I am a self professed wuss child. I don't like pain. I can handle a shot or when they draw blood. I can handle tattoos. I can handle a papercut ok. Dislocate my hip, get an ear infection, mess with my teeth or menstrual cramps and I turn into this whining ball of cosmically pathetic "Why me make it stop waaaah" . As we know from the last post from whenever ago, I dislocated my hip. For those of you who think you're funny, no, T does not need to be "more gentle". Perverts. Hee! Here's the story....
When I was 16 and in ever so much better condition than I am now, I was running track one day and I must have landed wrong because my right hip just dumped me on the track. I rolled over and sat up, looked down, and my right knee and foot were facing in. They aren't supposed to do that ya know. I completely popped that ball joint out of the socket. Fun stuff that. Fast forward....a few years.....and last Sunday I was helping T put a window unit A/C into our front bedroom/my yarn room. He was outside holding the accordion shutters so I could screw them into the window sill (so yeah, technically, I guess there actually was screwing involved). We have short windows so I had to kneel down. Anyone remember last year when I screwed up my left knee bowling? Ok, so we didn't want to put the pressure on that knee so we knelt on the right leg. I feel this weird popping sensation....aaaand ignore it cuz I'm stupid.
Fast forward, Monday morning. Wake up. Sit up. Stand up. Fall down. Pretty normal until that last part. I'm really not much for falling as a morning routine. Not being able to function before coffee, as we have previously discussed, I think to my self, "Damn, I am really groggy today." I get up off the floor, stumble in for my morning ritual, start coffee, pet the doggies, bend over slightly to wash my hands at the kitchen sink and down I go again. It's at this pivotal moment that the hip has decided it is really, very seriously dislocated and the pain sets in as I hit the floor. At this point there was much screaming, crying, drooling and writhing on the floor. T was looking up the number to the nearest Catholic church as he was asking me what was wrong. I'm sure I looked possessed. He gets brownie points for multi-tasking.
I stayed home Mon and Tues, I guess expecting the hip to go home when it got bored? I don't know. I'm stupid and I hate doctors. Again, it's been discussed before. I went to the doctor on Wednesday and he said "Surgery." I said, "Oh hell no. Just pop that bitch back in place like they did before. We're not doing this 'surgery' thing. No." So he rolled his eyes at me (doctors do that a lot for some reason when I go) and he and his little Marquis de Sade cronies went to work on the hip and snapped it back in. Let me tell ya, those little bastards move fast when a patient come up screaming and swinging. I never connected once. So after laying there sobbing and calling my doctor some very creative things (I may have even borrowed some of NanC's driving terms) and him looking at me like I was stupid (cuz he was all "she asked for it"...jerk) I got to go home.
So my hip is in, right? We're good, right? Sure it hurts like hell, but that will pass, right? Right. Thursday, I go to work. Stuuuuupid. There is much writhing in the chair and whining and tears and pain. Friday morning we go back to the doctor and there is hip and knee twisting and tests and x-rays and more tests and pain. Newest diagnosis? Bursitis. I cannot tell you how pleased I am to have a hip condition that is going to take for freaking ever to heal. Not only is there pain, but burning. My hip is on fire. This is not right. This is not normal. This requires extra special whining and crying on my part. On the plus side, I'm on a cane. I get to whack people in the shins and call them "sonny" and nobody, but nobody, fucks with me in the clearance aisle.