Sometimes I’m a pain in my own neck. Saturday I spent the entire day dissolved in a puddle of tears. My neck hurt so bad that I couldn’t see straight, think straight, or anything else. Mr. Husband finally pried it out of me that something was, in fact, wrong and that I wasn’t just having “one of those days.” Kudos to him! He usually hides when I do this, but he soldiered through and figured out that it wasn’t just because I watched too many tortured animals or starving children infomercials.
I tend to revert to animal behavior and hide when I’m sick or wounded. I can’t fit under the bed and it’s too dusty behind the sofa, so I hide in the bed under a jumbled pile of pillows and sheets, hoping no one notices that I’m in the bed. Since there is only 2 of us in this house and we share the bed he usually notices… eventually. We check in from time to time during the day even on those days when we’re both off in our private universes. Check in time comes and goes and he figures it out. Damn these attentive spouses! Can’t I just wither away in peace? Sigh, guess not.
Then come the questions; have you been using your neck stretcher thingy? You mean that medieval torture device hidden in the closet under a pile of scarves? Uh, no. Have you been doing your exercises? Have you tripped over me in the living room floor lately? …No. Have you taken a muscle relaxer? No, all they relax is my tongue. It’s like being drunk without the fun. Have you taken a pain pill? No, I ran out 6 months ago. 6 months ago? Why is that? They wouldn’t refill them anymore. When was the last time you went to the Texas Back Institute? Said in a tiny voice, (he has me over a barrel now) 2 years ago. 2 YEARS ago? Well yea, you got a problem with that? I try to rally some dignity, it doesn’t work.
He takes command in fashion that would make General Patton proud. I do the neck stretchy thing and the exercises. I also take a muscle relaxer pill and some of his dusty pain pills from when he hurt his back last year. He hoses me down with the special muscle goop the doctor prescribed for me. It’s so weird that it doesn’t even have a name, just some letters and numbers. It has to be ordered by mail from some strange pharmacy on the dark side of the moon.
By Monday I felt much better, I didn’t do anything but sit in the recliner and watch Netflix movies all day, but no pain. Ah Ha! I’m all better now. I don’t need to go to the doctor. Right, if I do absolutely nothing all day and night I’m fine. All he will want to do is stab me in the neck anyway. I can get that kind of pain right here at home. Thank you very much!
This morning the ice pick in my neck is back with a vengeance. Someone dragged me behind a truck last night, I swear. So I’m going to have to suck it up and go to the damned doctor. I’m always tempted to ask him if he’s tried any of his own solutions, for empathy purposes. Stab himself in the neck with needles, hang himself by his feet, slather weird stinky lotions all over himself and then try to keep a straight face in public. Ah well, he’s is a good doctor. And he does help me… when I let him.