rest and recovery
2016 has not been my year. It has been full of responsibilities, difficult news, and lots of soul-searching moments.
Last night, it got even more sucky when I woke up from a long nap with–quite possibly–the most pain I’ve had since my surgery.
It was inexplicable, too. I hadn’t done anything, but getting up, walking, lifting my leg at all, even moving to get out of bed? So painful. I could do everything if I really concentrated, but I wanted to scream. It hurt that bad. The only thing I could think was that I hadn’t moved in five hours–at all–that’s how tired I was–and maybe that did something. It was my right leg–home of all my past injuries, so I wasn’t surprised. But I was pissed because I had rescheduled my rolfing appointment last weekend to save a few bucks because I’ve been taking care of everyone else. Had I gone, she would have identified whatever this was–because clearly it had to have been brewing–and would have fixed it before it was ever a problem.
The only thing I’d done was accidentally stab myself with Fogg’s full needle of insulin earlier in the evening–a scary, painful thing for sure–but I didn’t get much insulin–so I was okay. My mind raced–could this have done it?
Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep. I decided to reschedule Fogg’s blood test since I wouldn’t be able to carry her and walk. I was in a ton of pain. It was sharp and seemed to center around my right upper thigh. But my right calf, on the right side, was also achy to the point of inducing tears. I finally did fall asleep–but woke before my alarm. It was torture feeding the cats and just doing my normal stuff. But it seemed to be okay until the ibuprofen wore off–and I’d taken my max for the day by 11 am.
I am proud that I decided–money be damned–to go to urgent care. I was there four hours, and let’s say it was a ridiculously long, painful four hours that ended with a needle in my ass. The painkillers they finally gave me reduced the pain a little, but I was definitely still not a happy girl. Unfortunately, the process of being diagnosed meant I had to walk; climb onto an x-ray table, stretch the painful muscle, and sit for a very long time. The doctor finally sent me home with hydrocodone and a referral to a physical therapist. The verdict: severe right inguinal muscle and hip strain. But hey–nothing was broken.
I’m only supposed to take the painkillers at night, and they only last 6 hours, so I’ll be up early for a second dose that should carry me through my morning chores. The painkillers take the edge off, but I am still in a lot of pain. It’s bearable. I was actually able to finally make dinner–at 10:30 pm–mostly because it hurt too much to walk before then. I start physical therapy next Friday (the earliest they could get me in–everyone’s injured, apparently) and have to go 2x/week for three weeks. I hope we can get to the bottom of this…mostly because I’ve had many problems with this leg, and I have a hunch they’re all related to this injury in some way.
It’s kind of hard to feel grateful right now, but I am, actually. My boss was so supportive. A few friends have been so kind. I found my father’s cane, and it’s supporting me in moving around. My Fogg has been my BFF, taking time to love on me. And my cousin has checked in on me and actually been pretty awesome. (I’m kind of shocked). And this is such a good reality check that I need to stop overworking and start taking better care of myself. I knew it was coming. I was just bartering and trying to make self-care convenient. I am learning that I really have to be kind of uncompromising about it or else my body will remind me to stop my BS.
For now, the household chores will wait. Clients will wait and have been understanding. Life will go on if I slow down. So, that’s what’s happening. It sucks that it only happened because my body attacked me, but I promise I’ll be better at listening from here on out.