Last night I had dreams about hospitals and surgery and automatic beds and drug-induced, cottony sleep.
My dream state was influenced by a couple of things. First, in an effort to find a more comfortable sleeping position for my throbbing arm, I grabbed an extra pillow and wedged it under my back and behind my head, which sort of forced me to lie upright, and allowed my arm to rest on my stomach and chest and not get pinned under me. I’m a big fetal position, side sleeper, but this just does not work with an injured arm. So, I fell asleep in that somewhat unnatural, hospital-bed-type propped up position.
Second, just before falling asleep, I told my Darl that I was kind of wishing for surgery on my arm.
I know this is wrong in so many ways, but three months of constant, low-level pain, laced with needle-like jabs whenever I move my thumb have worn me down. I want it to be over.
I also know D is frustrated with me for not fully committing to my recovery early on by taking more time off and immobilizing this arm from day one. I am too. Right now, I’m half using my fingers because typing with my left is so. damn. slow. And I keep doing crap like that.
But I truly, honestly want it to be over. I hear that steroid shots often give relief and sometimes cure. I imagine that’s next on my menu of yummy treatments, but I’m afraid of them. Afraid that they will cure me of pain, but not the condition, but because I’ll feel better, I’ll never take time to really heal, and I’ll be dealing with this again in a matter of time.
Or maybe – and this is truly fucked up – I want the legitimacy that surgery would bring to my condition. I would have the betadine stains and sutures and hospital bills to prove to my bosses and the smartass HR director that I am not faking this. I’ll have, finally, the reason – the ORDER – to cease all typing and all work until I truly heal.
My work, a supposed bastion of health and choice, has backed me into a corner where I have to fight for my right to choose my health over revenue. I’ll never forget sitting across from the HR director, pleading for help in dealing with my bosses so that I could get time off to heal this thing, and the callousness with which he responded. I was in tears discussing the pressure I was under to keep my program up and running despite the fact that doing just that got me this injury, and he leaned in and said to me, “If you’re not happy here, you should just leave.” He also pointed out that a broken leg had a lot more verifiable sympathy than tendinitis, not that anyone doesn’t believe me, oh no.
So you see, I want to breathe deeply of some nice general anesthesetic and go to sleep knowing everyone finally believes me.