Artful Blasphemy has been eating up a lot of my time, but so have stress, sorrow and anxiety.
I saw the Physiatrist last week, and he felt that my shoulder is impinged. We discussed, pretty thoroughly, my concerns about steroid injections, and he felt that it would only take one shot to fix it. So I agreed. So far, it is sore, and I’ve postponed trying to sleep on that side because I’m not ready to deal with the possibility of this treatment failing. He also wanted to try Effexor, which he said some people who do badly on Cymbalta can tolerate, and some can’t. I started it Thursday night, and I feel a little clenchy, and a little weird, and I can’t decide if it’s the drug or if I’m just paranoid due to so many paradoxical responses. Being stuck in mental debate is always fun.
That afternoon my back spasmed horribly, and I had to go home and ice my shoulder while soaking my back in a hot bath and crying over the perfect storm of awful that has struck my life this past week.
Since my new department chair gave my co-worker more power, she has become impossible to work with–and this while she thinks things are going great (why wouldn’t she?). She countermands me, invalidates me and yet needs me or else she can’t do her own job. She barges into fittings, snatching them from my hands and announcing to students, “Everyone does this WRONG, nobody understands this.” Were I to confront her, she would suddenly “not remember” doing that. I’ve been down this road before with her. I’ve reached the point where I hate her, I am miserable at work, and I fantasize that I will, at some point, simply put down my scissors and walk away, never to return.
I have to somehow deal with all of that while I am in pain, icing my shoulder, nursing my back, and appearing to be graceful and resilient. I don’t feel like I am either, but maybe I was meant for the stage after all.
My mother has dated a man for two and half years, whom I liked. She has been so very, very happy–they travel, they shop, they have fun together. Until last week, when apparently she found out that he had hidden something from her that was an absolute deal-breaker. I have been utterly heartbroken for her; I cannot fathom the pain she is in and would do anything for her to not have it. I was so happy that she had love and joy in her life, and I feel really bitterly about this man turning out to be someone he said he wasn’t. My poor, poor mom, you know?
Many of you with chronic pain know that sometimes a pet is the very best pain medication there is. We found out this week that my soul-mate dog has a cancerous tumor in her leg that is inoperable because of where it is. I am completely unprepared to lose this dog. We have the option of amputating the leg and hoping it hasn’t spread, but she has arthritis in her back and slight dysplasia so we are not sure if she can handle only one hind leg. I have no intention of making her suffer because I can’t let go, but I also feel unable to cope with losing her. It’s a really hard decision, and instead of making it I’ve just broken all the rules and let her sleep in our bed each night. I am too emotionally reliant on her, yet I must make a really painful decision on her behalf that she won’t understand.
So it’s fitting that Artful Blasphemy just started the first edition of “I Hate Sundays” because it’s Sunday, it’s not even 9:00 am, and I am just suffused with dread about going back to work tomorrow. Perfect.