Over The Hills And Under The Knife

Jul 23, 2009 by winjaw

I never have gotten that rhyme quite right.

But off to new adventures I shall go.  This day, or rather tomorrow, will be a first. For roughly a year, I figured this day would come, and so it has.

During this prep time, so to speak, I’ve held off on hitting little white balls with sticks; and throwing fake things into the water to get some action is becoming more and more painful.

And not being able to roughhouse or throw things at (er, with) the Sons of Thunder pretty well sealed the deal.

Time to go under the knife. 

The diagnosis is tennis elbow, which pretty well unhinged my mental state as I do not play that silly game. In all fairness, I can “handle” watching some of the finer players, those with names like Maria, Daniela, and Anna.

A Little White Skirt, a Little Black Dress, hey, I’m easy.

But I digress. I much prefer the term “lateral epicondylitis.”

I’ve tried therapy and had the distinct pleasure of not one, but two, cortisone shots.  A word about said cortisone. Think twice.

The first was bad enough. A wonderful experience where the nurse sprayed some freezing agent while the doctor took a leisurely 20 seconds or so to inject the cortisone into my tendon/joint.

The next morning I awoke with a “why am I in so much friggin pain” feeling. Best described as a THROBBING that no number of aspirin would cure.

For a while I was actually fine, even played golf.  Getting back into the groove. But the day after Thanksgiving I screwed it up again by trying and moving the Christmas tree so the “best” side would face out per instructions from the Little Black Dress.

So back to the doctor we went, as this time the pain was more in the bone connected to said joints/tendons.

Being rather intelligent, I asked for and got a prescription for pain. And this time the shot went right into the bone. And despite a rather healthy stream of freezing or whatever from the nurse, this shot hurt. A lot.

And the doctor seemed to finish this shot a little quicker than last time. It might be related to the look I gave him. A look that basically implied to the doctor that if said shot was not over soon, said shot would be in someone’s eye.

So I get the prescription filled, take one and not much else happens that evening. That night was a little different.

Because about 1 a.m. I wake up crying my head off. And I lean over to the Little Black Dress and implore, “GET MY GUN AND SHOOT ME NOW!”

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And whatever “pain” medication was worthless; unless the intent of said medication was as an aid to help you realize you were in so much pain “the rack” might seem like a walk in the park.

But the pain finally lessened. In about 48 hours.

Fast forward to earlier this week.

The Little Black Dress goes with me for a pre-op with the surgeon. We’ve all pretty much agreed the only alternative left is surgery as I made it fairly obvious if I even smell cortisone there will be hell to pay – and said hell will not be located on my elbow.

So we’re going over all the “do not” list – no eating, no, drinking, no this, no that after midnight prior to surgery. And then we come to NO TOBACCO OF ANY KIND.

And the Little Black Dress looks at me and I look at her and she raises her eyebrow and looks at the surgeon because we now have a problem.

Yes, I smoke. No, I am not proud. Yes, I’ve done just about everything I can and one day soon I will stop. And yes I know I need to do it for me, for the Little Black Dress and for the Sons of Thunder.

I don’t need another lecture. Because I got one from the doctor, 13 various nurses throughout the day of pre-surgery check-ins, 2 physician assistants, the financial office secretary and probably the janitor.

I got it.  And every time someone would start in on me all I wanted to do was go out and have a cigarette.

But the Little Black Dress was concerned.  Truth be told, probably as concerned as how I would manage as she would manage. The LBD has experienced the wonders of being with me when I’ve hit that point of no return and if nicotine is not moving quickly things will get ugly.

Let’s just say I … get … cranky.

And that “HA!” echoing throughout the house is from the LBD who just walked by and saw what I wrote. Maybe “cranky” isn’t quite strong enough.

In any event, the surgeon took pity on me. Truth be told, probably took pity on the Little Black Dress and I am first in line tomorrow morning.

So although I would prefer no more discussions on my soon-to-be-ending smoking, I would appreciate your prayers.

Will update when I can.

Just flip the dog.