The Sassy Uterus

Great googley woogley

Somehow, being forced to stay home takes all the fun out of being home.  Today marks the two-week anniversary of neck pain that spreads outward into my left shoulder and arm and up into my head causing extreme pain, akin to having your skull cracked open.  From what I can tell, it is most closely defined by occipital neuralgia.  I believe the formal definition is: Pain-wracking suck-age.

And because of this pain and because I work in a physical therapy office that knows all too well what can become of this pain if left untreated, I've been sent home for two days (Friday and Monday) and told to rest (Ha! With five kids....okayyyy).  It is sweet of them and I appreciate them doing it for me, but yet, I'm pissed.

Essentially, I'm a mom of five who has been diagnosed with ADHD-Combined type and I am being told to lay still and do nothing, even if I start to feel better.  That is a tall order for me.  And I don't like it.  Nope.  Not at all.

I'm trying to be all Zen about it, go with the flow, try to figure out what my body is trying to tell me and all that.  But all I've gotten so far is, "Ow."  I say, "Okay body....what is wrong?  Do I lead a life that is too fast-paced?  Do I need to start taking walks? Do I need a silent retreat?  Do I need to start organizing my life better?"  Body replies, "Ummm.....ow."  So I say, "Alright, I understand you are in pain, but I need a better answer.  Do I need to just lay here and contemplate the ceiling of a 1970 house?  Do I need to take more naps?  Do I need to take more pills?  Should I hire a housekeeper?  Should I hire a nanny?  Should I quit my job and sell handmade scarves from my driveway?"  Body replies, "OWWWW!"

They (the nerves in pain) are being bad, and well, just plain uncooperative.  Naughty nerves if you will.  Jo, the Supernanny, would put them on the Naughty Nerve Bench.

And God bless the people who try to help me, because I am in no mood for suggestions.  Everyone's favorite question is, "Have you tried icing it?" or "What about ice?  Ice will help."  No, it won't.  It will make it worse.  Heat actually works best.  But I am asked this time and time again.  Ice doesn't cure everything.  It's like, "Are you having a bad day?  Try ice."  "Traffic thick?  Have you tried icing it?"  "Conflict in the Middle East?  Ice will do the trick."  

The only "icing" I'm interested in right now is the kind that comes in a red and white can and is manufactured by Betty Crocker.  Which leads me to my next topic: Neurtontin.  I've started this med as it is especially for those suffering from nerve pain and so far, it has helped minimally.  But the regular dosage is three times a day (and if anyone is keeping track, that means Neurontin three times a day, Ritalin two times a day, Birth control and Zoloft once a day.  I'm an effing Pez dispenser.) and you start out taking just one a day for 3-5 days.  I'm only on Day 2 of taking one pill, so it is too soon to tell.  

But being that Neurontin can cause weight gain, it is no wonder I am wanting to eat icing straight out of the canister and adding extra butter to everything.  It's a good thing I didn't get rid of my big clothes.  Hopefully there's room for me and Betty Crocker in them. 

(Hugs) and Drugs---the post where half the story is in parentheses.

Last night, against my better judgement I took 800 mg of Ibuprofen.  I have had this horrible, wretched neck pain for almost a week now.  It started on one side and was cured (I thought) on Tuesday when I went to my acupuncture doctor and he put a needle in it.  Sweet bliss.

I woke up Wednesday morning and the pain had shifted to the other side and has basically been unrelenting and mean.  I have tried everything.  Ice, heat, ice, heat.  Heat (hey it's been cold so I figured an extra dose of heat would only help the matter).  Ibuprofen cream with lidocaine.  Muscle relaxants and vicodin.  Nothing.  I considered breaking up with the Vicodin, seeing as how it takes military action to get a script for it and it doesn't even work anymore for me (Fibromyalgia flares are the pits).  Sad state of affairs.  The only thing I haven't done was ingested Motrin because for some unknown reason, ever since I had Baby Isaac, taking Ibuprofen leaves me with a stomachache that sometimes isn't worth it.

Such as last night.  I called a co-worker who is a physical therapist and after apologizing for disturbing her at home, asked what to do.  She told me Ibuprofen internally, not just the cream.

Less than 30 minutes later I was sick as a dog, clinging to the side of the couch like it was a rickety canoe.  Cassie in her terrific bedside manner, would flit over to me every few minutes, inquiring on her patient, "So....you puke up yet?"  No, not yet, but give me 30 seconds and a few more flybys by Princess Cassie/Tinkerbill and her flitting and flinging around and there will be some puke-age occuring.

Baby Isaac thought it to be the perfect time to fling the tv remote at my sock-covered feet that weren't wise enough to seek shelter under my fleece blankie.  Dylan felt it his duty to yell at every kid that dared make a noise, "Leave Mom alone!  She is sick!  She's going to puke.  Like a lot!  So BACK OFF!" He definitely gets brownie points for effort, but perhaps screaming and causing a ruckus isn't exactly the way to keep mom's nausea at bay. 

I felt newly pregnant all over again.  And when I realized that, the sheer thought of being pregnant got me so anxious that I had more waves of nausea.

