On Thursday I was performing my customary chore of unloading the dishwasher when I felt a little twinge just below my right shoulder blade.
Within minutes it turned into a full fledged spasm.
Unloading the dishwasher. I get a spasm.
When did I turn 90?
I popped a couple of Ibuprofin, and went about my day, a little more surly than usual.
By mid-afternoon I could barely move. In my desperation, I was shoving quarters at the children like they were a slot machine, begging them to push the 3 prong back massage thing-a-maj-igy into my shoulder blade.
Fiddledaddy happened upon this little scene. “That does it, I’m calling the doctor.” We have a wonderful chiropractor in the area and he was able to see me immediately.
Fiddledaddy determined that it would be best if he chauffeured me, since I was moving at the speed of smell.
I stood in my kitchen, and looked down to fasten my watch, when all of a sudden a pain shot through my back like I had been stabbed. Repeatedly.
Childbirth couldn’t even compare. (Albeit the epidural that was administered to me at 7 months and continued until I gave birth did take the edge off.)
I’m never one to suffer in silence, but I do prefer not to scare the children. However, I must have squealed as I was transfixed to the counter, with tears shooting from my eyes.
“I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.”
That was perhaps what sent all of the children scurrying for the far corners of the house, with cries of “MOMMY’S GONNA DIE!” (I suspect they inherited High Strung from my side of the gene pool.)
Fiddledaddy was the calm in everyone’s storm. He got me quieted down enough to catch my breath, and ushered us all out to the van.
We arrived at the doctor’s office, and Fiddledaddy helped me inside. From the looks of me, body parts should have been falling off as I approached the check-in desk.
Then Fiddledaddy went back to the van to field questions. The saddest comment came from the back of the van where an uncharacteristically quiet Cailey sat with quivering lip. “If Mommy is going to die, don’t tell me.”
Broke my heart when Fiddledaddy told me later.
In the office, my doctor determined that I had knocked a rib out of place. “What? I was unloading the dishwasher.”
It was at this point that I decided I’d have to come up with a much better story. Like I had injured myself saving a family from a burning building. Or I had thrown myself in front of a moving vehicle to rescue a cat.
I later determined that my injury stemmed from the hideous dresser tipping incident on Monday. The one where my son was nearly crushed because I had failed to secure his chest of drawers to the wall. The dresser was quite heavy, and I was at an odd angle as I tried to heave it back in place. I’m very sure that’s where I misplaced my rib. (And everything is now securely bolted to the wall.)
It’s not as good as a burning building rescue, but it will have to do.
I was then placed face down on a torture table with a smallish sized hole for my nose and one eye. Electrodes were then attached to my back and the switch was thrown sending 4000 volts (give or take) of electricity into the affected area. Once I recovered from the initial shock, it felt like thousands of tiny fingers massaging my back. Which was kind of nice.
While I lay there, I could hear that my entourage had settled in to the waiting area. In the mayhem, Jensen had left the house sans shoes, so my family was limited as to places they could go to kill time. Then I heard Jensen telling everyone within earshot, “ACTUALLY, I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM.”
He was in new territory. A bathroom he had never soiled before.
Fiddledaddy then loaded everyone back up for a quick trip to the McDonalds drive-thru. Because it didn’t look like Mommy would be cooking any time soon.
When the timer went off, signaling I was cooked, I was instructed to get off the torture table. “Um. Couldn’t you just flip me?” And the words “I want a muscle relaxant” may have drifted from the hole beneath half of my face.
The medical assistant said that she would see if the doctor could “adjust” me there. Other patients were on their own torture tables in the same room. The doctor came in and said that I would indeed need to be moved to another room.
“I’m going to scream aren’t I?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll shut the door.” He’s hysterical, my doctor.
I managed to get myself out of the hole and into a private room where I was “adjusted.” In other words, the rib needed to be moved back where it belonged.
Just kill me.
I am not a fan of the adjustment. It just seems wrong on so many levels that my back should crack like that without the benefit of my being unconscious.
But I was a trooper. Sort of.
My doctor recommended rest, lots of Tylenol, and a return visit the next day. As he wrote in my chart he said, “My wife is going to read about this, isn’t she?” (Shout out to Stacey!!!!)
“When I can find the humor, you better believe it.”
The children seemed relieved that I was alive during the ride home. Finally Emme asked, “Mom, are you going to be able to cook dinner tomorrow?”
I’m glad her priorities are in order.
Later that evening I was reassuring my Cailey that I would be just fine. Sensing a tender moment afoot, her daddy asked her why she was so scared that I would die, and what would she miss about her mom?
Without hesitating, “Her cooking. Daddy, you can’t cook.”
Gee. And not one word was spoken about how fabulous I am at doing laundry. I sense that my tombstone will read:
Here lies Fiddledeedee
Beloved wife and mother.
Her cooking will be missed.
And btw, I’m fine now. And have fully resumed my kitchen duties. Although, I have been successful in receiving extra help from the offspring if I moan and groan just enough. A stray tear here and there doesn’t hurt either.
I’m not above melodrama. If it gets me a little extra help in the kitchen.