I went to the doctor last week about the wreck that is my back. My doctor, who I love, took 45 minutes to see me [this is normal] which gave me time to continue reading The Magnificent Ambersons [RIFFRAFF!] and think about the fact that when I go to bed my back feels like the muscles are twisted like snakes.
Anyway, my doctor thought it was hilarious that I was like a puppet and when she touched parts of my back I'd twitch and squirm.
Huh, she sounds kind of evil, but I swear, she's not. Except for the waiting. And the poking of sensitive back parts. Maybe I have Stockholm Syndrome. Eh, whatever.
The upshot is that my back is a mess [thank you, modern science, for being so technical] my right hip is up higher than my left, probably to compensate for having messed something up [and also to increase my evidently inevitable slide into becoming the town bell ringer] and she really like my pants.
Also, I get to go to physical therapy twice a week.
The first time I went, it was so many kinds of awesome. My back was in such pain when she had me move that the physical therapist, whom I'll call Gail, because I don't actually remember her name, just attached a bunch of electrodes to my back to stimulate the muscles and reduce the inflammation and pain and then I got to lay down on a giant heating pad for 20 minutes while tiny electric stimulations massaged me. It was fucking awesome. I even read an old US Weekly [we're almost like People!] that was there, because I forgot The Magnificent Ambersons, and realized that I have no idea who anyone is. I also had to really, really, really disinfect and wash my hands after handling a magazine that had been touched by who knew what kind of nose pickers and germ carriers. Gail warned me that my back might hurt a bit more because of the moving she'd had me do. I waved her concerns off and had a great couple of days.
I was really looking forward to the second go round.
Which sucked. I actually had to do exercises and she stretched my legs and back before I got to be simulated and heat pad-ed.
The next day my back hurt like a motherfucker.
I have to go back, but I'm not looking forward to it. Not even a little bit.
Well, maybe that last 20 minutes. I wonder if I can get one of those giant heating pads for my house.