My Body Has Officially Filed a Complaint
Today is Saturday, the beginning of a much-needed three-day weekend, because trainers and those in training don’t have to work on Labor Day.
Under normal circumstances, three days off would have me considering the beach, a golf course, a birding trail, or climbing into my sweet truck and going wherever the hell I felt like going.
Instead, my leg has apparently chosen violence.
I barely slept at all last night. This morning the pain was bad enough to cause legit tears from this ultra-tough, no-nonsense bitch right here. 😏
Marcelo was concerned.
I am concerned.
And when I’m concerned about pain, we’re getting into some fairly serious territory.
My Doctor Is a Fucking Gem
I put in a distress call to my doctor’s answering service after hours yesterday because I had reached the point where amputating the offending leg with a chainsaw and replacing it with metal seemed like a perfectly reasonable treatment plan.
Because JP from Grandma’s Boy was onto something.
Metal legs.
I want those.
Instead, my doctor—who is a young guy and apparently hasn’t yet learned that doctors are supposed to disappear into another dimension at 5 PM on Friday—actually texted me after he was already off work with instructions.
He approved a temporary medication plan of three tramadol, three acetaminophen, and one tizanidine twice a day leading up to my appointment, along with general bed rest. He also recommended a special ice wrap for my hip and thigh and literally sent me a link so I could order one using my medical spending card.
FSA? HSA? FSH? Fuck if I know.
The card that makes medical shit cheaper.
The ice wrap is arriving today. A fucking cane is arriving today.
At this point, if Amazon would also deliver a replacement sciatic nerve, I’d add that bitch to the cart.
Important boring-but-responsible note: That’s the medication plan my own doctor specifically approved for me. It is absolutely not medical advice for anybody else. Please don’t look at my drug cocktail and decide we’re prescription twins.
But First, Gumbo
Before I retreated to my Nectar bed like the wounded Victorian heroine I have apparently become, there was something I wanted to do.
I wanted to make gumbo for my family.
My groceries had been delivered, so I hobbled my ass into the kitchen and got to work.
My family loves my gumbo.
And I love my little family.
There was something almost therapeutic about standing there—however awkwardly—making the roux, shredding the chicken, adding the sausage and potatoes, reaching for the thyme, Worcestershire, Tabasco and cayenne.
For a little while, I wasn’t thinking about my leg.
I was thinking about the warm French bread they’d use to sop up every last bit of that Cajun masterpiece.
I was thinking about full bowls.
Full bellies.
And the smiles on their faces.
My man and my son work hard as hell, and over my dead body will that go unnoticed.
My body might be pretty fucking useless right now, but cooking with love is one thing that still makes me feel better.
And today, apparently, love tastes like cayenne pepper.
If you want to make the gumbo yourself—and you absolutely fucking should—here’s my recipe:
The Rest of This Weekend Looks a Little Different
Once the gumbo was safely doing its thing, I was done.
My plans now consist largely of my Nectar bed, the incoming ice wrap, and trying not to piss off whatever demonic little bastard has taken up residence along my sciatic nerve.
I’ve still got The Fireman by Joe Hill to keep me company.
I’ve got my ProAdvisor courses on my tablet because apparently even semi-bedridden Cami thinks, You know what would make this convalescence more exciting? Accounting education.
And maybe I’ll find a movie later.
It’s not the three-day weekend I would’ve chosen.
I’d rather be at the beach. I’d rather be on a golf course. I’d rather be on a birding trail with my camera or driving my truck somewhere just because I can.
Right now, though, I’m trying to accept that one day at a time is enough.
Today I made gumbo.
Today I fed the people I love.
Today I did one thing that made me feel useful and happy while my body was doing its damnedest to convince me otherwise.
And now I can go get in my fancy fucking bed and stay there.
Sciatica Veterans, Report for Duty
And now I am calling upon the collective wisdom of my dear readers.
If you have personally dealt with raging sciatica that does not give two fucks about your plans, your responsibilities, your sleep schedule, or your will to remain a biped, I would genuinely love to hear what helped you.
Email me.
Call me.
Comment.
Send smoke signals.
Carrier pigeon.
Write your suggestion on a rock and throw it through my window.
Okay, maybe not that last one. I’m already injured.
For now, the gumbo is cooking, my people will be fed, the ice wrap is coming, and there’s a Joe Hill novel waiting beside my bed.
My body may have decided where I’m spending this three-day weekend.
But I can still sprinkle a little love in the kitchen before I get there. ❤️
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