Remember when my friend had her baby and I said I was going to do some stealth tidying for her?
Yeah, well it had some unintended consequences.
I ran around, did some dusting, tidied a few things up, ran the vacuum around... and pulled a muscle in my back.
Yep.
Apparently due to the bending, twisting and pushing involved in vacuuming, vaccuming is a big ole back-muscle-pulling-danger-zone that is putting the children of healthcare professionals through school.
Especially if their patients are idiots.
OK, here's the timeline:
Saturday 14 July: Do speed vacuuming, pull a muscle without noticing - no really, I didn't feel a thing which I'm told is not uncommon - and don't start feeling achey for a few hours and assume I'm just tired.
Sunday 15 July: Wake up and 'achey' has progressed to 'my back muscles are wings of a prison and they are all in lockdown' also known as super-stiff.
Monday 16 July: Ring up and make an appointment to see the myotherapist on Tuesday (thankfully she had an appointment available that soon) and get through a day of work.
Tuesday 17 July: Work a half day, drive to my appointment, make sad face at the myotherapist who tortures me for money. Feel a LOT better.
Wednesday 18 July - Monday 23 July: Do the walking, stretching exercises and heatpack stuff I have been ordered to, take it easy and feel SO much better.
Tuesday 24 July: Get tortured again by the myotherapist who tells me that if the last bit of residual tightness across my lower back isn't gone in a week I'll probably need an adjustment from a physiotherapist because it'll mean that a join is out of alignment.
Wednesday 25 July - Friday 27 July: Continue being good and feeling better.
Saturday 28 July: Feeling so good apart from that last little bit of tightness that after my walk and heatpack stuff I decide to see if I can just stretch it out a little in case it's just being stubborn.
BAD IDEA!
WORST IDEA!
YOU FREAKING MORON!
Sunday 29 July: Well done jackass, it's prison lockdown time again.
Monday 30 July: Appointment with physiotherapist (thank goodness she had one available so soon!) who tells me my sacroiliac joint was slightly misaligned which was why the muscles wouldn't settle and the tightness etc had persisted, then folds me up like a camp bed, puts her hand under my bum, pushes on my knee and realigns my misaligned bits. Everything feels looser.
Tuesday 31 July - Wednesday 1 August: Yay!
Thursday 2 August: Nope, the muscles that tightened up when I tried my stupid stretching trick are still tight enough that they aren't letting my back settle all the way down.
Friday 3 August - Sunday 5 August: Walking, heat pack, gradual improvement, tightness, blah.
Monday 6 August: Another appointment with the myotherapist who works me so hard that I'm sure I will get bruises on my bum but who leaves the muscles all loosened up and hopefully allows the joint alignment to settle the rest of the way.
In short, I am an idiot and have finally learned the 'do what you're told' lesson when it comes to injuries, especially when they involve your back.
Post Script [Wednesday 8 August]: Yep, little bruises all over my tushie, like a constellation in black and blue.
Post Post Script [Monday 13 August]: I just had another session with the physiotherapist who had another go at the joint and thinks it should be good now. Now just to stick to what I'm told and not think 'herp-a-derp I bet I can fix it if I just do this!'
If I had left well enough alone and just made the physiotherapist appointment for Monday 30 July it would have been done and dusted in two weeks instead of a month plus however long I need to be careful with myself to avoid re-injury.
LESSON LEARNED!
Showing posts with label injury. Show all posts
Showing posts with label injury. Show all posts
Sunday, 5 August 2012
Sunday, 28 November 2010
Digital Deserter
Digitus annularis sinistra, we need to talk.
Have I done something to upset you recently?
I know you get left out of making obscene gestures but I include you every single metal concert I attend, my right hand has no monopoly in throwing up the horns.
Sure, you don't get to do any of the handwriting but that's going the way of the dinosaurs and you are a vital and valued member of Team Touch-typing.
I haven't bashed you, beaten you, broken you, crushed you, landed on you or jammed you in anything so why, WHY have you spent most of this month puffed up to twice your normal size, aching and refusing to bend?
