Well loyal readers, the doc went and decided to cut me open again. After a series of neck injections (steroids into my spine), my pain level has gone down immensely. And after a lot of physical therapy, my finger joints are beginning to de-stiffen. Sharma decided to go ahead and schedule another surgery to remove the scar tissue and detangle the nerves inside my wrist. This should give me some more movement, and possibly get my hand back to functional status. He even said that he'd try to make the incision in the same place as before, to minimize more permanent scarring. There's only one downside... One of the worries of RSD/CRPS is that it will flare up again after every surgery. whomp whomp whaaaaa...
So he scheduled the surgery................................ for TOMORROW. (Monday)
I'll let you all know how it goes.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Intro to Torture Devices 101
Here's a few of the many Physical Therapy (Physical Torture) devices that I get to wear and use on a daily basis. I have some more, but haven't taken a photo of them all, yet. If they look painful, that's cause they are! Enjoy...
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| My first splint |
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| Plaster cast for wearing at night |
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| Finger bender |
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| Finger stretcher |
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| Later splint |
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| Hand exerciser |
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Accidents Happen...
I've mentioned before that I have half a pharmacy on my bedside table. What, I haven't mentioned that yet? Hmm, well anyway, I am currently prescribed a colorful array of little and big pills. These include:
Sorry for that horrible sight. Where was I going with all this? Oh yeah, I am now super accident prone. I'll give some examples:
- Neurontin 800mg horse pills that I have to get BH to cut in half for me
- Elavil 10mg for the futile attempt at getting some sleep
- Norco (Vicodin) 10mg with no real street value, just great fun for my brain
- Fentanyl 25mg patch that gives me a migrane after 2 days
So, needless to say I'm feeling a little loopy these days. Oh, and the days that I go in for a Shot-in-the-Neck-Nerve-Block I'm not too pleasant to look at or talk to. I get a funny Micky Mouse on helium voice and a droopy right eye (more so than my normal lazy eye) for a few hours after.
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| Pretty sexy, right? |
- Dinner out at Bouldin Creek, I knock my coconut-limeade over and it spills everywhere
- Try to make tahini in the Vitamix and lose control of the tamper when I try to switch to my right hand (that's the bad one), end up stripping the gears of the machine and container
- Reach for a banana that's on top of the microwave, end up punching the cabinet with my right hand (bad one) and skinning my knuckles (the already red and swollen ones)
- Attempt to peel Yukon Gold potatoes for dinner, instead peel index finger of left hand (the good hand, are you following?) have to get BH to band-aid it up
- Cat is scratching the couch, so I pick her up to bring her to the non-couch scratching post and she flips around and scratches me, through my shirt and scratches off a mole(!!) that I've had my whole life. Again had to get BH to band-aid me
Not too bad, you say? This was just within a couple of days, and I am normally quite graceful. Ask anyone. I can't imagine getting behind the wheel of a car...
Well, do the benefits outweigh the accidents? I am still feeling pain in my right arm/hand 24/7 except when my hand is under hot water or lying perfectly still - not in my splint with nothing touching it. Both of these times are very brief, as I have a mile long list of physical therapy exercises and torture devices to keep me moving. I'll go into more detail on the torture devices in another chapter...
Good night!
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
The Plot Thickens....
Like any good soap opera, The Spaghetti Wrist Show has plenty of twists and turns. It seems that our hero has developed a rare and exciting syndrome called RSD or CRPS, OMG LOL. It stands for Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy or Complex Regional Pain Syndrome. According to the NIH:
"Doctors aren't sure what causes CRPS. In some cases, the sympathetic nervous system plays an important role in the pain. Another theory is that CRPS is caused by a triggering of the immune response, which leads to the inflammatory symptoms of redness, warmth, and swelling in the affected area.
"Doctors aren't sure what causes CRPS. In some cases, the sympathetic nervous system plays an important role in the pain. Another theory is that CRPS is caused by a triggering of the immune response, which leads to the inflammatory symptoms of redness, warmth, and swelling in the affected area.
