The story of an epidural.
10:00 AM: All ready to go. Where's Mom? No, seriously, where's Mom? I can't get to the doctor without her, she's my ride, and they won't give me the injection without someone to drive me home, WHY ISN'T SHE ANSWERING HER PHONE?!
10:30 AM: She isn't coming. Why do I continue to have faith in my mother's ability to be on time for ANYTHING EVER?!
10:35 AM: Why, hello, Mother. Yes, my appointment is in ten minutes. Why did you bring my youngest sister? DO NOT WANT.
10:45 AM: We reach the office! ...the wrong office. Dr. Weil is at the surgery center today. Crap. Drive like the wind, Mother, or I kill you.
10:55 AM: We reach the correct office. I fill out lots and lots and lots of paperwork. Apparently, my allergy to mango is a very big deal, as they have a topical cream based on the stuff. Um, ew? Mom leaves her cell number at the desk and disappears. I hope they have a cot I can sleep on...
11:10 AM: Start reading tabloids. Become rapidly horrified by the things I am supposed to admire. Just as an FYI, lady, if you spent more on a purse than I need to go to Australia, there is something marginally wrong with you, and I don't care how much money you have.
11:45 AM: I am finally taken back to the prep room. After whining at the attending nurse, they agree not to put the shunt in my hand this time, as That Hurts Like Fuck, and put it in my arm instead. My reading material is once again mocked, although with less vigor; apparently, Tanya Huff is less unnerving than Stephen King.
12:30 PM: Hello, Dr. Weil. Hello, nice nurse lady with the happy, happy, happy morphine. Hello, happy, happy, happy morphine. Let's go flying!
12:40 PM: I am so stoned that I don't even give a crap when the giant needles arrive. Also, apparently, my injection is so textbook that it deserves a touchdown shuffle. Seriously, the doctor does one. Or maybe it was the morphine. But knowing Dr. Weil? It was the doctor.
1:15 PM: My mother comes to get me. Seeing me stoned is apparently the funniest thing that's happened to her in months.
1:35 PM: My mother buys me Jamba Juice. I am too stoned to use the straw.
1:50 PM: Mom takes me home and pours me into my bed. Almost literally. There is pouring. I mumble something about spiders pulling wedding coaches (she left me a voicemail with this little detail) and pass out cold. Also, apparently I called Vixy at some point. So, y'know, she took that bullet for the team.
I won't say there's no pain, because THEY STUCK NEEDLES IN ME, but it's all needle-stick pain, not herniated disks compromising leg function pain. Monday, I can start making arrangements for physical therapy. I don't have the hand dexterity to draw or the brain dexterity to write, so I'm going to go watch horror movies and nap some more now.
Whee.
10:30 AM: She isn't coming. Why do I continue to have faith in my mother's ability to be on time for ANYTHING EVER?!
10:35 AM: Why, hello, Mother. Yes, my appointment is in ten minutes. Why did you bring my youngest sister? DO NOT WANT.
10:45 AM: We reach the office! ...the wrong office. Dr. Weil is at the surgery center today. Crap. Drive like the wind, Mother, or I kill you.
10:55 AM: We reach the correct office. I fill out lots and lots and lots of paperwork. Apparently, my allergy to mango is a very big deal, as they have a topical cream based on the stuff. Um, ew? Mom leaves her cell number at the desk and disappears. I hope they have a cot I can sleep on...
11:10 AM: Start reading tabloids. Become rapidly horrified by the things I am supposed to admire. Just as an FYI, lady, if you spent more on a purse than I need to go to Australia, there is something marginally wrong with you, and I don't care how much money you have.
11:45 AM: I am finally taken back to the prep room. After whining at the attending nurse, they agree not to put the shunt in my hand this time, as That Hurts Like Fuck, and put it in my arm instead. My reading material is once again mocked, although with less vigor; apparently, Tanya Huff is less unnerving than Stephen King.
12:30 PM: Hello, Dr. Weil. Hello, nice nurse lady with the happy, happy, happy morphine. Hello, happy, happy, happy morphine. Let's go flying!
12:40 PM: I am so stoned that I don't even give a crap when the giant needles arrive. Also, apparently, my injection is so textbook that it deserves a touchdown shuffle. Seriously, the doctor does one. Or maybe it was the morphine. But knowing Dr. Weil? It was the doctor.
1:15 PM: My mother comes to get me. Seeing me stoned is apparently the funniest thing that's happened to her in months.
1:35 PM: My mother buys me Jamba Juice. I am too stoned to use the straw.
1:50 PM: Mom takes me home and pours me into my bed. Almost literally. There is pouring. I mumble something about spiders pulling wedding coaches (she left me a voicemail with this little detail) and pass out cold. Also, apparently I called Vixy at some point. So, y'know, she took that bullet for the team.
I won't say there's no pain, because THEY STUCK NEEDLES IN ME, but it's all needle-stick pain, not herniated disks compromising leg function pain. Monday, I can start making arrangements for physical therapy. I don't have the hand dexterity to draw or the brain dexterity to write, so I'm going to go watch horror movies and nap some more now.
Whee.