Last week, I wrenched out my back while assembling Aimee’s new basketball hoop thingy in the backyard. It’s an old injury, one that started in 2001 when I lifted a petrified driftwood table with one hand. Attendees of Willcon may remember, too, the time I was out of commission for a whole day, drugged and sleeping. Every now and then, I just do something that makes my back angry at me, and then the pulses of excruciating pain begin, followed by total quivering collapse of all the muscles in my back.
Sometimes I wonder if my body isn’t just good at making me rest when things are hectic. Even if that’s true, it’s still sad that the definition of “being careful” changes over time from “Don’t jump off two-story roofs” all the way down to “Don’t stand up too quickly.”
I may even have to vacate the office early; it’s too long to drive with my back like this, and if anything happens there, I have a long drive back. I’m sad about that; the office was going so well.
Anyway, here I am in the hospital, mere seconds after a lovely injection of painkillers.
And here I am about an hour later, heading off to the Land of Vicodin Dreams with Patti as my faithful spirit animal.
The lesson? Never try.
The Land of Vicoden Dreams. That’s awesome. Feel better soon Colonel!
Oops. I meant Vicodin. A hex upon these lightning fast fingers.