CRPS has two forms:
- CRPS 1 is a chronic nerve disorder that occurs most often in the arms or legs after a minor injury.
- CRPS 2 is caused by an injury to the nerve."
Mine, of course, would be Type 2 from the fun incident with my friend the glass pitcher. You can feel free to read more about RSD from the Mayo Clinic, although I prefer Vegenaise... mmmm
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| The perfect potato salad, don"t forget the Dill! |
Well, so there is no cure for this syndrome/dystrophy, but my ever-growing team of doctors are certain that they've caught it early. I have undergone some aggressive treatment so far in the hopes to kick it into remission. One of my new Docs, Dr. Malone, told me CRPS is like cancer that doesn't kill you. He said that you don't wait around to see if your cancer will get better, you attack it with radiation and chemo and whatever hippy-raw-food-30-bananas-a-day-diet you can think of. Makes sense. So I'm now attacking my CRPS with a medicine cabinet full of drugs and weekly nerve blocks. I'm sure I'll get into that more later.
Goodnight for now!
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
My Last Day as a Hairdresser.
Oh, I remember that day... It was February 16th, 2011. The salon wasn't terribly busy, being that it was after the Valentine's Day rush, and we were finishing our closing duties a little early. I had about four clients that day, if I remember correctly. I was eager to get home to my dog and BH.
I was a Colorist. A hairstylist who specializes in coloring hair. I never cut hair in the salon, although I have been known to take the shears to my mom and grandma's hair, and of course the clippers to my dad and BH's hair. I attended one of the top cosmetology schools in the country, and apprenticed with one of the best salons in New York City. I chose to do color over hair cutting, because I felt a natural aptitude towards it. One of my instructors explained that doing hair is like being a great artist, and there are artists who prefer to paint rather than to sculpt... I preferred to paint.
That day, I wanted to sneak out of the salon a little early. I helped the other stylists finish up the closing duties, and walked up to the front desk. My pregnant coworker was with me and we asked if there was anything that we could help them with before we left for the day. They had two carafes of hot tea and one glass pitcher of water by the front door. I reached for the handles of the hot tea when my coworker asked if she could carry those, since the glass pitcher was too bulky for her baby belly to carry. Duh, I thought, kicking myself for ever suggesting that a pregnant chick carry a giant glass pitcher.
"Hope I don't pull a Shameka," I joked. This comment garnered eye rolls from my coworkers. Shameka, a stylist at our south location, had injured her finger when a glass vase exploded in her hands three weeks earlier. It was serious enough to require a trip to the Emergency Room and a bunch of stitches. She got phone duty for a couple of weeks much to her loyal clientele's dismay. I always felt a little guilty for her injury, since I was the one who asked her to clean the vase. It was some new idea that our boss had seen at a restaurant or bar downtown... a heavy duty clear glass vase, rectangular in shape, filled a quarter of the way with river rocks, then water to the brim, suspending a perfect orchid inside. It was really cool to look at, and I was one of its biggest fans... until the the third or fourth day, when the water turned gray, and the orchid was decaying into little brown fragments floating into space. I had a very important client about to sit in my chair when I caught sight of the grotesque vase. I asked a couple of the girls if they weren't busy to please find a way to clean out that water. Karma strike one.
I carried the pitcher to the break room, and set it on the edge of the sink. The aluminum top was always a bitch to take off; we figured out a combination of twisting and pulling, along with cramming your fingernails into the underside seemed to do the trick. My preggo coworker was laughing about something that someone said. Or was she telling me something funny that happened today? It's a bit of a blur. I reached in to grab the floating lemon slices before dumping the water. Did I take my hand out of the pitcher and throw the lemons into the trash can to my left? Or did the lemons end up covered in my blood in the sink?
The glass shattered. Imploded. Spontaneously combusted. I heard a clunk sound. I looked up and saw blood sprayed on the wall of the sink. I looked over at preggers. Was she bleeding? Did a shard of glass hit her? I certainly felt ok. I looked down at my chest, no glass. Then my arms. It was under a second that I saw the gash in my right wrist and subsequently grabbed it with my left hand and held on for dear life.
