Saturday, April 23, 2011

I'm Just Not Superwoman!

Okay, so this is going to be a majorly self-indulgent post. But I'm not looking for sympathy - just a listening ear or ten ;-)

Just under a week ago (last Sunday, to be precise) I was doing the usual Sunday thing - laundry. I bent down to pick up a sock from the basket, with the intention of dropping it into the washing machine, and 'POP' - my back went. Quite where, I can't tell you. All I do know is that I lost the power of my legs for a moment, and was eternally grateful that we have some heavy-duty shelving in our utility room...

This is how wobbly my legs were...
This was not a huge surprise. Three weeks ago, my back went 'POP' for the first time in years, just as I had carried a 25kg bag of dog food from my car to the garage. At the time, I was fortunate enough to be standing in the doorway and could grab hold of the frame just long enough to call to my hubs, who was working at the end of the garden. He duly trotted along, helped me back into the house, then left me to it. There was little else that he could do...

Thankfully, the pain subsided pretty quickly three weeks ago, though, unbeknownst to me, the cause had not gone away. I was quickly reminded of this last Sunday, as I hung on for dear life to the shelving, and wondered how I would ever be able to move.

Our utility room is hidden away in an area of the house that is the least accessible - and audible - to everyone else. Given that my sons, #Thing1 and #Thing2 were busy playing COD upstairs, and hubs was busy building things at the end of the garden, I knew that this time I was on my own. Trouble was, I was in no state to rescue myself...

This was me, except I wasn't wearing the nasty pink outfit, and was in a damn sight more pain. Trust.
To cut a very long and painful story short, I eventually managed to hobble out of the utility room, aided by various walls and bits of furniture to which I had to cling to for dear life. I then spent the best part of two hours moaning and groaning (actually, screaming) with every single move, before I eventually contacted NHS Direct (you can google it). I was advised to take paracetamol and some left-over anti-inflammatories, then told to contact my GP if the pain didn't subside within 48 hours.

I couldn't get out of bed on Monday morning. Or Tuesday.

I can't begin to describe the agony I was in - I thought I had broken my back. #Thing1 (who had been extremely helpful and had rescued me as a struggled on the sofa) was really quite distressed at this point (he's almost seventeen - so that says a lot), and he was insistent that I see my GP. And so I did.

I thank all the deities above that the emergency GP I saw on Tuesday happened to be one of the partners in the practice. He knows his stuff. He took one look at me, signed me off from work (I've never had the guts to ask for a sick note), prescribed me a shedload of drugs (some of which I was somewhat reluctant to take), then asked if I had private healthcare. It just so happens that I do - via my employer - and I've never ever thought to make use of it. To cut a long story short, he managed to get me referred to a physiotherapist for the very next day, as a result of my health care plan, and I've since had acupuncture twice and have been hooked up to a TENS machine for twelve hours straight each day - and it's working!

In case you've ever wondered - this is what acupuncture feels like...
So, where's the whine, I hear you ask...

Well, despite the medication, the needles and the electrical stimulation, I'm still pretty much out of action. For example, I can't bend down to fill the dog's water bowl, feed her, get things out of the refrigerator, pick towels up from the bathroom floor - you get the picture. I can't stand up long enough to iron clothing, can't straighten the bedclothes, can't even get my toiletries from the bathroom cupboard.

I can't pick the milk bottles up from the doorstep, plump the cushions, move the stack of magazines that has been bothering me on the lounge floor all week. I can't plug the damn hoover in to get rid of the mess that the dog and boys have trampled in all week. I can't sit - or lie - in one position long enough to feel relaxed.

And does anybody care? Have the three able-bodied men in my household even noticed the anxiety all of this causes me?

I guess you know the answer...

I can't wait to be back in action... :-o

This post was brought to you from the UK by CC x

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Father Time Can Kiss My Arse*

*Jamie - the 'arse' was just for you. Appreciate.

I am in the mood for full-on whinging tonight. You have been warned. I have only the vaguest of ideas where this post is going. But who doesn't love a good ol' flight-of-ideas rant?

Last weekend our clocks changed. Daylight Savings time is over. Summer is over. I have seasonal affective disorder just thinking about it.

I know, I know. When my summer started, and you were all staring down the depths of a long cold winter, we discussed the fact that all my "yay, sunshine" shit would bite me in a few months. Well, here 'tis. I'm not THAT sad really, cos in about four months (*ahem* 116 days to be precise) I'm gonna be basking in some West Coast USA sunshine. For FOUR WHOLE WEEKS. Ah, shit... I digress.

What I really wanted to whine about tonight is the time difference thing that comes with being on the other side of the planet to the majority of your friends. While I was on Daylight Savings time and you guys weren't, the difference between NZ and the West Coast was four hours. It was three for a wee while there, until your clocks changed.

Three hours is not bad. Easy to manage. Most of the time there were peeps on twitter, and things quieten down in the early evening, before the UK tweeps wake up *waves to @CougarChloe, @SQicedragon and @EdBrella*

Let me add here that I'm well aware of my 'Future Girl' status. I love nothing more than a good Friday when you're all still back there in Thursday. I love it when I wake up on Saturdays and people are bitching about how it's not the weekend yet. I take it as well as I give it (I hope) when I'm at work on Mondays and you're all chilling in your Sunday-ness.

Anyhoo. Now, the difference between me and the Cali/WA girls is FIVE HOURS. That means, when I get home, settle into the couch, grab some dinner, and jump online, most people are going to bed. GAH! I miss you all! I don't get a lot of opportunities to tweet during the workday because I share an office with a staff member of mine (you know the one) who can see my screens easily. Lead by example and all that. I'm usually on gmail chat, cos that's a little more discreet, and I do tweet on my phone a wee bit, but it's not the same.

It's always been a given that I usually miss the East Coasters in the evenings. Here's an example of how this time zone shit works *consults iPhone world clock app for the millionth time*

NZ time right now: 9.43pm
US West Coast time: 2.43am
US East Coast time: 5.43am
UK time: 10.43am

So basically, I'm getting all lonely on twitter in the evenings and I don't like it one bit. I feel sorry for my Aussie tweeps, like @EdwardsIsobel, three more hours behind me. 

That's really all I wanted to say. I love (in my own selfish way) that @AllTwiedUp works crazy-arse hours cos sometimes she's around at stupid-o'clock and hangs out with me. I love when my tweeps have insomnia cos I'm usually here. What I'm really getting at is... it's all about MEEEEE, people! Wait, what? It's not? Oh, shut up.

How rude of me. I neglected to mention my new Kiwi twi-friend, @vampthenewblack. She's cool, and even better... awake at the same time as me. I look forward to getting to know you better my dear :-)

I think that's quite enough. Imma hop down off this soapbox now and go look at some more Robp0rn. Cos that's how I roll. Feel free to play the world's smallest violin for me in the comments.