconds.  My next clear memory was hearing the words, “All done.”  I didn’t even have a chance to ask about how they had reattached my foot, before I was slammed into a wheel chair and taken into the recovery area where the Big Irishman was waiting.

As we all know, every cloud has a silver lining.  My s.l. from this particular cloud was that I was allowed to take home a flippin’ $2.00 ice pack. Although when the bill hits, I bet we will discover that I was actually charged $600.00 for that $2.00 ice pack.

The next stop on the Nip and Tuck Express is cataract surgery.  They plan to slice off the top half of my eyeball and install some fancy-pants, state-of-the-art lens that will allow me to see through people’s clothes and also look into the future.  I sure hope the eye doc doesn’t dent my stainless steel pipes.