"Call 911! Call 911!" I shrieked to the esthetician standing behind me by the phone. She was already in motion and had EMS on the way by the time I realized this could be serious. "Hold your hand above your heart," she shouted at me, but my brain was in space somewhere, in some cloud floating above the scene, wondering if I was about to die. Preggo grabbed my arm and helped me sit down. I was babbling about something, maybe about Shameka, and how I was only kidding, and how I was sorry for the mess. The ambulance arrived in under two minutes.
The rest of that evening was cloudy to me. I remember the paramedic, Jeff, because he introduced himself to me one hundred times. He asked me to let go of my wrist, so he could put a tourniquet on, and I refused because I was afraid all the blood in my body would fly out at once and fill the room up like a flash flood, washing away all of my friends. I either fainted or slipped on water from the pitcher, requiring EMS to bring the gurney around back. Esthetician called BH for me from my cell phone. I think I climbed in the gurney, and told everyone that I'd call them later after I got my stitches.
The ambulance ride was actually kind of fun. Inside, I began to panic as my buddy Jeff was popping in my IV. He assured me that I wasn't in any real danger of bleeding to death; after all, if that were the case, wouldn't the lights be flashing and the siren be blaring? He asked me if I liked margaritas. "Are you buying?" Then he dripped in 100mcg of delicious Fentanyl on the rocks, no salt on the rim. This is where the fun started. We were laughing and joking, like we were sitting outside at Guerro's on South Congress. I compared myself to the poor guy from 127 hours, who had to cut off his own arm to survive. Hey it could be a lot worse, right? He told me how he could never be a heroin addict, because opiates didn't work on him. Bummer, I thought, not about the heroin. He talked about motorcycle accidents on I-35 and picking up crazy bums who would injure themselves to get free drugs and a warm bed for the night. I made a note to self: don't ever become a paramedic.
When we got to Brak, I had a welcoming committee of about thirty doctors and nurses. People were putting tubes in my nose, checking my blood pressure, taking my temperature, asking me to wiggle my fingers, giving me oxygen. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to wiggle my fingers. It just wasn't working. And where was BH? A nurse took off the tourniquet, and I could see the gaping hole where the tendons and nerves should be. I had trouble breathing. I just wanted to go home. The nurses started clearing out, and finally BH was allowed in the ER room. He asked the doctors what happened and I asked him to call my parents. One of the ER docs gave the details to my mom over the phone.
Someone warned me that I'd have to repeat myself over and over answering questions for countless forms and paperwork. Birthdate, Social, when did I eat last? Freebirds veggie burrito, 2:30 ish. Everyone laughed. Someone mentioned that Dr. Sharma would be there in 20 minutes, so to go ahead and prep me for surgery. I started panicking. I didn't realize that I was going into surgery... surely some stitches would work? A nurse asked me if I'd like to use my hand ever again. Ok, point taken. Someone mentioned a catheter, to which I promised I would not need, cross my heart. Two ladies came in to help me out of my clothes and into a chic open-backed hospital gown. I was thankful for the all-black dress code at work, so I couldn't see the amount of blood that was on my clothes as they went into my plastic possessions bag. I'll be staying at d'Hotel Brak this evening, and please have the concierge send up a bottle of champagne to my room.
One of the nurses told me that they called Dr. Sharma "McDreamy" and that I was so lucky to have him doing my plastic surgery. I breathed deep into some horrible mask and took a four hour nap.
When I woke up in recovery, I heard the "Rach 3" playing on the radio. I knew that piano concerto well, after watching the movie Shine many times (on VHS no less). I had a giant swiss cheese on my right arm. A nice soft spoken woman asked me some questions and had to hunt and peck the answers into the computer. She rolled my bed into the elevator, and up to the eighth floor. BH was waiting for me in my room, and the first thing I wanted to do was pee. A nurse helped me to the bathroom, and held my fluids bag up for me. I asked her if she could just hand me the toilet paper, I could do the rest. She then helped me to my bed, and tucked me in.
