I wasn't wrong. The elbow popped and I spent the next nine months visiting a surgeon to learn how to live with a virtually useless right arm. And I'm right handed, for the most part. It was good times.
What no one wanted to deal with was the misshapen collarbone - something that has remained bulging grotesquely to this day. The surgeon wanted a new referral from my GP, and the GP just kept telling me that it would take a year and I needed to live with it.
So I put on my big girl panties and sucked it up. I spent the ensuing months taking a cocktail of painkillers and anti-nflammatories, living with a Tens machine taped to my person and sleeping with a heat pack. It sometimes took hours to get comfortable enough to sleep and there were many, many days when I would come off night shifts and literally scream in agony trying to get into bed. It's been fun.
I'm a redhead. We apparently have a high threshold for pain. My ears have popped and dripped grossness before I realized there was an issue and I've gone to the doctor, only to have her shake her head and berate me for waiting SO long to see her about the newest ear infection. I've had metal chunks go through my feet and walked around with them for days before I've realized that there may be something stuck in my sole.
I'm not one of THOSE people who needs constant medical attention. But this hurts. A lot. I saw five doctors because of it, none of whom wanted to do anything about it because of the way it happened. At one point I was asked if I was in a car accident or fell off a ladder, because that is how an injury like this happens. When I said no, they decided that it must not be what they were originally thinking. And on it goes.
Earlier I mentioned how much better I was feeling since Kaitlyn's diagnosis of BPD. Hilariously enough, the shoulder/collarbone combo that has driven me to tears in the last sixteen months seems to be getting better on its own. I still need to medicate at times, but it's nowhere near as bad as it has been. I attribute this to writing. It's always been my go to form of stress release, particularly since the last few months I've been too lazy/in too much agony to go to the gym.
I'm starting to see it as a case of writing healed me, but the jury is still out.