Because it’s all about me…

Sassy is doing really great after her surgery. I want to begin this post by saying that. She’s doing great – weaning herself of the pain pills, getting in and out of bed by herself. Even taking showers.

I feel like since she’s doing so well, I can go back to complaining about myself.

After sleeping all those nights in the hospital with her in shitty chairs and awful cots, my neck is shot.

Representative to scale

Or rather, I’d prefer being shot than having to deal with this agony any more.

I put my back out once a year or so. My wonderful doctor puts it all back together and life goes on.

Not this time. This time it’s my neck. I’ve seen her twice in the last week and all she can say is, “Wow! This is bad.”

I’m supposed to put heat on it. So here I am, in the middle of the desert in July. It’s 185 degrees outside, and I’m sitting directly under the ac vent with a heating pad on my neck. Not an ideal situation.

I’ve had offers to have it massaged, but I can barely touch it myself. The thought of allowing someone else to touch it with any pressure at all has me shrieking and running away. Instead, I walk around, moving my head by adjusting my entire torso. I’m like the Bride of Frankenstein only with better hair.

The doctor prescribed muscle relaxers — pills I’ve told other people about, and they say, “Oh my god! Those left me in a puddle!” Not me. Man, I’ve taken two of those giant pills at a time and nothing. Nada. It’s ridiculous.

I’ve discovered that when my neck starts to spasm, I can make it stop by gently pulling up on my head.

What I think this means is that I have a fat head.