BH was bleary-eyed and exhausted. It was almost 1:30am. He had been waiting there for an hour, after waiting in the surgery waiting room for the four hour surgery. He told me that Dr. Sharma had used a microscope to reattach the nerves and tendons. It's called microsurgery. He waited with me for a while, and we were both getting hungry. The day before, we bought a couple of Tofurkey pizzas at the local co-op, and we had the genius idea for him to go home, let the dog out to pee, feed the cats, cook up a frozen pizza, stuff it in a Tupperware, and bring it along with some other snacks. I just wanted to try and sleep a bit. He left and came back around 5am. That pizza tasted so amazing, even if I could only eat a tiny slice.
The hospital is no place to sleep, apparently. Every twenty minutes or so, a nurse would come in and take my blood pressure and temperature. I had a call button attached to my bed for emergencies, such as needing more morphine or help getting to the bathroom. BH was curled up on a fold out cot in the darkest corner of the room, and sometimes I would lie awake just watching him as he tried desperately to get some sleep. Then the phone would ring, or a nurse would come in and wake him back up. Once a young man came into the room, either an intern or med student, to ask some questions. The kid had no bedside manner. He asked very personal questions about my pain and trauma, with the most monotone scripted voice I had ever heard. On a couple of occasions when I had to call the nurse with the button, a very irritated woman answered the call, and sounded as if I had interrupted a very important episode of Young and the Restless. Other than these two individuals, the hospital staff was very polite and accommodating, even about my veganism. The food they made for me was great, and the chef was very creative when making my meals.
Morning came, and Dr. Sharma came to my room to talk with us. He told me that the glass severed all of my tendons, my median nerve, ulnar nerve, and 25% of my radial nerve. I think he mentioned the ulnar artery as well, but I can't seem to remember; I'll have to take a look at my chart one of these days. He said that it would be at least nine months to a year before I would have full use of my hand back, and I would need Physical Therapy two or three times a week for that time. He said it would be a long road ahead of me, and there is no guarantee that my hand will ever return completely to normal. He set me up with my first physical therapy appointment on Monday, and a follow-up visit with him in six weeks.
We stayed at the hospital the rest of that day. My dad drove down to see me in the hospital and help BH pick up my car at work and bring it back home. I was discharged late that night, and my dad pushed my wheelchair down to the lobby while BH brought the car around. BH and I went home and slept. This must have been the last night that I truly slept. (Even as I write this, it's 3:30am and I'm exhausted, but I cannot sleep.)
I was a Colorist. A hairstylist who specializes in coloring hair. I never cut hair in the salon, although I have been known to take the shears to my mom and grandma's hair, and of course the clippers to my dad and BH's hair. I attended one of the top cosmetology schools in the country, and apprenticed with one of the best salons in New York City. I chose to do color over hair cutting, because I felt a natural aptitude towards it. One of my instructors explained that doing hair is like being a great artist, and there are artists who prefer to paint rather than to sculpt... I preferred to paint.
That day, I wanted to sneak out of the salon a little early. I helped the other stylists finish up the closing duties, and walked up to the front desk. My pregnant coworker was with me and we asked if there was anything that we could help them with before we left for the day. They had two carafes of hot tea and one glass pitcher of water by the front door. I reached for the handles of the hot tea when my coworker asked if she could carry those, since the glass pitcher was too bulky for her baby belly to carry. Duh, I thought, kicking myself for ever suggesting that a pregnant chick carry a giant glass pitcher.