Was it something I said?
We don't play sports and I've never played that stab-the-spaces-between-your-fingers-really-fast game, and do you know why?
Because we're buddies.
Because I would never endanger you like that.
Having two working hands is pretty awesome.
Which is why our current situation is so disconcerting.
Driving is difficult, touch-typing impossible, I keep bonking you on things because you're stuck out on a weird angle, and the other night I rolled onto you in my sleep and almost bit my tongue off because it hurt so much.
I've taken you to the doctor which proves not only am I taking you seriously but I'm willing to commit to working things out between us, so won't you meet me halfway?
About halfway between extended flat and fully curled against the palm?
So we do all those things we used to do together like hold stuff and open jars by ourselves.
Please let me know.
I love you.
Sincerely yours,
Ricochet
Have I done something to upset you recently?
I know you get left out of making obscene gestures but I include you every single metal concert I attend, my right hand has no monopoly in throwing up the horns.
Sure, you don't get to do any of the handwriting but that's going the way of the dinosaurs and you are a vital and valued member of Team Touch-typing.
I haven't bashed you, beaten you, broken you, crushed you, landed on you or jammed you in anything so why, WHY have you spent most of this month puffed up to twice your normal size, aching and refusing to bend?
Was it something I said?
We don't play sports and I've never played that stab-the-spaces-between-your-fingers-really-fast game, and do you know why?
Because we're buddies.
Because I would never endanger you like that.
Having two working hands is pretty awesome.
Which is why our current situation is so disconcerting.
Driving is difficult, touch-typing impossible, I keep bonking you on things because you're stuck out on a weird angle, and the other night I rolled onto you in my sleep and almost bit my tongue off because it hurt so much.
I've taken you to the doctor which proves not only am I taking you seriously but I'm willing to commit to working things out between us, so won't you meet me halfway?
About halfway between extended flat and fully curled against the palm?
So we do all those things we used to do together like hold stuff and open jars by ourselves.
Please let me know.
I love you.
Sincerely yours,
Ricochet
Sunday, 31 October 2010
Puncture Panic Paranoia
Darn frobishing kerning trammelling heck!*
Luxuriating the in warm weather I decided to go for a lordly stroll about my rented domain.
Clad in the finest of boxers and singlets I meandered through the flat, out onto the sheltered back balcony from where I can survey all that I don't own but could hit with spit balls from behind some handy lattice screening if the mood takes me.
I considered having a bit of a sweep, tidying up the ancient retro bar and evicting the resident spiders to make way for possible frivolities this summer.
I took a step backwards to take in the scope of said task.
I took another step backwards and felt a sharp pinch on my left heel.
I aborted the 'lower foot' process, reversed the motion and looked down.
I'd stepped on a cack-spackling rusty nail!
Some rampaging flag-noggin had - at a point in the past - decided that the best way to secure one of the floor boards was to hammer a back-up series of nails in from the crawl space below.
Having never pranced about on the back balcony shoeless before this was the first time I'd noticed the little death-march of rusty stupid nails and boy did I notice them now.
I knew I'd had a tetanus shot at some point but damned if I could remember when.
All my hazy memories of immunisations and boosters seemed to feature my school uniform which didn't bode well for currency.
So in the grip of a mild bout of panic, wondering how long it took for tetanus and lock-jaw to set in, I began staggering around the house like a pirate with a peg leg, trying to remember where I kept things like disinfectant and bandages and my clothes.
I thought about ringing my GP - I remembered it was 8pm at night.
I decided to look up tetanus online - I wished I hadn't.
I called my aunt who is a nurse - she told me I had a 72 hour window in which to get a tetanus jab and to calm down.
I looked up the address of the local hospital, made a note of their phone number and then curled up on the couch under a blanket to await my impending doom, moving my jaw every now and then to see if my body was an overachiever which was going to seize up days or weeks ahead of schedule.
I considered popping along to the hospital for an injection - I remembered it was a Thursday night and all the just-got-paid-gonna-drink-my-week's-wages brigade would be turning up in the emergency room soon. Or driving the streets under the influence.
