Dr. J and his little shop of horrors

I'm sitting here trying to find something to blog about except my arm. I don't want to do the whiny, woe is me thing (although I have that perfected) because most everything else in my life is just this side of fabulous.

I went to my appointment last week and I am happy to report that the NCS test was "uncomfortable". However, the EMG test is its own brand of special. I should probably tell you that this doctor was another hottie. He was fifty with a martini dry sense of humor and when he planted himself directly between my legs, put my arm on his lap and proceeded to measure and mark the soft inside of my forearm with a black pen, I might have been able to pretend that it was a sensual experience. Unfortunately, he ruined the moment when he poked the needles into my muscles and cranked up the electricity. From that point on, he was Satan. One interesting note: the Lamaze technique while completely useless in labour, was remarkably effective in contolling the screams that bubbled their way up my throat.

After the test was over, he told me that I was not a conservative treatment case. When they stick the needles into your muscles, you are supposed to hear either nothing or a low hum which means that muscles are oxygenated, happy and fully functional. On the other hand, wasting muscles sound a bit like frying bacon. Mine sounded like Sunday brunch was being served.

I left the office feeling a bit sorry for myself because the prospect of surgery concerned me on so many levels, the least of which is my ability to control myself verbally in recovery.

I drove through KFC for a bucket of grease to throw at the kids since I wasn't in the dinner making mood. I had put my cast back on and while paying for the chicken, the guy in the drive through asked me what the heck was wrong with my arm. I waved it off and said it was nothing...just a little nerve issue.

He asked, "Wow, is it your very last one?"

Oh honey, you have no idea.