It wasn't long before I decided to call my Mom.  It's sad, I know but I needed my mommy.  I don't know what any other 31-year-old mother of young children does when she's that sick, but I call my mom and whine out, "I'm gonna hurl and I need a hug from my Mommy!!!"  She came over, hugged those feet that were uncovered (she was sitting next to me, holding Isaac) and made me feel much more at ease. 

It eventually passed, or I'd still be on the couch in the fetal position.  But never, ever, neverevernever, am I going to ingest Motrin again.  I mean, I guess it could have been the Mentos I ate before.  Phil tried to tell me that Mentos does funky crap, citing references to Mythbusters, but Mentos ain't never incapcitated me before and Motrin has left me with a belly ache in times prior.  As a side note, I took a Vicodin too for good measure.  Once I feel like a car accident victim, anything goes. 

This a.m., my neck is feeling slightly better which basically means I don't feel like I'm giving birth to triplets out of my carotid artery, but still I'm functional. 

So I have to admit, that Motrin is the only thing that worked-for my neck.  This leaves me in a conundrum....because now I must choose between neck relief and nausea.  Motrin works best when taken for days, building up as an anti-inflammatory (I'm so not a doctor, so don't base your medical care on any 'ol thing that happens to fly out of mouth.  Ever.) in your body.  If I want to ultimately beat the neck pain that has been unfailing in persistence, I should take it consistently.  Awww....that "c" word I try to avoid.  I guess I could go down a few hundred mgs and see how that goes. 

Hindsight is 20/20 though, that bastard vision paradox (like, great, I'm flying down the road 100 mph and have left the station, but I can see clearly...behind me), and my friend Kristan who is studying to be a massage therapist had been giving me stretches I could try via a Facebook chat last night.  When I typed back "Ow" she warned, "Don't overdo it!" 

Right--because "not overdoing it" is so my thing.  I never talk too much, never drive too fast, never wear too much of that or too little of that, never play my music too loud, never spend hours on Facebook only to realize a paper is due the next day.  Never, ever.  As much as I hate to admit it, overdoing it is kinda my thing.  Not by choice, but by biology (thank you ADHD).  And it does have it's good sides (outstanding project completion at work, excellent customer/patient care) but being the body of the person who is the "Overdo-er" means one thing: Ouch. 

Someday I'll learn, right?

Pigeon-Holed

At the physical therapy office where I am an Office Manager there is a car garage that is four stories high.  Even though I work on the fourth level of the building, I have to park on the third level because the Mercedes dealership from across the street stores their overflow Mercedes on the top level-where they are exposed to weather and well, feather.  And because they don't want pigeon poop (or other small birdie poop) all over these brand new luxury cars, they installed a "Birds of Prey" squawk box that alledgedly sounds off at random times.  It makes this loud racket of squawking, pissed off birdie noises.  I suppose they are eagles or hawks.  I don't know.  I don't speak bird.

Now since I want to enter on the floor I work on, I park on the third level and walk up a gentle slope to the fourth level and in through a door (actually two doors, but whatever) to the building.  The squawk box is above the first door I enter. 

I have worked at this job for almost 18 months now and at least 3 times a week that box starts blaring as soon as I approach the door, either startling me and causing me to dribble Starbucks on my shirt ("Requesting permission for a tower fly-by" anybody?) or completely disrupting any cell phone conversation I am carrying.

I finally had enough one day and went ranting and raving into my place of work about that damn noise box.  No one had a clue what I was talking about.  So I repeated, "Isn't it so damn annoying when you are approaching the parking garage door from outside and that stupid Bird of Prey box goes off hella loud?"   Blank stares.  Hello?  More blank stares.

I say once more, "HELLA loud.  Birds?  Of prey?  Anybody?" What I learned that day is no one gets squawked at but me.  They didn't even know what I was talking about.

The way I see it, everytime this box sounds off at me, it's telling me that I look like a pigeon.  Is that really what my life has come to?  Or at least my career?  I could handle being labeled a "paper pusher" or (ugh) "secretary" and I've been known to be even remain calm when some ignoramus referred to me as the "receptionist" but I will absolutely draw the line at being called a pigeon.

I've been known to yell, "I'm not a pigeon!" at it, making the panhandlers on Broadway, by comparison, look perfectly sane.

Yesterday I came up with an idea.  Maybe, I could sign a contract with the Mercedes dealership promosing I would not defecate on the cars, in exchange for them to teach it not to squawk at harried moms trying to hike their way up to work.

On the other hand, perhaps being called a pigeon in a roundabout way is better than some of the other references.

In the interest of staying employed, I am *not* going to use the name of the office I work in but rather it shall remain anonymous.  So let's say I work for, "Bailor and Associates Physical Therapy."

Since I process the checks, I often am handed checks that say, "Bailor and Ass."  Thank you, but I have a name.  It's Jennifer to you.  Only a few people in my life get to call me an ass.  And if you must abbreviate "Associates" try it this way, "Asso." or if you are feeling feisty, "Assoc."

However, there are drawbacks to "Assoc." as well.  Recently, I was conversing with an insurance automaton on the phone and after entering the requested tax ID it said, "Just to clarify, you are calling from, " [insert alien disjointed voice] "BAY-LOR and A-SOCK." 

A sock.  I prefer to think of it as an office but whatever.  I guess it's all semantics. And bird noises.