Just a little flesh wound.
You can make dinner while standing on one foot but I would not recommend you do so while stirring the popping spaghetti sauce, ouch.
But it’s OK, just a little flesh wound.
Seriously, just a little pop of boiling spaghetti sauce on my arm, I’d rate it point-zero-one on a 1-10 scale. I had a conversation with a friend one time, discussing another friend with terminal cancer whose stated pain level was 9 or 10. We considered for a while. How bad can 10 feel? We all know 11 is one louder, however the pain scale only goes to 10 so it took a while for us to develop a new pain scale:
1 – my head hurts
2 – my head hurts like a little man inside is pounding it with a little hammer
3 – I’d like to get that little man out of my head and kick his a$$
4 – the little man in my head is using a jackhammer
5 – the little man in my head has a friend helping him
6 – the little man in my head and his friend are close to breaking through
7 – the little man in my head and his friend have broken through my skull and are now dancing in my eyeballs in celebration
8 – the little man in my head and his friend who broke through and did the celebration dance are now stabbing my eyeballs
9 – the little man in my head and his friend who broke through, danced and then stabbed my eyeballs just set my hair on fire …
10. … and … now they just tore my arms off.
Lately I have had ample opportunity to answer the question “Please rate your pain on a scale of one to ten.” It’s a conundrum. My ten could be your 20. Or it could be your 3. Maybe pain scales should note that a 10 means someone just sliced off both your arms but if you consider it just a flesh wound please choose 2. I ponder what number to choose on my current pain level.
I had my first two children sans medication. It was the thing to do for some reason. Don’t take an aspirin, just breathe deeply, you can do this. So, I did. I was alone in a room, waiting for something to happen, four weeks early with my girl child. The woman in the room next to me screamed. OMGOD HELP HELP ME SOMEONE HELP MAKE IT STOP. I was fairly sure someone was actually in the room with her who could help and it appeared they were either refusing or she’d made them promise to do nothing no matter how she begged.
Let me out. Let me out of here. Get me the hell out of here. What’s the matter with you people? I was joking! Don’t you know a joke when you hear one? HA-HA-HA-HA. (*@#$$, get me out of here! Open this $%&%# door or I’ll kick your rotten heads in! Mommy!
Hour after hour I was there, alone, with a couple of Home & Garden magazines to peruse which, by the way and to this day, I hate. As I repeatedly gazed at gardens that would never grace my home I promised myself – if there was one thing in my life I was going to make sure would happen it was this: I was not going to make a sound whenever girl child decided to appear. Tear my nails out, I don’t care, I am not going to make noises that can be heard through walls by unsuspecting, lonely and frightened people.
So – I’ve had levels of pain but pain is complicated by duration, exacerbated by sudden stabbings or electricity jolting through muscles and who knows how much pain it really was, it’s different for everyone. I’m gratefully past all that, again, and want to remain that way. I will continue to strive to finally, totally defeat the current issue. Which brings me to stirring boiling spaghetti sauce while balancing on one foot.
Dr. W, as you both know, has been fantastic help since the first of the year and will remain forever my hero since my back did not spasm for three months as it did a few years ago – even without Butt Falling Off Syndrome that alone is enough to put him on the top shelf with all the really big trophies. Yesterday I tried something new – Structural Integration – and … just … wow. I hurt this morning, but it’s a good hurt, ach-y in my neck and shoulders and oddly (because I never do so) I find myself stretching as I walk to the Shrine Of Keurig or sit at my desk, rolling my shoulders and head, and it feels good, looser.
I suppose most people who show up bruised and battered at Lucia’s office are pretty dorked up, I know that she didn’t seem to see much of me that wasn’t torqued one direction or the other. She started from the bottom up and the first thing she asked me was if I’d badly sprained my ankle at some time in my life. Yes, indeed I did, 6 months pregnant with the twins I fell stepping into the garage, the Goodyear Blimp of motherhood, landing awkwardly. The ER doctor said I’d have been better off if it had broken and indeed, it hurt for most of a year if I moved wrong. Side note: a fat pregnant woman hopping through the house and office on one foot is pathetic and frightens innocent bystanders who fear the hopping could jolt loose a child. It didn’t.
She rotated my left foot, then my right and suddenly I realized that my left foot seems to be attached very loosely by about 2 worn out rubber bands, flopping slightly as I stride, the right foot landing firmly while the left foot rolls to the outside before deciding to embrace earth. Who knew? Apparently just because the brains and I live in this body does not mean anyone is actually taking charge at the helm, and also apparently my left foot has been flopping about for 25 years refusing to carry its load, thank you foot, I’ll remember that at Christmas, coal in the stocking for you. In the meantime we will be spending a lot of time, you and me, standing on you without the assistance of right foot. But no longer will we do so in front of a roiling saucepan.
When I see them Dr. W and Lucia give me instructions, which I then carry carefully to Killer, who assists me in planking and squatting and lunging and monster-walking because in addition to no one firmly at the helm I’m also irresponsible and do not self-motivate properly. Yes, yes, I nod, slavering happily, yessir, Dr. W, yes ma’am Lucia I’ll plank, I will balance on the BOSU ball, yep yep I skip about in their offices like a puppy but already Brain has seen a chicken and run off after it.
So I thank you, Dr. W, and Lucia, and Killer, and all of you in service industries who help people who are hurting, sick, in need. I only have aches and pains, I do not have terminal cancer but I did watch my father die day-by-day for a year and I know who the caregivers are – givers because they care. You are all very special people and I thank you all for making this world a better place while I sit at the computer answering emails and hanging around my watercooler named Facebook, posting pictures of cute kittens, unicorns and zombies. You rock.