I reconsidered.
This kind of malarky is exactly why it's a good thing I'm so easily distracted and so very lazy.
If I were a more focused person I would be a full blown hypochondriac.
At various times in my life I have been briefly convinced - until diverted by something shiny - that I had the various ailments:
It's counterproductive and pointless to get myself all in a tizzy over almost unfounded imaginary ailments - especially since I'm planning to die of twitchy old age atop a pile of money and be ceremonially eaten by my squadron of highly trained attack cats - but every time I fall into the same pattern of runaway speculation.
In this case what I had to fight off the knowledge of my impending grisly doom by applying a healthy dose of the original Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy radio play for long enough to get to sleep so I could make two important stops the next morning.
The hospital for a tetanus jab.
And the hardware store for a hammer.
Those nails are going down.
*Yes, yes, words made up or used out of context but you get the point.
Luxuriating the in warm weather I decided to go for a lordly stroll about my rented domain.
Clad in the finest of boxers and singlets I meandered through the flat, out onto the sheltered back balcony from where I can survey all that I don't own but could hit with spit balls from behind some handy lattice screening if the mood takes me.
I considered having a bit of a sweep, tidying up the ancient retro bar and evicting the resident spiders to make way for possible frivolities this summer.
I took a step backwards to take in the scope of said task.
I took another step backwards and felt a sharp pinch on my left heel.
I aborted the 'lower foot' process, reversed the motion and looked down.
I'd stepped on a cack-spackling rusty nail!
Some rampaging flag-noggin had - at a point in the past - decided that the best way to secure one of the floor boards was to hammer a back-up series of nails in from the crawl space below.
Having never pranced about on the back balcony shoeless before this was the first time I'd noticed the little death-march of rusty stupid nails and boy did I notice them now.
I knew I'd had a tetanus shot at some point but damned if I could remember when.
All my hazy memories of immunisations and boosters seemed to feature my school uniform which didn't bode well for currency.
So in the grip of a mild bout of panic, wondering how long it took for tetanus and lock-jaw to set in, I began staggering around the house like a pirate with a peg leg, trying to remember where I kept things like disinfectant and bandages and my clothes.
I thought about ringing my GP - I remembered it was 8pm at night.
I decided to look up tetanus online - I wished I hadn't.
I called my aunt who is a nurse - she told me I had a 72 hour window in which to get a tetanus jab and to calm down.
I looked up the address of the local hospital, made a note of their phone number and then curled up on the couch under a blanket to await my impending doom, moving my jaw every now and then to see if my body was an overachiever which was going to seize up days or weeks ahead of schedule.
I considered popping along to the hospital for an injection - I remembered it was a Thursday night and all the just-got-paid-gonna-drink-my-week's-wages brigade would be turning up in the emergency room soon. Or driving the streets under the influence.
I reconsidered.
This kind of malarky is exactly why it's a good thing I'm so easily distracted and so very lazy.
If I were a more focused person I would be a full blown hypochondriac.
At various times in my life I have been briefly convinced - until diverted by something shiny - that I had the various ailments:
- sore wrist = early onset arthritis
- sleep away the weekend = chronic fatigue syndrome
- rash = meningococcal (it wasn't a rash, it was red ink from a pen)
- blue-green marks on wrist = varicose veins (it was vertigris from the work key I had clipped to my watch)
- forgetfulness = early onset Alzheimer's
It's counterproductive and pointless to get myself all in a tizzy over almost unfounded imaginary ailments - especially since I'm planning to die of twitchy old age atop a pile of money and be ceremonially eaten by my squadron of highly trained attack cats - but every time I fall into the same pattern of runaway speculation.
In this case what I had to fight off the knowledge of my impending grisly doom by applying a healthy dose of the original Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy radio play for long enough to get to sleep so I could make two important stops the next morning.
The hospital for a tetanus jab.
And the hardware store for a hammer.
Those nails are going down.
*Yes, yes, words made up or used out of context but you get the point.
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