"Hope I don't pull a Shameka," I joked. This comment garnered eye rolls from my coworkers. Shameka, a stylist at our south location, had injured her finger when a glass vase exploded in her hands three weeks earlier. It was serious enough to require a trip to the Emergency Room and a bunch of stitches. She got phone duty for a couple of weeks much to her loyal clientele's dismay. I always felt a little guilty for her injury, since I was the one who asked her to clean the vase. It was some new idea that our boss had seen at a restaurant or bar downtown... a heavy duty clear glass vase, rectangular in shape, filled a quarter of the way with river rocks, then water to the brim, suspending a perfect orchid inside. It was really cool to look at, and I was one of its biggest fans... until the the third or fourth day, when the water turned gray, and the orchid was decaying into little brown fragments floating into space. I had a very important client about to sit in my chair when I caught sight of the grotesque vase. I asked a couple of the girls if they weren't busy to please find a way to clean out that water. Karma strike one.
I carried the pitcher to the break room, and set it on the edge of the sink. The aluminum top was always a bitch to take off; we figured out a combination of twisting and pulling, along with cramming your fingernails into the underside seemed to do the trick. My preggo coworker was laughing about something that someone said. Or was she telling me something funny that happened today? It's a bit of a blur. I reached in to grab the floating lemon slices before dumping the water. Did I take my hand out of the pitcher and throw the lemons into the trash can to my left? Or did the lemons end up covered in my blood in the sink?
The glass shattered. Imploded. Spontaneously combusted. I heard a clunk sound. I looked up and saw blood sprayed on the wall of the sink. I looked over at preggers. Was she bleeding? Did a shard of glass hit her? I certainly felt ok. I looked down at my chest, no glass. Then my arms. It was under a second that I saw the gash in my right wrist and subsequently grabbed it with my left hand and held on for dear life.
"Call 911! Call 911!" I shrieked to the esthetician standing behind me by the phone. She was already in motion and had EMS on the way by the time I realized this could be serious. "Hold your hand above your heart," she shouted at me, but my brain was in space somewhere, in some cloud floating above the scene, wondering if I was about to die. Preggo grabbed my arm and helped me sit down. I was babbling about something, maybe about Shameka, and how I was only kidding, and how I was sorry for the mess. The ambulance arrived in under two minutes.
The rest of that evening was cloudy to me. I remember the paramedic, Jeff, because he introduced himself to me one hundred times. He asked me to let go of my wrist, so he could put a tourniquet on, and I refused because I was afraid all the blood in my body would fly out at once and fill the room up like a flash flood, washing away all of my friends. I either fainted or slipped on water from the pitcher, requiring EMS to bring the gurney around back. Esthetician called BH for me from my cell phone. I think I climbed in the gurney, and told everyone that I'd call them later after I got my stitches.
The ambulance ride was actually kind of fun. Inside, I began to panic as my buddy Jeff was popping in my IV. He assured me that I wasn't in any real danger of bleeding to death; after all, if that were the case, wouldn't the lights be flashing and the siren be blaring? He asked me if I liked margaritas. "Are you buying?" Then he dripped in 100mcg of delicious Fentanyl on the rocks, no salt on the rim. This is where the fun started. We were laughing and joking, like we were sitting outside at Guerro's on South Congress. I compared myself to the poor guy from 127 hours, who had to cut off his own arm to survive. Hey it could be a lot worse, right? He told me how he could never be a heroin addict, because opiates didn't work on him. Bummer, I thought, not about the heroin. He talked about motorcycle accidents on I-35 and picking up crazy bums who would injure themselves to get free drugs and a warm bed for the night. I made a note to self: don't ever become a paramedic.
When we got to Brak, I had a welcoming committee of about thirty doctors and nurses. People were putting tubes in my nose, checking my blood pressure, taking my temperature, asking me to wiggle my fingers, giving me oxygen. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to wiggle my fingers. It just wasn't working. And where was BH? A nurse took off the tourniquet, and I could see the gaping hole where the tendons and nerves should be. I had trouble breathing. I just wanted to go home. The nurses started clearing out, and finally BH was allowed in the ER room. He asked the doctors what happened and I asked him to call my parents. One of the ER docs gave the details to my mom over the phone.
