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I'm sure I'm going to be boring everyone over the next few weeks as I absentmindedly trot out hospital stories that'd turn the stomach of even the most hardened "visceral" horror fan (just taking my top off at the moment is enough for that), but here's an oddity.
For about a year before the op I was being severely troubled by a bad dose of tendinitis in the right forearm: no trip to the supermarket was complete without a chorus of howls and yelps as I tried to get stuff off the shelf or simply pick up the basket. If you've never had tendinitis, don't: the real trouble with the ailment is that, when the tendons in question aren't in use -- or simply aren't in use in a particular way -- there's not even a throb to remind you of your condition. But, just when your reptile brain has decided dimwittedly that there's nothing to worry about, you perform some everyday action and -- aaargh! This cycle repeats many times during the average day. Yet, because the treatment for tendinitis can be pretty goddam painful in itself, the reptile brain tends to win the argument as to whether or not you should do anything about the situation.
My own conclusion had been, in this instance, that I had enough on my plate to worry about without being too concerned over a mere discomfort, no matter how great and debilitating the discomfort might be.
Last night, I suddenly noticed the tendinitis had vanished.
That it should have done so is not puzzling -- I can think of hundreds of (well, several) reasons why this should be the case. What startled me was that it had taken me a whole blasted week to notice! This had not been a mild attack. It had been going on for something like a year. It had affected me many times daily in every aspect of my existence. And yet for a full week I'd failed to register the relief.
There's a moral here. I'm sure there is. I just fail to perceive it, is all.
