Due to the curious ramblings of the National Health Service, I first went for a CT scan. Nothing. Bugger all in fact after waiting for over an hour gaffer taped to a trolley.
'Wear and tear," muttered the overworked doctor before shambling away to deal with another of the hundred cases he was working on simultaneously.
Then I had an Xray.
'Don't see nothing,' I was told in a version of English I didn't expect from a doctor.
Then I had some physiotherapy which nearly killed me, and nearly caused the death of the chief torturer, a pretty young woman with incredible strength belied by her slim arms and murderous glare in those cobalt eye.
Last Friday I had to lie, motionless, for 6,384 seconds as the MRI screeched in my ears - the headphones had fallen off with my attempts not to writhe in agony as being immobile for so long.
Tomorrow I'm going for a test to determine which if any of my nerves have been destroyed, but judging by the agony I'm still feeling, every one of the little buggers is alive and well.
Next week I'm going for some more physiotherapy. I'll be prepared this time; I'm taking a cricket bat with me.
Yet all that aside, I am feeling better enough to use my arm, even if it was only to salute the bloke who nearly ran me down yesterday while I was dangerously marauding down the pavement - almost ten feet from the road.
The general consensus is that I've got one or more nerves trapped in my cervical spine (whatever that is). I've been doing some hideously painful exercises demonstrated by the doc and finally the pain is lessening. But if someone else tells me it's because I'm old, I'll demonstrate that I'm not some old codger by throwing them to the ground and doing a war dance on their head.
So to take my mind of it, I've done another painting. It's rubbish but at least some sensation other than agony has returned to my upper torso.
No comments:
Post a Comment