Someone warned me that I'd have to repeat myself over and over answering questions for countless forms and paperwork. Birthdate, Social, when did I eat last? Freebirds veggie burrito, 2:30 ish. Everyone laughed. Someone mentioned that Dr. Sharma would be there in 20 minutes, so to go ahead and prep me for surgery. I started panicking. I didn't realize that I was going into surgery... surely some stitches would work? A nurse asked me if I'd like to use my hand ever again. Ok, point taken. Someone mentioned a catheter, to which I promised I would not need, cross my heart. Two ladies came in to help me out of my clothes and into a chic open-backed hospital gown. I was thankful for the all-black dress code at work, so I couldn't see the amount of blood that was on my clothes as they went into my plastic possessions bag. I'll be staying at d'Hotel Brak this evening, and please have the concierge send up a bottle of champagne to my room.
One of the nurses told me that they called Dr. Sharma "McDreamy" and that I was so lucky to have him doing my plastic surgery. I breathed deep into some horrible mask and took a four hour nap.
When I woke up in recovery, I heard the "Rach 3" playing on the radio. I knew that piano concerto well, after watching the movie Shine many times (on VHS no less). I had a giant swiss cheese on my right arm. A nice soft spoken woman asked me some questions and had to hunt and peck the answers into the computer. She rolled my bed into the elevator, and up to the eighth floor. BH was waiting for me in my room, and the first thing I wanted to do was pee. A nurse helped me to the bathroom, and held my fluids bag up for me. I asked her if she could just hand me the toilet paper, I could do the rest. She then helped me to my bed, and tucked me in.
BH was bleary-eyed and exhausted. It was almost 1:30am. He had been waiting there for an hour, after waiting in the surgery waiting room for the four hour surgery. He told me that Dr. Sharma had used a microscope to reattach the nerves and tendons. It's called microsurgery. He waited with me for a while, and we were both getting hungry. The day before, we bought a couple of Tofurkey pizzas at the local co-op, and we had the genius idea for him to go home, let the dog out to pee, feed the cats, cook up a frozen pizza, stuff it in a Tupperware, and bring it along with some other snacks. I just wanted to try and sleep a bit. He left and came back around 5am. That pizza tasted so amazing, even if I could only eat a tiny slice.
The hospital is no place to sleep, apparently. Every twenty minutes or so, a nurse would come in and take my blood pressure and temperature. I had a call button attached to my bed for emergencies, such as needing more morphine or help getting to the bathroom. BH was curled up on a fold out cot in the darkest corner of the room, and sometimes I would lie awake just watching him as he tried desperately to get some sleep. Then the phone would ring, or a nurse would come in and wake him back up. Once a young man came into the room, either an intern or med student, to ask some questions. The kid had no bedside manner. He asked very personal questions about my pain and trauma, with the most monotone scripted voice I had ever heard. On a couple of occasions when I had to call the nurse with the button, a very irritated woman answered the call, and sounded as if I had interrupted a very important episode of Young and the Restless. Other than these two individuals, the hospital staff was very polite and accommodating, even about my veganism. The food they made for me was great, and the chef was very creative when making my meals.
Morning came, and Dr. Sharma came to my room to talk with us. He told me that the glass severed all of my tendons, my median nerve, ulnar nerve, and 25% of my radial nerve. I think he mentioned the ulnar artery as well, but I can't seem to remember; I'll have to take a look at my chart one of these days. He said that it would be at least nine months to a year before I would have full use of my hand back, and I would need Physical Therapy two or three times a week for that time. He said it would be a long road ahead of me, and there is no guarantee that my hand will ever return completely to normal. He set me up with my first physical therapy appointment on Monday, and a follow-up visit with him in six weeks.
We stayed at the hospital the rest of that day. My dad drove down to see me in the hospital and help BH pick up my car at work and bring it back home. I was discharged late that night, and my dad pushed my wheelchair down to the lobby while BH brought the car around. BH and I went home and slept. This must have been the last night that I truly slept. (Even as I write this, it's 3:30am and I'm exhausted, but I cannot sleep.)
 |
| Cheesy pose with giant cheese on on my arm. |
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Chocolate is on the same octave as a rainbow...
