I went to the doctor today for a uterine nerve block.
It's a shot.
It doesn't go through the skin.
So he said he'd do a manual exam and poke the uterus to see if it still hurt like hell (yes, thank you very much) and then one afterwards to see if it worked. (It did.)
He didn't say how he'd give me the shot. The needle was so long, and the drum was huge and just so full of clear liquid! *PANIC PANIC PANIC PANIC*
"Do you want to know what I'm doing, step by step, or would you rather I just tell you when I'm done?"
"The second one. I'm going to read."
Then massive pain at the opening, must be the shot, turn the page, hey I hear the winding, "YOU DIDN'T SAY YOU WERE USING THE DUCK BILL!"
"I thought you were reading."
"I am so going to throw this book at your head."
"Who - me or your mother?"
So the shot went in and it worked, no pain!
The problem with my care over the last few months is that he's been operating under the assumption that he gave me a nerve block on my second visit with him. He didn't. I'd remember, and so would my non-drugged mom.
But it didn't last.
I fell asleep on the ride home and woke up at the drugstore. In horrific pain that got worse when I moved.
He warned me it would feel worse when and if the pain returned, because I had a respite.
But such a short one?
That's not fair!
"Life's not fair!"
*prepares cheese grater, salt, and duck bill* If you tell me to live with the pain, I will use these.
The book I was reading? Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut.
It was the perfect choice for a private eulogy - it's about the end of the world and an awesome religion based on lies that says so up front.