I had some vegan chocolate cake from my coworkers for my birthday today. Well, my birthday wasn't technically today, but I ate the cake anyway. It's not fair to chocolate to let it go to waste. I've been secretly going into the salon for half days the past three Saturdays. Well, not a secret to my coworkers, or BH (who drives me there), or my friends. Just a secret to my doctors. I'm not sure how to ease myself into a normal routine, and this has been a particularly sore spot in the household.
I have a whole staff of advisors. There's BH (my man-friend), Dr. Sharma (my surgeon), Missy and Sarah (my two physical therapists), Dr. Linda (my awesome shrink), Mom, Dad(s), sister Jenna, my coworkers, my boss, the dog, etc. It truly takes a village. When I was in the hospital, there were at least 100 different people coming into my recovery room, taking my blood pressure, temperature, blood samples, and generally making sure I never had a chance to actually recover.
While I certainly appreciated the constant attention during the first couple of weeks after the accident, I'm now getting pulled in 50 different directions. Some say I need to get my life back to normal as quickly as possible, and others say I need to take this time to rest and focus on healing. I wish I could do both simultaneously. Maybe I'll get a magic lamp and ask the genie inside for help. You know the secret to genies is to wish for more wishes.
If you ask me what I really want to do right now? I want to focus on physical therapy, do my exercises all day, try to avoid having a second surgery, take a nap, and eat cake. My pain level is at a constant 2-3 with spikes in the 7-8 range when doing the exercises. When I wear the vice of death at night, and attempt to sleep in it, my level is about 6 even after a couple Vicodin. I'm lucky to get 4 hours of sleep a night. Hence the naps. The cats taught me that little trick.
I guess that's all for now. I want to write about the events leading up to now, and I haven't figured out whether to back-date everything or just flashback. Guess we'll just have to wait for the next thrilling installment to find out!
Friday, April 8, 2011
A Dramedy in Three Acts
Welcome to The Spaghetti Wrist Show!
I'm not going to try to explain in one post the complexities of this show. I'm writing this for myself. I don't want to have to think of the audience every time I compose a sentence. It's hard enough getting correct capitalization and spelling while typing with one hand. I'll try to write this as a comedy, but I don't want to have to be funny all the time. Sometimes not being funny is funnier than being funny. I learned that in a correspondence course at the learning annex. Ok, that was a lie, not even a funny lie.
How do I turn something so tragic into something people can laugh at? Will the photos gross everyone out... not in a good way? Crap, there I go again, thinking about the audience. Let's just say that I pledge to be funny at least 45% of the time, and you know what? There are plenty of gross pictures on the internet.
I'll try to get the dates right, but I'll take poetic license on occasion, since this isn't a trial, dammit, it's a blog about my life since the accident. And if my whining and complaining bothers you too much, there are plenty of other blogs in the sea.
Ok, pop some popcorn, and please silence your cell phone. Enjoy the show!
I'm not going to try to explain in one post the complexities of this show. I'm writing this for myself. I don't want to have to think of the audience every time I compose a sentence. It's hard enough getting correct capitalization and spelling while typing with one hand. I'll try to write this as a comedy, but I don't want to have to be funny all the time. Sometimes not being funny is funnier than being funny. I learned that in a correspondence course at the learning annex. Ok, that was a lie, not even a funny lie.
How do I turn something so tragic into something people can laugh at? Will the photos gross everyone out... not in a good way? Crap, there I go again, thinking about the audience. Let's just say that I pledge to be funny at least 45% of the time, and you know what? There are plenty of gross pictures on the internet.
I'll try to get the dates right, but I'll take poetic license on occasion, since this isn't a trial, dammit, it's a blog about my life since the accident. And if my whining and complaining bothers you too much, there are plenty of other blogs in the sea.
Ok, pop some popcorn, and please silence your cell phone. Enjoy the show!
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